strxwbliaa
strxwbliaa
strxwbjisuu
9 posts
this the light side yall
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strxwbliaa · 12 days ago
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[Between Scenes Part 1]
Tbilisi, Between Scenes
ITZY’s LIA x !M Reader
Summary: A rising director. A line producer. Years after their quiet ending, they meet again on a film set in Tbilisi - not as strangers but as something harder to name.
tags — fluff?, angst?, seeing each other after years, reconciliation?, just read and enjoy/suffer hehe
Word Count: Around 2.1K
“Five years ago, the day she broke up with you — the night you cried your heart out because you lost her. Lia, the girl you promised you’d make a movie for.”
11:00 AM – Tbilisi, Georgia
You were sitting down in your director's chair, headphones on your neck sipping on coffee overlooking the film set in Narikala Fortress for the first scene of the upcoming movie you’re directing.
It was starting to irritate you how you couldn’t understand the frame-by-frame explanation on the paper you were reading.
You pulled out your phone to message your secretary, wondering why the newly-hired Line Producer hadn’t arrived yet.
[Lee Seokmin (Secretary)] Imessage
[Y/N] What time is the new Line Producer arriving? I don’t have all day.
[LS] I apologize for the delay sir, she should be there in about 5 minutes.
You let out a quiet sigh, tapping your finger on the rim of your coffee cup. The sun was rising into its early-afternoon glow, casting soft gold across the fortress walls. Your crew was ready. The light was perfect. And yet, everything felt off.
You placed the paper down on the small desk beside your chair. For a moment, you let your eyes wander — Narikala stood tall behind the equipment trucks, the old stones watching over the city like it had seen every mistake repeated. The beauty of it made you forget the weight in your chest, if only for a second.
You didn’t like wasting time. Especially not today.
Your phone buzzed again.
[LS] She’s just arrived, sir. She should be there in a few seconds :)
You picked the paper back up and pocketed your phone. Footsteps approached from behind.
You looked up, barely interested. Just another new face. Some line producer sent through the production office—likely overqualified, underpaid, temporary.
You reached for your coffee again—
And then a scent hit you.
Faint, warm, sharp around the edges.
Dior — Rouge Trafalgar.
The scent that had clung to your pillows long after she left. The scent that smelled like wine and laughter and the last time she said forever.
Your fingers stilled around the cup.
You looked up.
And there she was.
Choi Jisu.
Your ex-fiancée.
The woman you almost built a life with.
The woman who vanished from it.
You tried to speak but you couldn’t, it’s like your mouth was sealed closed by thorns. Not when the scent still lingered, not when the face you never expected to see again was standing 5 feet away – just close enough to break you if you moved.
She didn’t flinch. It’s like she’d rehearsed this meeting a hundred times in her head.
She looked older. Not aged — just lived in. Black hair kept in a simple messy bun like she used when both of you were studying late at night. Eyes just a little more tired. Or maybe you were just looking too hard for something that no longer existed.
She held the clipboard like it was the only thing left keeping her sane.
I looked up. She bowed, stood properly and then started introducing herself.
“Director [L/N], I’m Choi Jisu, your Line Producer for this Film.”
He stares a bit and then nods.
“It’s been a while.”
She nods once, her face unreadable. “…Yes. It has.”
You stand, slowly. You don’t know what to do with your hands — so you reach for your coffee again, even though it’s cold and almost finished.
You lift the cup to your lips, taking the last bitter sip, and lower it again – not because you wanted the taste, but because you needed the pause.
She’s still standing there, clipboard clutched a little too tight and bag on her shoulders.
“Didn’t think you were still in production’” you say, voice light, neutral.
“I wasn’t. Just decided to go back for one film, I kinda missed it.” She replied
Her eyes flick over to the set, like she’s calculating logistics, but you can feel the way she avoids looking at you directly for too long – like your gaze would damage her.
“You always liked Georgia,” she finally says. “You used to say it reminded you of old films.”
“Still does.” You reply
The silence visits again. But this one’s different. Less like a wound, more like a memory still bleeding.
You clear your throat.
“We will start blocking soon. You’ll get the rundown from Seokmin.”
“Already did.”
I laugh didn’t mean to
“Of course you did.”
Her lips twitch — that tiny, familiar smirk that used to come out when you were being difficult.
It fades just as quickly.
A voice calls your name from the tent.
You nod once at her, not out of politeness, but necessity — the kind of nod people give when there’s too much to say and no time to say it.
“I’ll see you on set.”
You turn.
A few steps away you hear her exhale softly, almost like relief — or maybe regret.
She doesn’t follow right away.
The next few days crawl by, and the only thing louder than the clapperboard is the silence consuming the both of you.
She passes you call sheets, updates on locations, and scene budgets. You respond with nods, one-word answers, averted eyes.
That doesn’t bother you alot since it was just normal interactions as colleagues.
What’s slowly killing you is how she still laughs the same way — head tilted back, nose scrunching.
Eyes disappearing when she smiles.
You notice that she still carries around black pens, even though the film set is leaned more on the technical side.
She still makes coffee exactly the way you liked it — but gives it to the assistant director.
One night as the film set starts to be quiet, you pass by her tent and catch a glimpse of her smiling — not at you just someone else on the team.
You pause for a second too long. She notices. The smile fades. She turns away.
Days later.
It’s late. The set is practically empty. You’re reviewing notes near the fortress walls when she walks by, pausing at the stone edge. You can feel her hesitation — like her feet want to go but her heart won’t let her.
“You always hated location shoots,” you say without looking up.
“Still do. Cold wind, Bad coffee. Too many bugs.” She replies
Silence. She starts to walk away
“Jisu—.”
She stops.
“Y/N let’s just work on the film,” she says softly but a bit harshly.
Then she finally walks away.
You don’t follow her. Standing still, lips pressed tight, jaw flexing — part of you wants to call her back , but pride wins. You walk the opposite way
There’s work to do
The next few days passed by quickly, at least for everyone else. Blocking scenes. Call sheets are constantly changing. Extras wandering. Meetings that drag. Cameras needing adjustments over and over
And her.
Always around. Never close
Your heart beats faster when she’s near
It’s like you’re her kryptonite
She speaks to you only when she has to — never too little, never too much.
Precise. Painfully professional . The kind of civil that cuts sharper than any fight or blade could, making your chest tighten without a word of complaint
Sometimes she’s scribbling production notes on your trailer just at the edge of your vision.
Other times she’s behind you, headset on, coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, speaking softly to the crew.
Her voice is a reminder of rainy nights and ramen in our tiny apartment back when you were just starting out, and it makes your chest ache, remembering how close you once were.
Back then, everything felt like it could last forever.
Now it’s just… gone.
The next morning.
She passes you a warm cup of coffee during breakfast.
“Here.” Her voice is low, barely above the set noise.
You start to say thanks, but her hand’s already pulling back — too quick like even touching hurts.
I wanted to tell her to stay, I wanted to feel her touch just once more.
That small movement landed like a gut punch to your empty stomach.
“Wait…” you murmur.
“I just wanted you to have it. You looked a bit tired from the late production last night,” She says eyes moving away
You nod, holding the warmth she left behind.
And somehow… it tastes exactly like the coffee she used to make for you back then.
Later during the evening, you catch her laughing by the grip truck, head thrown back, voice bright and unguarded.
You stood still, watching her for a moment, then you remembered.
Back on that Seattle Trip, the one you surprised her with after you proposed.
It was a rainy night. You were stuck in your hotel room eating reheated pizza. She was tipsy from the wine, leaning into your shoulder laughing.
“You’re seriously going to eat that?” she giggled, pointing at your soggy slice.
“Hey, it’s gourmet in its own way,” you shot back.
She laughed harder, almost snorting. “Gourmet? It smells like wet socks!”
“I’ll have you know these wet socks are imported,” you teased, grinning.
She threw her head back into your shoulder, and the sound of her laughter filled the small room.
You remember holding her tighter, thinking, I could stay like this forever.
“Director?” the cinematographer calls, snapping you out of your daze.
You blink, caught between memory and the present.
“Coffee?” he asks, raising the pot.
“Uh… yeah. Sure,” you mutter, voice low.
You glance back at her. She notices just for a second — then looks away, busy with the crew.
“Is she okay?” you hear yourself ask, almost without thinking.
“Who?” the cinematographer glances at you, confused.
“Never mind,” you mutter.
Jisu passes by, clipboard in hand, just close enough for a brush of scent to hit you.
“You… everything ready for tomorrow?” she asks softly, eyes avoiding yours.
“Yeah,” you reply, voice tight, “all set.”
A pause.
Then she moves on.
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, you enter your trailer and sink into your chair, flipping through the script for tomorrow’s scene.
A soft knock makes you look up.
“Come in,” you call.
The door opens slowly. Wonyoung steps in, pink cardigan over a t-shirt, jeans, hair a little messy. She shifts her weight, shy, tired eyes flicking up at you.
“Director… I, uh… brought the schedule for tomorrow,” she says softly, holding out a tablet.
You nod, glancing at the screen.
“Thanks, Wonyoung. Leave it on my desk.”
She hesitates a moment, watching you as if she wants to say more. Then, with a small, polite smile, she sets it down and retreats quietly.
The next day, Jisu’s late to call.
Not drastically — ten, maybe fifteen minutes. You cover for her without thinking, talking through scene logistics. Then she appears, apologizing to no one in particular, adjusting her earpiece as she hurries past you.
You almost ask where she was.
But you don’t. You’re not hers anymore. You’re just her director now.
It’s after sunset on the fourth day when you finally find her alone.
Most of the crew has gone. The film set in Narikala Fortress is quiet — just dim lights from the last rigging checks, and the hum of generators in the distance. You head to the props tent looking for your misplaced clipboard, but find her instead — crouched over her notes, shoulders tense, eyes rimmed red like she’s been holding back something all day.
You hesitate at the flap. She notices, straightens, and for a moment you swear she looks smaller somehow.
“…Forgot something?” she asks, voice clipped, careful.
“Yeah.” You don’t move. “Didn’t expect to find you.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, standing. “The call sheet’s still incomplete.”
“You always did work too late.”
She lets out a breath, almost a scoff, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Some things don’t change.”
“Some things don’t end,” you say before you can stop yourself, voice low, tight. “They just… get paused.”
Her eyes flash for a second, and you see it — the faint tightening at her jaw, the way her hand hovers over her notes as if to steady herself.
“Y/N…” she starts, but then she shakes her head, forcing a thin line over her lips. “…Let’s not do this. Not here.”
You nod, but it feels like the world around you is hollowing out. Every step you take away from her echoes with everything you lost, and everything you never will get back.
A few days later~
The cast and some of the main crew gather at a restaurant tucked into a hillside, one of those quiet, cozy spots in Tbilisi with warm lighting and stone walls.
Everyone’s celebrating the end of the first major shoot in one of the few cities featured in the film. Laughter rises, toasts are made. Plates of khinkali and mtsvadi pass down the table.
You’re seated three chairs away from Jisu. You haven’t spoken all night.
To your left… Wonyoung.
To your right… your secretary, Lee Seokmin.
You sip your wine, laughing with the others, not noticing the girl beside you watching you with those eyes.
Then you glance up. Jisu stands, phone in hand, slipping quietly from the table. The click of her heels on the stone floor is almost softer than the laughter around you, but somehow it feels louder.
You stand, following her without meaning to. Just needed air, you tell yourself.
Outside, the balcony stretches wide over the hill. The city glows beneath the night, warm and silent. You hear her voice before you see her.
She’s by the railing, back to you, phone to her ear.
Soft. Familiar. Real.
You stop at the doorway.
The distance eats at you.
“Yeah… I’ll be home soon, okay?”
You don’t breathe.
“…Tell them goodnight for me.”
She turns just slightly. You step back before she sees.
Back inside, laughter rises without you.
From the table, Wonyoung watches him go. Quietly, almost too softly to notice, she wonders about the weight behind his eyes—what he carries, and what he’s already lost.
He doesn’t see her. But she does.
And somehow, just knowing that feels like enough for now.
[TEASER]
[Between Scenes Part 2]
Seattle, Between Scenes
Tbilisi International Airport hummed with the quiet chaos of travelers. Screens flickered with departures, trolleys clattered, and announcements echoed through the high ceilings. You leaned against the wall near the lounge, coffee in hand, watching the crew shuffle around like restless bees.
The cast were scattered in small groups, laughing over inside jokes, dragging carry-ons behind them. Cameras, tripods, and cases were stacked by the side—your small army ready for Seattle.
You glanced over at Jisu for a split second as she talked to the producer, her posture crisp, hands busy, phone tucked against her shoulder. She caught your gaze for just a moment and looked away. Like she had for the past month.
A familiar pang hit your chest. That distance. That quiet reminder that some connections had shifted, and no matter how close you once were, some things were… permanently elsewhere.
Wonyoung was sitting quietly on a bench a few feet away, earbuds in, scrolling through her notes on the flight schedule. You noticed her eyes flick up, catching you staring too long at the terminal doors. She gave a small, almost shy smile that didn’t go unnoticed.
Her presence was different. Easy. Calm. There wasn’t the weight of history pressing between you like there was with Jisu. And yet… you caught yourself lingering, studying the subtle curve of her shoulder as she leaned over her notes.
“Y/N,” Wonyoung’s voice broke through softly. “Do you… want me to grab us some snacks before boarding?”
You looked at her, surprised by the simple care in her tone. “Yeah… that’d be nice,” you managed, letting a corner of your chest unclench just a fraction.
She hopped up, moving quickly yet gracefully, and returned moments later with a small bag of pastries and two bottled waters. She handed you one, fingers brushing yours.
“Thanks,” you said, quieter than intended, and for a brief second, she held your gaze.
It was a fleeting, quiet warmth—one that didn’t carry the sting of old memories, didn’t demand anything from you except this small, shared moment. And somehow, in that hum of the airport, between announcements and rolling suitcases, it was enough to make you feel… steady.
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strxwbliaa · 12 days ago
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Hi! Some updates, I’m almost done with the first part for Lia’s story I promise I’ll release it soon.
I’m just working on this and a series at the same time while handling classes and activities
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strxwbliaa · 22 days ago
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😭😭 MY ITZY GIRLIES GETTING SOME FLUFF x male reader AUS OH MY DAYS
New License, New Feelings
(m!reader x ITZY's YUNA)
masterlist
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Summary: Shin Yuna just got her new license, and the first person she wants by her side is her best friend. Somewhere between the open road and quiet glances, it becomes clear: both of them wants more than just friendship.
Tags(?): fluff, friends to lovers, slice of life
YUNA x yourself/Original Male Character
Word count: ~6.7k
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
[신공듀👸]
(Princess Shin👸)
i’m waiting~ can’t wait for you to get here 
finally~ 😚
this day has come 🚗🪪
[You]
almost there 
come down 
ㅋㅋㅋ
The light turned red at the intersection, giving you a brief pause in the slow hum of city traffic. Your phone buzzed again and you glanced down.
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Four selfies appeared. You let out a soft laugh at those. Especially at the last one, Yuna was sticking out her tongue just a little, eyes looking in the other direction - in that silly, intentional cute way she always did. You stared at the screen longer than you should’ve, thumb hovering over the keyboard but not quite tapping it.
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I’m so screwed.
You’d been crushing on Shin Yuna hard since middle school - back when you two sat together and she kept doodling on your notebook, back when Yuna’d called you her “favorite idiot” and made it sound like a compliment. You loved it anyway.
You two’d seen each other through every phase: middle school, high school, university and now - this chaotic, human sunshine of a girl who was somehow still the same Yuna underneath it all. And no matter how hard you tried to move on, you always circled back to her.
The light soon turned green as you tucked your phone down in the cupholder and drove the rest of the way with a dumb smile on your face.
Today’s gonna be a long day.
The turn to her apartment complex felt like the start of something new, though you weren’t quite sure what. You pulled up near the entrance and barely had any time to park properly before the glass lobby doors burst open. 
Shin Yuna.
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She stepped out with her red hair simmered under the morning light like she’d just gone to the salon early in the morning just to get her hair done for this. A pink handbag hung off her shoulder. She was waving with her phone and sunglasses both in one hand. 
Damn, Shin Yuna was stunning. 
Your eyes trailed involuntarily down to her outfit. She wore a cropped white tee and low rise baggy black jeans, hanging on her hips in that maddening way.
Her hips… her hips. 
You swore you weren’t a pervert or anything but Yuna knew what she did wearing that. You’d known her forever. Long enough to know the difference between the usual playful Yuna and the dangerous Yuna.
She’d done this a few times before. That time last year she wore jeans two sizes too small and asked you to reach something off the shelf while stretching like a cat underneath you? Definitely not an accident. Or the way she somehow had to get up and go to the bathroom whenever you two hung out at a PC bang, brushing her hips against you every single time like it was part of some game she knew only she was winning.
Shin Yuna knew how dangerous she was.
And now here she was, swaying toward your car like she had all the time in the world - hips moving in that same old rhythm. The spring light shined over her hair, her shirt riding up just enough to make you brain lag. You gripped the steering wheel, heart thudding. 
When Yuna got closer, she dashed toward the passenger side, yanking the door open with a giant grin.
“AHN JAEWONNN~” she beamed in a singing voice. “Your princess has arrived.”
You tried to play it cool, but the helpless smile on your lips betrayed you.
“This excited already? Dramatic, much?”
“Shut up.” she huffed. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I passed that test. You’re so lucky you get to witness my debut.”
“Why me? Why not Ryujin-noona, Yeji-noona and… I don’t know, your dad?”
She pouted. “My dad doesn’t trust me enough with his car. Ryujin unnie and Yeji unnie didn’t either.”
“Oof.” you stifled a laugh. “Very smart people.”
She narrowed her eyes and then smiled sweetly again.
“But you, Ahn Jaewon~ you’re my best friend. And you taught me to drive, remember?”
“That’s all?”
“Nope.” she said, tilting her head. “I also like your car.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. Yuna grinned at you from where she stood, hand still on the door. 
“Now… get out~” she said, voice teasing but had that familiar stubbornness.
“Huh?”
She nodded toward your seat. “Out. Driver’s seat. Mine now.”
“I said you could drive when I decide it’s the right time.”
Yuna gave you that trademark whine of her - the one that she knew would always work on you. It’d gotten Yuna out of so many messes with you before.
“You said I could drive, didn’t you?~ Come on, bestie~” she was stomping on her feet like a kid being denied candy. “Move~ I’ve been mentally preparing for this day since I got the license.”
You groaned, pretending to be suffering. But you’d already unbuckled your halfway through her speech. A minute later, you both had swapped seats. Yuna bounced into the driver’s seat with a victorious squeal, adjusting the mirror with a proud grin. You watched her closely and sure enough - before she even started the engine, her hand was already resting on the gear selector.
“Yah, seatbelt.” you reminded her.
“Oh! Right, right.”
She reached for it lazily but you sighed and leaned over, already grabbing it for her.
“I got it.” 
Your hand brushed across her bare midriff as you reached over for the seatbelt - just a second of warm skin against your hand - but it was enough to make your heart do somersaults in your chest. Your face hovered close to her. Yuna sat very still, too still for her extroverted self.
You clipped the buckle into place with a soft click, the silence suddenly louder than it should’ve been.
“There, now you can kill us safely.” you murmured, playing it off.
“You wanted to touch me, didn’t you?” her eyes were gleaming.
You pulled back quickly, scoffing. “No, I did not.”
The playful Yuna was finally back with that smirk playing on her lips. 
“It’s okay. I’ll allow it. You taught me how to drive after all.” she said sweetly.
“Generous.”
“I know.” Yuna chirped, throwing the car into drive. You held onto the armrest with a quiet sigh. This ride was going to kill you.
Halfway through the drive, Seoul cityscape had long faded into rolling hills and stretches of beautiful empty road. Everything felt peaceful. Your car’s hum, the occasional sway of Yuna’s steering, the playlist playing low on the speaker. You then glanced at her.
“Yah.” you said, voice soft. “Why Gapyeong?”
Yuna’s eyes stayed on the road but you caught the small grin on her face.
“I dunno…” she said lightly. But you knew Yuna better than that, you knew she’d thought hard about it.
“Liar.”
That made Yuna glance your way.
“What, I can’t just want some fresh air and lake views?”
You hummed, waiting. 
“Okay… maybe because I remembered that one time we almost went. Back in high school.”
“The school trip we bailed on to go to Seongsu together?”
She laughed at the memory, eyes crinkling.
“Exactly. We told everyone we were sick and then spent the whole day hopping cafes and pretending to be adults.”
You grinned. “You wore those ridiculous sunglasses and called me 'yeobo' in front of the barista.”
“I was committed to the role!” she argued with a pout. “Besides, you didn’t even complain when she gave us free cake.”
 You shook your head, smiling as you stared out the window. “So now you wanna go?”
“Mm.” Yuna nodded. “We never made it to Gapyeong. I figured now’s the time. New license. New us. And you’re my emotional support passenger.”
You looked back at her, watching the way her hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.
“Nervous?”
“Only a lot.” she grinned wider. “But with Ahn Jaewon here, I’ll survive.”
“You’re being weirdly sentimental today, Shin Yuna.”
“We’re going to Gapyeong today. It’s a beautiful place so I’m allowed!”
You chuckled. But Yuna wasn’t done. She began with a curious tone.
“So… why haven't you dated anyone?”
“Where is that coming from?”
Yuna blinked, focusing on the road. “We’re out of the city and it’s quiet. The vibes are right, dummy.”
You hesitated, fingers idly on the armrest.
“I don’t know. Guess I never felt the need. Maybe there wasn't anyone I seriously liked.”
“Not even Oh Haewon?”
You turned to her. “You remember Haewon?”
Yuna nodded. “Yeah, she liked you. Everyone knew since you two looked close.”
“I mean… we were only project partners. She was nice, yeah. Pretty cute but… I guess I wasn’t interested.”
“Why not?”
You leaned your head back against the headrest. “Maybe I liked someone else back then. She probably didn’t know.”
“Oh…”
“What about you? You’ve never dated anyone either.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Same reason. No one I really liked.”
“Boys lined up for you in high school, you know?” you added, glancing over at her. Yuna replied with a shrug.
“Yep. But I didn’t really like any of them. Hanging out with you was funnier. Better.”
You were amused. “Better?”
“You were my free comedy show. Emotional support. Still are.”
“I guess I am.” you glanced at her again. “You’re interested in dating now?”
Yuna smiled. “I mean, I’ve got a license now. Gotta start checking things off the list.”
“Can I ask you something, then?”
“Shoot.”
You rested your head on the window.
“Why’d you always ask me if this guy or that guy was okay? Back in high school. Even last year.”
Yuna tilted her head, trying to read your expression. “What do you mean?”
You exhaled. “You know what I mean, Yuna. Every time you were maybe slightly interested in someone, you’d bring it up casually. ‘Is he okay? What do you think of him?’.”
She stayed silent. You didn’t say it out loud, but it always bothered you. Every time she asked, you’d say that the guy gave you a weird feeling or an ick, that he looked like a walking red flag. He wouldn’t get her humor or keep up with her energy. But you knew you were projecting.
You always told yourself it was instinct. Now you wondered if it was jealousy.
“You always had something to say.” she said finally, eyes still on the road. “Didn’t like any of them, huh?”
You let out a soft laugh. “I mean, you should have high standards for your boyfriend. He should at least treat you better than I do. That’s the bare minimum.”
Yuna blushed at that, just the lightest shade of pink coloring her cheeks even in the passing shadows of trees outside. You watched the way her fingers tapped on the steering wheel, nervous energy leaking out.
“What, did I say something wrong?”
“No…” she muttered.
You leaned back in your seat, the corners of your lips curved in amusement. “You sure? You’re acting like I just confessed or something.”
“Just… funny. That’s all?”
“What is?”
She hesitated for a second, then said. “Thinking about how you always acted like some jealous boyfriend whenever I like someone. And yet-”
“And yet?”
Yuna shot you a side eye. “Yah! You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
She gripped the steering wheel hard. “Making out with Ryujin-unnie in highschool. You both are my best friends!”
“Oh yeah…” you let out an awkward laugh. “That. Sorry…”
“Unbelievable.” Yuna scoffed under her breath.
“I mean… It was just a one time thing.” you scratched the back of your neck. “We were bored, it was midterms and she said I looked kissable or something-”
“I would slam this car into a tree right now if I could.”
You chuckled. “Okay! Okay! Shin Yuna, I’m sorry.”
Yuna huffed. “Do you know how weird that was for me? I didn’t even want to look either of you in the eye.”
You were mixed with guilt and amusement. “I’m sorry… It was my first time kissing someone, you know that. I was curious… and it felt great.”
“YAH!” Yuna nearly swerved as she yelled, smacking your arm without taking her eyes off the road. “What do you mean it felt great? Are you bragging to me right now?!”
“Yah, yah! Drive carefully! You’re gonna get us killed!” you shouted, both panicking and laughing.
Yuna groaned. “I swear, if I wasn’t the one driving right now-”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry… Yeah, I get it.”
She muttered something under her breath, cheeks visibly pink. 
“You’re such a dickhead… Bragging about kissing my best friend like it’s something simple.”
“I’m not.” you said defensively. “It’s just- okay, maybe a bit. But I was like, what? Sixteen or seventeen. I was curious, okay?”
“I hated you so much for that.”
“You didn’t talk to me for a whole week after that. You really hated it, huh?”
“I did…” her tone flat. “Kind of. Maybe. I was just confused.”
You fell quiet, watching the way her lips pressed together. Yuna was holding back more.
“Still thinking about it?” you teased, trying to light up the mood.
Yuna rolled her eyes. “No. But I still can’t believe you chose Ryujin-unnie over me.”
Uh... What?
“What do you mean I chose her? I didn’t choose anyone? Besides, you wanted me to say ‘I want to make out with you’ to my best friend dead in her face?”
“I would’ve respected it at least.” Yuna scoffed.
“You wanted me to just randomly confess that I want to kiss you? Out of nowhere?”
She shrugged, staring straight ahead. “Not randomly. But, I dunno… maybe back then, I wouldn’t have minded hearing you say it.”
Your heart skipped. 
“You never said anything either, Shin Yuna…” you said, voice uncertain.
“I didn’t have to…” she said under her breath. “You always knew me better than anyone. I thought… maybe you’d just know, as my best friend.”
You thought about saying something. You really did.
“Yuna-ah.”
“Mm?”
Right then, you leaned back in your seat, gaze drifting outside the window.
“Nevermind.”
The moment passed, just like it always did with the two of you. The vibe lingered until the road signs began to change. The trees got denser, the air was crisper. Gapyeong welcomed you with its quiet streets and beautiful scenery of soft mountain silhouettes. Yuna slowly pulled into a small park parking lot, biting her lip as she scanned around for a spot.
“Ugh. Why is everything so tight?”
“Left. Turn the wheel more - no, no. More.” you said. “Okay. Keep going… uh huh, just like that. Keep going, slow…”
She finally eased the car into place with a small jerk as she hit the brake. 
“Good girl~” you said, already unbuckling your seatbelt as you pushed the door open. “Let’s go.”
Yuna froze, still gripping the wheel.
“What?” she mumbled, brain short-circuiting. You were already halfway around the front of the car, not even glancing back.
“Yah!” she called, cheeks burning as she scrambled to get out, not forgetting her pink handbag. “You can’t just say stuff like that and walk away, Ahn Jaewon.”
You grinned without turning around. “Hurry up. We’ve got to explore Gapyeong before it’s too late.”
Yuna shivered as a breeze swept past, the air here in Gapyeong was cooler than it had been back in Seoul. Her pink bag was slung over her shoulder, but she crossed her arm instinctively to warm herself up.
“Why didn’t you bring your jacket?” you frowned.
“I didn’t know it’d be like this!” she said.
You slipped your jacket off without a word then casually took her handbag off her shoulder. 
“Here.” you said, slipping the handbag onto your shoulder with no hesitation.
“Still doing this?” she asked, brows furrowed but clearly flustered.
“Still taking care of you.” you said simply. “Arms out, Shin Yuna.”
She stared at you a bit longer as you held the jacket open between your hands. “Come on, Yuna. Arms out.”
Yuna slowly extended her arms and you gently slipped the jacket onto her, tugging it into place.
“There.” you said. “Now you won’t freeze to death before we even get to the river.”
Then you walked ahead without saying anything, hands in your pocket, pink handbag bouncing slightly against your side. Behind you, Yuna finally caught up with her soft footsteps soft on the gravel path. Yuna gently hooked her hand around your bicep.
“You know this is why people suspect we’re a couple all the time, right?” she said, voice laced with both amusement and annoyance. You glance at her sideways, a smirk tugging at your lips. 
“Are you complaining or confessing?”
She let out a breathy laugh. “It’s a statement, Ahn Jaewon. Don’t get cocky.”
You started to walk a little slower to let Yuna stay close. After a few minutes of walking, Yuna tugged at your arm a little, gaze drifting toward a row of pastel-colored bikes parked under a big tree.
“Jaewon-ah~” she whined.
You hummed, knowing it was her sign to beg you for something.
“Let’s rent a bike.”
You raised your eyebrows. “We both ride?”
“No, dummy. You ride, I’ll sit behind you.” she replied, giving you a look. “How are you gonna get a girlfriend if you treat a girl like this?”
You laughed. “Bold of you to assume that I can get a girlfriend when you’re my best friend.”
“True.” She chuckled. “I’m too pretty. They would be scared they’d lose you to me.”
“Wow. So humble today.”
Yuna looked at you, her face smug. She then flipped her hair dramatically.
“I’m just stating facts.”
“Facts, huh?” you muttered, already taking Yunah toward the bike stand with you. “Pretty sure you just want an excuse to cling onto me again.”
“Is it working?”
You didn’t answer and picked out a blue bike with a wide back seat, testing the brakes.
“Hmm… this one’ll do.”
Yuna watched you with folded arms. “You sure you can handle riding me around here?”
“I’ve carried your emotional baggage for years.” you said, throwing Yuna a playful glance. “A few more kilos won’t kill me, Yuna.”
Yuna burst into laughter then climbed on behind you, hands wrapping lightly around your waist.
“C’mon! I’m excited!”
“Hold on tighter unless you want to fly off when I hit a bump.”
“You wouldn’t dare, you idiot.”
“I absolutely would. Try me.”
Yuna smacked your butt, laughing. “Let’s go~”
The bike wobbled for a second before you steadied it, feet pushing off the gravel as you rolled off onto the shaded trail. You two passed through the trees, with soft sunlight pouring through the new spring leaves that fluttered beautifully in the breeze. The air smelled fresh and light - maybe the beginning of something new.
Yuna’s laughter rang out behind you, bright and carefree as she tightened her arm around your waist when you started to pick up speed. Her cheek rested against your back. Right then, you could feel Yuna’s smile in the way her body leaned into yours. She trusted you more than you realized.
The road then curved along the edge of the mountain park, lined with cherry blossoms blooming. Petals scattered like confetti in the wind, catching her hair, dusting the path behind you.
“You okay back there?” you called over your shoulder.
“Perfect!” Yuna shouted over the wind, her voice was filled with breathless joy. “Don’t slow down.”
You didn’t. Yuna’s presence made you feel soft and warm. Her arms around you, head leaning against your back, laughter spilling out like she didn’t have a single worry. Neither did you when you were with Yuna like this. In this moment, with her laughter in your ears, her heartbeat against your spine, the wind between you. You smiled without realizing it. You then felt Yuna shifting slightly behind you, her arms loosening for just a second before tightening again - this time with her phone in one hand.
“Hi~” she said to the camera, cheeks flushed. “I’m with Jaewonie right now.” she continued, angling the camera toward the both of you. You caught a glimpse of her phone from the corner of your eye.
“Don’t film me while I’m working.” you pretended to frown as you kept pedaling.
“Jaewon’s biking me around in Gapyeong like I’m a princess.” she said with a smug smile, ignoring your complaint. Then she leaned her head against your back again and whispered loud enough for the camera to catch. “He acts like I’m heavy but I know he likes it.”
You huffed a laugh. “Don’t spread lies on the Internet.”
She giggled and zoomed the camera on you. “Look at him. Acting cold but his ears are pink.”
You turned your head slightly, trying to dodge the frame. “You’re walking back to Seoul.”
“Liar.” she grinned, ending the recording and slipping her phone away. “You’d never do anything to hurt me.”
Yeah, you’re right.
As the bike rolled to a stop near some hanoks, the peaceful sound of water and the rustle of spring leaves wrapped around the both of you. You steadied the handlebars and glanced back at Yuna.
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“Wanna rest a bit?” you asked, nodding toward the small wooden pavilion that sat at the center of the pond. The arched bridge leading to it made it look like something out of a drama. Yuna followed your gaze, eyes softening. 
“That thing in the middle?” she hummed thoughtfully before smiling. “Looks romantic.”
“Romantic?”
She quickly slipped off the bike, brushing something invisible off her pants. “Mm hmm.”
Yuna then linked her fingers behind her back. “Like the kind of place where someone confesses they’ve liked you all along.”
You smirked. “Too bad no one’s going to do that today.”
“Oh?” Yuna feigned surprise. “So you’re just bringing me to romantic spots for free?”
You rolled your eyes. “Let’s just go sit before you say something dumb, Shin Yuna.”
Yuna walked ahead, still smiling. She looked at the calm water and the reflection of the pavilion ripping gently in the breeze. Then, her voice floated back to you, teasing.
“You better not ruin the mood, Jaewonie~”
You shook your head, grinning as you pushed the bike aside and followed her across the wooden bridge. The pavilion stood quietly and empty, wrapped in the soft scent of blooming cherry blossoms and distant trees. Yuna settled onto one of the benches in it, legs swinging slightly as she looked toward the sky. She then pulled out her phone and settled it on the rail before clicking the record button.
“Feels like a dream~”
You sat beside her, a little closer than necessary. “Feels like it when you’re not the one riding.”
“Be grateful I'm the one sitting behind you.” She turned to you with a perfect smile.
You looked at her - face lit by the spring light, red hair catching in the breeze, her eyes sparkling. 
Yeah, maybe it does feel like a dream.
“You held on to me the entire ride here.”
“I had to. You ride like you’ve got something to prove.”
“Maybe I did. You seemed to enjoy the scenic ride.”
Yuna shot back quickly. “I was trying not to die.”
You laughed. “You were laughing the whole time.”
“I laugh when I’m scared.”
You leaned in just slightly, teasing. “Is that what it was?”
Yuna shrugged, eyes turning back to the phone, still recording.
“Maybe. Or maybe I just like holding on to you.”
“Is that so?” you blinked, caught off guard.
She turned to face you again, her smile gentler this time. “Mm. Don’t get used to it though.”
You smirked. “Too late.”
The breeze brought over the romantic vibe of spring as the two of you sat there, quiet. Yuna’s phone continued to record - cherry blossoms around, the glimmer of sunlight on her skin, your shoulders brushing slightly. Then she leaned in to rest her head on your shoulder.
“Let’s not post this one.”
“Why not?” you slipped your arm around Yuna to pull her even closer.
Yuna blushed. “I… want to keep this for myself.”  
Your chest warmed. “Okay…”
After a moment, Yuna asked softly. “Are we feeling the same thing?”
You looked at her, head still on your shoulder.
“Maybe. Are you?” you said, almost smiling. Yuna didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted to your lips before moving up to meet your eyes, searching.
Then, instead of answering, she leaned in. And you met her halfway there.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet kiss that tasted like cherry blossoms and spring air - a secret meant only for the two of you. When Yuna began to pull away, you gently pull her back in, not ready to let go yet. She let out the softest laugh, smiling into the kiss as her hand came up to rest on your chest.
Yeah, she was feeling it too.
When the kiss finally ended, the space between you was smaller than before - hearts louder, breaths softer. You looked at Yuna, still close.
“Mm… what are we?” you asked quietly.
Yuna smiled, a little shy, a little sure. “I’m not sure. But I don’t want to see you with anybody else.”
“Me neither.” you laughed softly. “I hate it when you ask me about other guys. I hate the thought of you being with anyone but me.”
She blinked, looking down with her cheeks flushing pink. Her hand still didn’t leave your chest.
“Guess we’re both a little selfish.” she murmured.
You tilted your head, brushing your nose against Yuna’s. “Or maybe we just know what we want?”
“Are you free next week?”
You nodded without thinking much. “Yeah. Why?”
She hesitated, then smiled a little. “Do you wanna go to… Yangpyeong? Just for two days. Just us.”
You raised a brow. “To do what?”
Her eyes flicked away, shy all over again.
“To… figure out what this is? Us only. No distractions.”
“Tempting.” you leaned back slightly, eyes playful.
“Tempting?” Yuna’s lips twitched into a smile.
You shrugged. “I mean, being alone with you in a cozy homestay, no one around, spring weather, maybe a fireplace…”
Yuna swatted your arm.
“Yah! Don’t get any ideas.”
“What?” you grinned. “I just said ‘fireplace’. You’re the one who’s taking it somewhere else.”
Yuna glared at you, clearly flustered. “You said it like that on purpose.”
“And if I did?” you leaned back in.
Her lips parted but no words came out. Instead, her gaze dipped to your lips and that was all the answer you needed.
“Relex.” you chuckled. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
“You better be.” Yuna muttered, but the way she was smiling made it clear she didn’t really mean it. “But… I’m excited. Just us.”
You nodded, serious this time. “Me too.”
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
After your quiet, romantic moment surrounded the cherry blossoms and trees in Gapyeong, something shifted in your relationship with Yuna. The kiss lingered in both your minds long after it ended. And without officially labeling anything, the way you talked to each other changed. 
That same night, Yuna texted you first - not just once, but a lot. Your phones were practically buzzing nonstop as you joked, teased and opened up more than usual. It wasn’t playful like before when you two were best friends. There was a new underlying warmth in everything, a softness in every “what are you doing?” and “did you eat?”
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
The next day, you found yourself on a video call with her while brushing your teeth - something neither of you would’ve bothered doing before. She was still in bed, hair tied up in a messy bun, cradling her grey cat in one arm.
“Say hi to my child.” she murmured, turning her phone so you could see the sleepy cat blinking at you through the screen. You gave a little wave with your toothbrush. Then, Yuna looked at the cat and whispered, shy.
“You might have a dad soon if this thing goes well, Sarangie.”
You laughed mid brush, staring at the screen with foam still at the corner of your mouth. “I heard that, Yuna.”
She smirked, not denying it with her cheeks turning just a little pink. “I didn’t say it to you.”
“I know.” you smiled. “I still liked it.”
At midnight, just as you were about to sleep, your phone buzzed again with a notification.
신공듀👸has invited you to a shared album - 너와 나 (You and me)
Inside were memes, blurry photos and old photos of you two she took during high school and past hangouts. There were some that you didn’t even know existed - like that one of you dozing off on the bus, or the one where your hand was reaching out mid air and hers was already halfway meeting it.
At the end was a grainy selfie of Yuna, looking slightly annoyed but still soft. She even captioned it: “Thinking of you, I guess? Ew.”
[You]
what do you mean ew? 🧐
[신공듀👸]
you know what i mean
[You]
you were the one who told your cat he was getting a dad soon
[신공듀👸]
shut up
that’s between me and sarangie 🐱
[You]
i have the right to see my child, u know?
if not, i’m suing u
[신공듀👸]
ughh stoppp 
why are u making me smile again this is so annoyinggg 😡😤
A few seconds later, another message came through - a selfie of Yuna in a car. Her hair was slightly tousled. One sleeve of her hoodie slipped off her shoulder, revealing the grey tank top underneath.
And her expression? Deadly.
[신공듀👸]
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this is revenge 😏
sufferrr 
[You]
i’m smiling so hard rn
[신공듀👸]
don’t u dare 😠
i’m already regretting sending u that
[You]
too late, shin nayu~
it’s saved in my brain forever now
She didn’t reply for a while. When you thought Yuna might’ve gone to sleep, another photo popped up - this time of Sarangie curled up beside her.
[신공듀👸]
your kid is sleeping. goodnight, fake husband
don’t dream of me too much, okay? 😴
[You]
goodnight my fake wife
no promises ㅎㅎㅎ
Moments later, Yuna sent you a voice message. Her voice was a little hushed, saying.
“Okay but seriously? I smiled like an idiot putting that album together. I hate you for that.”
You fell asleep with a smile still on your face.
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
Between your errands and Yuna’s lazy Wednesday off, you two kept texting - about nothing and  everything. She sent you a voice note of her yawning dramatically. You replied with a photo of your half burnt omelette. By late afternoon, she was sitting with Sarangie curled up in her lap again during another video call. That was when it happened. 
Yuna was talking about some dream she had - mostly nonsense about missing a train, losing her shoe and being yelled at by a random stranger. Then, she just casually added.
“Oh, and I had a dream where you introduced me as your girlfriend.”
“Oh~ And?”
Yuna paused for a bit too long.
“I… didn’t hate it.”
Just when you were about to say something, she scrunched her nose and changed the subject.
“ANYWAY~ I found a picture of you from high school where you look like wet seaweed, should I send you it?”
“Dropping a nuke like that and just dodging it?”
Yuna didn’t deny a thing.
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
By Thursday, your chat history already looked like something out of a couple’s chat log, except you two still hadn’t put a label on whatever this thing was. That afternoon, Yuna sent you a photo of two beanies. One black, one grey. Both were simple, cuffed.
[신공듀👸]
what if i said couple beanies
would that be cute or icky?
asking for research purposes
You raised an eyebrow.
[You]
hmm
you work as a model so i’d trust your taste
i call dibs on black tho
[신공듀👸]
excuse me??? black is mine???
[You]
not anymore ㅋㅋㅋ
too slow, princess shin
[신공듀👸]
fineee i’ll take grey
but i better look good next to u
[You]
you always do, especially in grey
[신공듀👸]
stop doing that
i swear i’m actually gonna throw my phone away
[You]
so… do we wear them this weekend or what?
Yuna sent a selfie - her in a hoodie, grey beanie already on.
[신공듀👸]
just tried it. thoughts?
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
That morning, you arrived at Yuna’s family apartment a few minutes early, holding two iced americanos in hand. You rang the bell and waited. The door opened with Yuna’s mom standing behind it, smiling.
“Aigoo! Jaewon-ah! You’re here. Come in, come in. Yuna’s still doing her hair.” she said, waving you inside. Her voice reminded you of all those high school mornings when she’d nag Yuna at the door for making you wait too long.
“Good morning, eomeoni.” you bowed politely and stepped in.
Her dad was seated at the dining table, reading something on his tablet. 
“Oh, Jaewon-ah. Sit, sit. You know Yuna takes forever.”
You smiled, bowing to him. “Hi, abeonim.” Then you walked over to sit across from him, setting the iced americanos you brought on the table. “I came prepared.”
He chuckled, setting his tablet down. “She’s been in front of the mirror since breakfast.”
Yuna’s mom returned from the hallway. “Yuna’s doing her hair again. Aigoo.. This girl.”
You tried not to smile too much at that. Just then, Sarangie had strutted out from the hallway and leapt up onto your lap like he owned the place. He made himself comfortable, kneading your jeans a little before settling down with a soft purr.
“Oh?” Yuna’s mom laughed. “Looks like he missed you.”
Her dad glanced over. 
“It’s been a while since you visited and he still loves you.”
You chuckled, gently scratching under Sarangie’s chin. “I don’t know why, abeonim.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming~” Yuna called out.
She turned the corner and her eyes landed on you and the cat comfortably settled on your lap. 
“Oh~” Yuna said, stopping in her tracks with a little tilt of her head. “Sarangie misses you.”
“He jumped on my lap on his own. I didn’t bribe him or anything.”
Yuna walked over as she adjusted her jeans. “He always does that when you’re here. I think he likes your voice.”
She laughed softly, crouching down to scoop Sarangie in her arms but the cat gave a lazy meow. He clearly didn’t like it.
“Sorry but I need Jaewon now, baby.” She stood up and looked at you. “Got your keys?”
You nodded and stood, smoothing out your jeans. “I thought I was gonna drive.” 
Her dad spoke up even before she could answer.
“Yuna’s not driving is she?”
Yuna let out an exaggerated sigh. “Appa…”
He turned to you. “Jaewon-ah, did she drive okay last week? When you two went out?”
“Yuna… uh, got us there in one piece.” 
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“I drove fine!” Yuna protested. “You act like I crashed into something.”
“You almost hit the parking pillar once, honey.” her mom called out.
“It was a gentle turn, mom.”
“I think she’ll be okay under my watch, abeonim.” you stepped in calmly, glancing at her dad with a little smile. He gave you a long look, as if pleading you to rethink your life choices before putting your life in Yuna’s hands. You then picked up the two iced americanos you’d brought and handed one to Yuna. “Here. Before you start another argument.”
“You won’t regret it.” Yuna took it with a small grin.
You walked to the living room and picked up her weekend bag, slinging it over your shoulder with ease. It was heavier than expected.
“Did you pack for a week?”
“Essentials, dummy.” she said defensively. “We gotta be prepared.”
“For what? The end of the world? Zombie apocalypse?”
“You never know~” she said, then took a sip of the drink.
Her mom shook her head fondly with a sigh as you both headed toward the door. “Drive safely, and let me know when you arrive, okay?”
“Got it, mom~” Yuna called back cheerfully.
When you both had said goodbye and closed the door, her dad immediately turned to her mom. 
“Are these two kids dating?”
“I think they’ve been dating since high school. They just didn’t realize it.”
“Still calling each other best friends, huh?”
“Give them time. They’ll get there.” Her mom smiled to herself.
“They better.” Her dad picked up his tablet. “At this rate, even Sarangie’s figured it out before they have.”
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
Outside, the sun had climbed a little higher, shining over the apartment complex driveway. It felt great, having the opportunity to spend time with Yuna like this. It was the perfect time to figure out whatever ‘this’ was between the two of you. You walked side by side down the steps with Yuna happily sipping her iced americano. Just as you reached the curb, you felt a sudden tug at your side. Yuna’s hand slipped smoothly into your jacket pocket.
“Yah, what are you doing?”
She grinned as she pulled out your car keys and held them up triumphantly. “Securing the car keys, Sarangie’s dad.”
“That title doesn’t come with driving privileges, you know.” 
“Too late~” Yuna sang, already strolling ahead toward the car like she owned the place. Her bag bounced on your shoulder as you followed behind.
“Your dad really didn’t want you to drive, Yuna-ah.”
“He’s just dramatic~” she said breezily, unlocking the car with a confident beep. “He’s not ready for me to grow up yet.”
You just chuckled and surrendered to Yuna, placing her bag gently in the back before sliding into the passenger side.
“You did drive okay last week though, so…” you muttered, fastening your seatbelt. “I’m trusting you.”
When Yuna got in, she didn’t start the engine right away. You glanced over and found her sitting, arms crossed like she was waiting for something.
“Hmm?”
Yuna huffed, turning her head dramatically to the other side.
“Waiting for my baby daddy to fasten my seatbelt for me. Apparently he’s too dumb to notice it.”
“Wow~ Woke up feeling like a princess today.”
“No.” Yuna sniffed. “I woke up hopeful. But now I’m just cold and betrayed.”
“Needy.”
You leaned over and reached for her seatbelt. As your arm brushed against her side, she sat up a bit straighter but didn’t move or help at all. Then you clicked the buckle into place.
“There. Your highness is now safely buckled in.”
“Finally.”
Yuna mumbled, still facing away like she hadn’t enjoyed every second of it. Then, right before you pulled back, you pressed a quick and soft kiss to her cheek.
Muah
You leaned back with a small grin, already excited for the trip. “Already acting like a spoiled girlfriend.”
Yuna slowly turned to you, touching her cheek. “I didn’t say you could do that.” She wasn’t annoyed, at all.
“Want me to take it back?”
“Nope.” She faced forward now, adjusting the rearview mirror. “You make it hard to pretend we’re just friends, you know. My parents really think we’re dating.”
“We’re on this trip to figure this all out, remember?” you smiled.
Yuna hummed in agreement, tapping her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. As the trip began, Seoul slowly gave way to open skies and emptier roads. 
“Yah.”
“Mm.”
“I think I already know, Jaewon-ah.” Yuna spoke up, voice soft as she kept her eyes on the road.
“Know what?”
“You and me.” she shrugged with a small smile on her lips. “It doesn’t feel confusing anymore.”
You looked over at Yuna - at how comfortable she looked, at how hopeful she was thinking about the possibility of you two becoming more than just “best friends”. Without saying much, you then rested your hand on the center console, tapping it a little to get Yuna’s attention. She glanced down at it, then back at you. You still kept your hand there, waiting. After a second, Yuna lifted one hand from the wheel and slid it over yours, letting her fingers slip between yours. Both of you knew what this meant. Both of you’d been waiting for too long.
Seoul was now long behind you. And with every kilometer you passed, it felt less like you were leaving something and more like you were heading toward it.
Together. You and Yuna.
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
a little something to start the week? i hate monday.
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strxwbliaa · 24 days ago
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I will actually die if Wonyoung calls me baby...
She's trying to kill me.
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"You got games on your phone?" Mother in the back as well ㅠㅠ
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strxwbliaa · 1 month ago
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Synopsis: You were the golden boy with everything—cars, charm, and a future already paved. Liz was the quiet, mysterious transfer student who lived in her own fantasy world. You never meant to fall for her. But after one mall date, a photo booth kiss, and a whispered confession… you don’t want anything else.
Word Count: 9,952
Ive Liz X Male Reader
"In life, you're either born poor, or rich without having to struggle with anything. But if you're lucky enough? You'll be born as me. So for everyone else in the world? I'm sorry."
The afternoon heat was the sticky kind — not the "I can get over this" sticky, but the oppressive, soul-melting kind that made you question the point of school, life, and physical education altogether.
And of course, today had to start with P.E.
"Hey Y/N, tryna beat your record again?" your coach called out, wiping sweat off his brow.
"Not with this kind of heat," you replied, already half-limping toward the shade.
"Alright, alright! Everyone back to class!" he shouted. "Don’t forget to change or Ms. Eli will give me an earful."
Someone from the back muttered, "You like getting earfuls from Ms. Eli, though..."
Laughter erupted.
"Who said that?? I heard that!"
"Don’t mind them, Coach," you said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Go chase her, tiger."
More laughter. You were good at that — defusing tension with a smile, earning chuckles and admiration without even trying.
But once the game was over, reality kicked back in.
Now you were stuck in Calculus for another two hours.
You tapped your pen against the desk, eyes drooping. The worksheet in front of you was supposed to be filled with formulas, derivatives, and God knows what, but instead it was just...
Stickmen.
And flames.
And a badly drawn dinosaur?
"First class P.E. sucks," you muttered in your head, doodling aggressively. "I’m already dead."
You were so lost in your masterpiece — a knight fighting a giant lizard — that you didn’t even notice the knock on the door.
“Excuse me, Miss?” a familiar voice came through. It was your homeroom teacher.
“Of course, go ahead,” the calculus teacher replied. “Take your time.”
The door opened wider.
"Okay everyone! Meet your new classmate. Kim Jiwon, go introduce yourself, honey."
A girl stepped forward.
Blonde hair that looked kissed by sunlight. Oversized sleeves. A face that wasn’t trying to impress anyone, but somehow did anyway.
She gave the room a polite smile, then said softly:
“Hello everyone, my name is Kim Jiwon. You can call me Liz.”
And just like that — your pen stopped scribbling.
"Be nice to her, everyone." "Go sit there beside Y/N, love."
And she did.
She walked without hesitation, her steps quiet but certain, and took the empty seat beside you. Her bag wasn’t packed to the brim like most honor students’ — just the basics. You could already tell: she wasn’t here to overachieve.
You tried not to stare, but it was pointless.
You’d seen beautiful girls before — the cheer captain, the girl from Class B, the exchange student last year — but this? Liz had something else. It wasn’t loud or polished. It was like… gravity. Soft, quiet gravity that pulled you in whether you liked it or not.
You never thought sitting beside a girl could make you feel this nervous. Like one wrong move, one awkward blink or misplaced breath, could ruin everything forever.
She pulled out a calculator, set it aside, and then — strangely — opened a sketchbook. A handful of colored pens spilled beside it.
She never touched the calculator again.
While the teacher rambled about limits and derivatives, Liz just… drew. Calmly. Confidently. Like the numbers didn’t matter and the world outside her paper didn’t exist.
Your eyes kept drifting to her. Just glances, quick ones. You couldn’t help it.
“Yo,” your seatmate whispered, nudging you with a grin. “Are you a creep?”
“Tanga,” you muttered back. “I’m just eyeing her since she’s new.”
But it was more than that, and you knew it.
Halfway through the lesson, one of her pens rolled off the desk and landed under your chair.
She didn’t even react — just kept drawing.
You picked it up, hand brushing a little bit of her sketchbook on the way.
“Here,” you said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
She took it without looking. No smile. Just a quiet, almost robotic: “Thank you.”
That was it.
And yet?
In your head, it was a victory.
“Yes. One point for me,” you celebrated silently.
After class, you finally left her alone. For now.
“Yo, bro!”
Your friend jumped on your back, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy and not the school’s golden boy. You didn’t even react — your eyes were still locked ahead, watching Liz walk down the hallway.
She looked… lost. Not in the head-in-the-clouds way. Just slightly disoriented, like she wasn’t used to crowds or didn’t know where to go.
“Tryna get something to eat?” your friend asked. “Come on, man, I’m starving—”
You didn’t answer. Still focused.
“Bro?” “…She’s something,” you finally muttered.
“Come on, you were like this last year, remember Won—”
“Shut up.”
He laughed. “Okay, okay, lover boy. Watchu gonna do then?”
You adjusted your bag and cracked your knuckles. “Watch this.”
You caught up to her with slightly more nerves than you expected.
“Hey. L-Liz, right?”
She stopped walking and turned slowly. Her eyes squinted at you, like she was trying to figure out if you were serious or just stupid.
“The cafeteria,” you offered. “Lemme guide you? It's kinda hectic during lunch, so—”
“Library,” she cut in. “And I’m fine.”
Short. Cold. No hesitation.
You blinked.
Your friends were already cackling from behind.
“1-0! Y/N: zero. Transferee: one!” one of them whispered way too loudly.
You gave her a small nod and stepped back, defeated. “Alright… library it is.”
She walked away like nothing happened.
You returned to your crew, pretending it was nothing, too.
“Let’s go eat. And don’t expect me to treat you all again.”
“Wha—? Bro, I was just kidding!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Five minutes later, you were all seated, your so-called friends already stuffing their faces with the cafeteria’s premium lunch options.
“THANKS, Y/N!!!” they yelled in unison, mouths full, joy obvious.
You didn’t reply. You just stared off, stirring your drink absentmindedly, mind elsewhere.
Because as humiliating as that was...
You still couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who picked the library over you.
You pulled them all into an empty classroom after lunch.
They expected wisdom. Maybe drama. Possibly a heartfelt confession.
Instead, they got you pacing like a man on trial… and all they gave you back was bullshit.
“I’m so full, dude,” groaned one, leaning back in a chair. “Stop yapping. My stomach’s fighting for its life.”
“If I’m gonna be honest,” said another, picking his teeth with a straw wrapper, “you’ll just come crawling back to Won—”
“I said stop mentioning her.” Your voice cut through the noise like a blade.
Silence. Tense. A little awkward.
Then you sighed, hands in your pockets. “I’ll let you borrow designated cars for a week.”
Everything stopped.
“WHA—?!”
“You’ll seriously go that far?” one of them gasped, practically falling out of his seat.
“What, you guys don’t want it?” You shrugged, backing toward the door. “I’m an easy person to talk to. If not you, I’ll find someone else—”
“NO. No, no, no, no!” They all lunged forward like starved wolves. “We’ll help you. Of course we’ll help you.”
“Because we,” said one, dramatically placing a hand on his chest, “are love experts.”
“Didn’t your last relationship end because of how loud and smelly your fart was?” someone deadpanned.
“…Not cool.”
You leaned back against the chalkboard, watching them bicker and laugh like idiots.
Idiots who, unfortunately, might be your only chance at figuring out how to talk to a girl who’d rather sketch dragons than look at you.
“I call dibs on the Mustang!” someone shouted, already raising a fist.
“The Chevy’s all good with me!” another grinned.
“I’m taking the Porsche.”
“Dude—not my Porsche.”
“You want help or not?” That shut you up fast.
“Ugh, fine,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But listen—do not scratch it. And most importantly, don’t go around using it to grab girls, got it?”
“No guarantees,” one of them said, grinning. “But sure.”
“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes.
“So you’ll help me now?”
“Yup!” they all answered in perfect chaotic harmony.
The dumbest one of the group stood and pointed dramatically like he just unlocked the secrets of the universe.
“What if you make her think... you’re the missing part of her life? Business 101! For demand to rise, you must create need.”
You stared at him like he’d just swallowed a calculator.
“What are you even saying?”
He smirked. “If you’re the solution, she has to realize there’s a problem.”
“Nonsense,” another chimed in, arms crossed. “She’s obviously not the type to waste her whole life looking for a missing piece — let alone love.”
You paused.
Your eyes dropped to the dusty floor tiles, then flicked up to the window where students passed, laughing and oblivious.
“…Guess I got my answer then.”
“…Guess I got my answer then,” you said quietly.
The room was quiet for a beat.
Until—
“What?”
Everyone turned.
It was him again — the dumbest one in the group. The same guy who once thought Mount Rushmore was in Korea. The same guy who swore his dog could see ghosts.
“What?” he repeated, blinking at you like you were the idiot.
“Why don’t you just… talk to her like a normal person? Jeez.”
Silence.
Everyone’s eyes widened.
Mouths dropped. Jaws slack.
“Bro…” one of them whispered. “Did he just… say something smart?”
“No way.”
“Is he possessed?”
“You good, man? You got a fever?”
He just shrugged, pulling out a juice box like it was any other Tuesday.
“I’m just saying,” he mumbled through the straw. “Girls are humans too. Not, like, puzzles or stocks or Pokémon cards.”
More silence.
You blinked, then sighed — loudly.
“…I hate that you’re right.”
“HE’S RIGHT?!” someone repeated in disbelief, nearly falling off their chair.
“Okay fine, okay,” you muttered. “I’ll try just… talking to her.”
He raised his juice box with a smug little grin. “That’s the spirit, Romeo.”
At first, it was subtle.
A glance during class. A shared seat during group work. A soft “Hey” in the hallway that she never responded to, but never rejected either.
You weren’t the kind of guy who had to try — things usually just gravitated toward you.
But with her?
You felt like a planet stuck in orbit, always moving around her, never close enough to land.
You tried again during lunch.
You sat a few tables down. Not next to her, but close enough that your voice could carry if you laughed loud enough. You did. Twice. Once naturally. The second time forced. You swore you saw her glance.
But maybe she just didn’t like noise.
The next day, she was on the rooftop again.
You acted like you didn’t know she’d be there, like your feet didn’t race up the stairs the second the bell rang.
She was sketching — again — head bent, sleeves loose, lost in a world only she understood. You sat a few feet away, pulling out your own notebook, pretending to study.
The wind blew a page of her sketchbook open. You caught a glimpse.
A forest made of stars. A boy holding a sword too big for him. A girl with sad eyes standing in a doorway of light.
You wanted to ask about it.
But all you said was: “Cool drawings.”
She didn’t look up. Just nodded.
Later that week, you passed by her locker.
A pen had fallen beside it. You picked it up and placed it on the top of her books.
She didn’t say thank you.
But the next day, when you passed by again, it was still there. Right where you left it.
You saw her in the library once. She sat in the corner, tucked between Philosophy and Sci-Fi. She had a cup of Yakult on the table. No books. Just her sketchpad.
You walked past her once. Then again. On the third round, she finally looked up.
“…Are you okay?”
You froze.
Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Just stretching my legs.”
She stared.
“…You’ve passed this aisle three times.”
You gave a weak laugh. “Caught me.”
And for the first time— Her lips curled. Just a little. Barely a smile. But it was real.
By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t mean.
She was just... distant.
Like someone who knew how to build walls that didn’t even look like walls. Pretty ones. Made of quiet drawings, and books, and invisible signs that said, Don’t come closer.
But you kept orbiting anyway.
Because every once in a while, her eyes would meet yours— And you swore there was something there. Not affection. Not interest. But recognition.
Like maybe— Just maybe— She saw you too.
“You what?!” one of them shouted, nearly choking on his bubble tea.
“I said I think she almost smiled,” you repeated, calmer than you felt.
“Almost?” “Bro,” another one leaned forward. “That’s like saying you almost won the lottery because you scratched the ticket.”
You stared blankly at them across the empty classroom, the familiar war room where nothing wise ever happened.
“Hey hey hey,” the loudest of the group said, raising a finger like he was about to solve world hunger, “but we gotta give him credit… he tried.”
“No.” “No, we don’t.” “He scored multiple airballs, dummy.”
“I was making an effort!”
“You gave her a pen.”
“It was her pen!”
“You stalked her in the library.”
“I was walking—”
“THREE TIMES?! Around the same aisle?!”
“Okay yeah maybe that was a bit much—”
“Bro,” your best friend leaned in dramatically. “You’re a golden boy. You’re not supposed to miss.”
You slumped into the chair like you’d been benched from the championship.
“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “I’ve done everything right. I didn’t force anything. I gave her space. I even complimented her art—”
“Wrong move.”
“Huh?”
“You complimented her passion. Girls like that?” one of them said, nodding like a wise sage. “They’re weird about it. You compliment it too directly? It’s like stepping into their brain without knocking. Freaks them out.”
“…That was weirdly insightful.”
“I saw it on TikTok.”
Another one leaned back, arms behind his head. “You know what your problem is?”
“Oh no, do tell.”
“You’re trying to impress her.”
“And?”
“You’re not being you.”
Silence.
You blinked.
“…Did you just say something smart again?”
The room went quiet. Slowly, everyone turned to the dumbest guy in the squad.
He froze. “…Oh no. Not again.”
FEW WEEKS PASTS
It was the annual interschool games. The day when reputations were made, trophies were earned, and egos either skyrocketed or got buried six feet deep.
And like every year, there you were— The main event.
Your name echoed through the speakers as the final match began. The crowd roared. Banners waved. And on the sidelines, your dumbass friends screamed way too loud:
“LET’S GOOOOOOO GOLDEN BOYYYYY!!!”
You grinned and adjusted your jersey.
This was your world. And out here? You never missed.
The whistle blew.
Speed. Precision. Swagger. You moved like someone born for this — all reflexes and fire. Opponents couldn’t touch you. The court bent to your rhythm. Every shot? Clean. Every assist? Flawless. The scoreboard climbed like it had a crush on you.
And when the final buzzer blared?
You had the game ball in your hand. Scoreboard: 89 - 67. Victory.
The gym exploded.
Teachers were clapping. Your classmates were screaming. Even the principal stood up.
You were swarmed by teammates, lifted slightly off the ground like some kind of royalty.
“Bro,” your friend said, breathless beside you. “You’re insane. I think I saw three girls faint.”
“Four,” another corrected. “One was crying.”
You laughed, wiping sweat from your brow, heartbeat still racing — but not from the game.
Because in the crowd, near the far wall, leaning quietly against the bleachers—
There she was.
Liz.
No banner. No screams. Just her.
Watching.
You didn’t know how long she’d been there. But you knew she saw.
After the crowd cleared and the noise faded, you walked into the locker room, towel over your head, ears still ringing.
Someone shoved a bouquet into your hands.
“For MVP,” the coach said. “Go show the school you’re more than a pretty face.”
You grinned.
Finally.
A win you could hold.
The locker room was emptying out — voices fading, sneakers squeaking down the hall, towels slung over shoulders like victory flags.
You ran water through your hair one last time, pulled on your jacket, and stepped into the cool hallway.
Quiet.
Finally.
Your muscles ached — not from strain, but from release. The kind you only get after giving everything and still walking away with a win.
As you rounded the corner, you saw her.
Liz.
Standing near the vending machine. Alone.
She was staring at the buttons like they were a puzzle. You slowed, footsteps echoing on tile. She noticed — turned slightly — and for the first time?
She didn’t tense up.
You walked toward her.
No smirk. No one-liner. No dumbass friends watching from behind trash cans.
Just you. Quiet. Real.
“Hey,” you said, casually drying your hair with the towel.
She looked at you.
And something shifted.
Her guard — the one that always stood between you like glass — it flickered. Briefly. Barely. But enough.
“…Hey,” she said back. Soft. Unscripted.
She pressed the vending button without looking. Out dropped a Yakult.
You blinked. “You always drink that?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s familiar.”
You nodded. “Makes sense.”
A pause.
She stared at you for a second longer this time. Not like she was trying to figure you out, but like maybe… she already had an answer.
“You’re different,” she said.
You raised an eyebrow. “In a good way?”
She didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her eyes softened — just enough to make you feel like the floor had gone slightly uneven.
“…You’re not trying so hard anymore.”
You shrugged. “Maybe I finally figured out it’s not a game.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she took a sip of her Yakult, then reached into her bag.
Pulled something out.
A small piece of paper — folded carefully. She handed it to you, her fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second.
You unfolded it.
A sketch.
Of you.
Standing on the court. Arm raised mid-shot. Light catching your hair. Not flawless, not dramatic — but real. Drawn in a way that only someone watching carefully would ever be able to capture.
Your eyes flicked back up to hers, speechless.
“…Don’t read into it,” she said quickly. “It was just… the lighting was good.”
She walked away before you could say anything else.
But her steps were slower this time. No rush. No escape.
And for the first time… You weren’t chasing.
“The next day, meeting at the council of idiots, old audio room 307"
“I think…”
You paused, wide-eyed, hair still messy from rushing into the classroom.
“I think she likes me now.”
Dead silence.
Your friends all looked up from their breakfast, chewing like raccoons caught mid-crime.
“…Come again?” one of them asked, mouth full of bread.
“I said I think she likes me.” You sat down, dramatically tossing your bag aside like it personally betrayed you. “I’m not saying she confessed or anything, but the way she said ‘hey’ yesterday? Bro. It had gravity. Like—like emotionally weighted punctuation.”
“Bro,” your best friend leaned in, “are you overheating?”
“She sketched me.”
“WHAT?”
You slammed the folded drawing on the table like it was a signed treaty.
“She gave me this. After the game. By the vending machine. She said ‘Don’t read into it’ but guess what?”
You pointed at yourself.
“I’m reading into it.”
The boys crowded around the sketch like it was evidence in a murder trial.
One gasped. “Damn. This is detailed.”
“Bro, she even got your stupid hair right.”
“She drew your jawline sharp. She wants you.”
“No no no—she respects me now. That’s what this is.” You leaned back, arms crossed, towel still around your neck like a badge of war. “I’ve transcended.”
“Shut the hell up,” one of them snorted. “You got one drawing and now you think you're emotionally married.”
You pointed a dramatic finger at him. “She held my soul in 4B pencil.”
The dumbest one in the group, who somehow had a nosebleed from just looking at the sketch, chimed in: “This is it. This is how it starts. The main girl finally seeing the main guy for who he is…”
“…and the main guy promptly loses his damn mind,” another muttered.
You ignored them all.
“I’m gonna frame it,” you whispered. “Not the sketch. The moment.”
It was Art class
It was always supposed to be your safe zone. A place where you could doodle trash-tier sketches and pass them off as “symbolism” without being judged.
Until today.
“Alright, class,” your art teacher announced. “Next week is our midterm showcase — you’ll pair up and present a collaborative piece for show and tell.”
The word collaborative echoed in your ears like a threat.
You barely looked up from your doodle of a potato with arms until—
“Kim Jiwon. Y/N.”
The pen slipped right out of your hand.
You looked up. So did she.
You swore the classroom tilted.
“…We’ll be working together?” you asked slowly, as if clarifying would reverse it.
She blinked. “Looks like it.”
Your friends in the back—The Council of Idiots™—were already losing their minds.
“LET’S GOOOOOOO”
“THIS IS IT—ARC DEVELOPMENT!!”
“₱200 says he stutters in the first five minutes.”
You sat beside her like a man walking into war.
She pulled out her sketchbook. You pulled out your will to live.
She didn’t look at you. Just flipped to a blank page and started scribbling ideas.
You pretended to focus, nodding seriously, like you weren’t dying inside just from the fact that her elbow was almost touching yours.
“I was thinking…” she started, eyes still on the paper, “maybe we do something layered. You do realism, right?”
You blinked. “I—I mean, technically, yeah. I draw some stuff. You know, shapes. Concepts. Deep metaphorical emotion—”
She looked up, unimpressed.
“…You drew a potato with arms last week.”
You coughed. “He had a sad backstory.”
She snorted.
Not a laugh. A snort. Like a real, involuntary, nose-exit-of-air snort.
You froze. Did that just— Did she actually—
“Wait.” You pointed. “Was that a laugh?”
She blinked again, then rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
“But it was! That counts!”
“It doesn’t.”
“It SO does—”
“Focus, golden boy.”
Your brain short-circuited a little at the nickname. You almost spilled your pencil case.
She tapped her sketchbook, calmly. “We’ll combine techniques. Your structure, my details. Balance.”
You nodded.
Trying really, really hard to balance yourself.
Later that day, as class ended, she packed up her things and stood.
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “You’re… not what I expected.”
You blinked. “Yeah?”
“You’re worse.”
She walked off, leaving you stunned and very confused if you were just insulted or gently flirted with.
Your best friend appeared behind you seconds later.
“₱200. Pay up. You totally stuttered.”
“whatever” slapping the 200 pesos on his hand.
The Council of Idiots™ was still being shoved out by the art teacher when she stood, brushing off her skirt, sketchbook in hand.
You were fixing the chaos — gathering scattered pencils, trying to act normal — when she looked at you again.
No hesitation. No teasing.
“Let’s go work on this tomorrow noon,” she said. “At the art class.”
That’s all.
No smile. No extra words.
Just quiet certainty.
But those ten words—
They lived rent-free in your brain for the next 24 hours.
The next day.
You were off. Like, way off.
“Bro… what you eating?” one of them asked, eyeing your tray in the cafeteria.
You blinked. Looked down.
You were chewing the plastic wrapper of your straw.
“…I’m sorry what?” you mumbled.
“WHAT THE—he’s eating the plastic??”
“Is this the effect of love?? He’s malfunctioning???”
You spat it out like it betrayed you.
“I didn’t even notice…”
“That’s it. He’s gone.”
“Bro’s physically present but spiritually inside a coming-of-age indie movie.”
You didn’t argue. You were too deep in your own head. The whole day was a blur of ticking clocks and skipped heartbeats.
You weren’t nervous. Not exactly.
You just… cared. Too much.
About showing up. About being real. About whatever this thing was turning into.
The worst part?
You were starting to think she might care too.
The art room was quieter after class.
No loud chairs dragging. No chaos. Just soft lo-fi playing from someone’s forgotten speaker and the low hum of an electric fan that squeaked every 7.5 seconds.
You showed up on time — maybe too on time — with your sketchpad, pencils, and five rehearsed opening lines you planned to definitely not use.
She was already there.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the giant cork board, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, sketchbook open.
She looked peaceful.
You walked in slowly, like any sudden movement would break the scene.
“You’re early,” she said, not looking up.
“So are you.”
“I live here,” she replied flatly, but her voice wasn’t cold this time. Just dry. Comfortable.
You sat beside her, keeping a respectful distance.
She passed you a brush without saying anything, like it was normal now.
Like this… thing between you wasn’t weird anymore.
Meanwhile. Outside. Behind a cracked door and two stacked chairs—
“₱100 says he fumbles the brush and apologizes 12 times.”
“No way. ₱200 says she smiles for real this time.”
“I bet ₱50 they touch fingers and he combusts.”
“Shhh!!! I’m trying to hear feelings!!!”
Inside, you started sketching light lines across the canvas. Something abstract — circular. Balanced.
��Do you really like it?” she asked suddenly, still drawing.
You looked at her. “Like what?”
“This. Drawing. Creating worlds.”
She didn’t look up. Her voice was quieter now. Sincere.
You nodded. “I do.”
“I used to make stories. Like, full worlds. With rules and cities and made-up languages. My mom said I’d grow out of it.”
You blinked. “Did you?”
She paused.
“No,” she said simply.
Then turned the sketchpad toward you.
It was a new piece — two figures standing on opposite cliffs, reaching toward a glowing thread that floated between them.
Your chest tightened.
It was beautiful. And quiet. And impossibly sad.
You looked at her again. She finally met your gaze.
“Sometimes I draw things I can’t say,” she whispered.
You nodded.
“…Then you should keep drawing.”
Silence. Not heavy. Just… honest.
And then—
“BROOOOO THEY’RE LOOKING AT EACH OTHER”
The door flew open.
Three bodies crashed into the floor like a stack of broken brooms.
“—I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAN ON THE CHAIR YOU IDIOT—”
Liz blinked. You blinked. The moment shattered.
You turned to the clowns on the ground, all of them looking up like raccoons caught stealing food.
“…Please ignore them,” you muttered.
Liz sighed, rubbing her temples. “Are they always like this?”
You paused. “This is actually one of their better days.”
She snorted again. Louder this time.
And in the chaos, that sound? It was the only thing that mattered.
The door clicked shut.
The boys were finally gone.
No more shouts. No more bets. No more falling over each other like emotional toddlers.
Just the two of you.
Back in the art room. The fan squeaked every 7.5 seconds again. The late afternoon sun filtered through the dusty windows, coating everything in a quiet kind of gold.
You sat side by side on the floor, the unfinished canvas between you.
No one spoke for a while.
And it wasn’t weird.
She broke the silence first.
“Remember yesterday?” she said, eyes fixed on her sketchpad. “When I said I used to make stories?”
You nodded.
“I never stopped,” she whispered.
Then she turned the page — revealing a map. Hand-drawn. Detailed. A fantasy continent filled with forests, floating cities, mountain ranges labeled in delicate script.
“I’ve been building this since I was nine,” she said. “There are cultures, languages, even politics. I’ve written 14 notebooks of lore.”
You stared, stunned.
“You… made all this?”
She nodded. “It’s dumb.”
“No, it’s—” You blinked. “It’s beautiful.”
She finally looked at you then.
Not defensive. Not guarded.
Just a little scared.
“…It’s the only place where I feel like I don’t have to explain myself.”
You didn’t mean to say it, but you did.
“…I wish I had a world like that.”
She tilted her head. “Don’t you? I mean, your life seems like a world. You’re good at everything. Everyone likes you.”
You let out a soft laugh. Not the cool kind. The kind that sounds a little like giving up.
“That’s the thing,” you said, leaning your head back against the wall. “Everyone thinks I shine. But being golden…”
You paused. Chewed your bottom lip. Then spoke:
“…Being golden means I have to shine all the time.”
She turned to you, really listening.
“Like I have to smile. Be funny. Be the leader. Always have the answers. Always perform. Because if I stop being golden…”
You looked at her.
“…then I’m just yellow. You know? Dull. Faded. Nothing special.”
You swallowed hard. No one else knew that. You never even said it out loud before.
She blinked slowly. Then whispered:
“Being yellow isn’t bad....”
You looked up.
She was sketching again. Quiet. Focused.
After a moment, she turned the pad toward you.
A drawing of you. But not on the court. Not smiling. Not performing.
Just you — sitting cross-legged, tired eyes, hair falling slightly over your forehead. A version of you no one else bothered to see.
“I think,” she said softly, “being yellow is a different kind of shine, its like being yourself but still shine not the same way as gold but the way yourself agrees”
You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
But your hand inched slightly closer to hers on the floor.
Not touching. Just… close enough.
She didn’t move away.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
You didn’t feel like you had to shine.
You weren’t okay today.
Nothing dramatic. No breakdown. Just… tired. Off. One of those days where the sun felt too bright and your skin didn’t fit right.
You still showed up, of course. You always did.
Golden boys don’t get to take personal days.
So you smiled. Nodded. Cracked your jokes. Let the guys drag you around.
But everything sounded distant. Like laughter underwater.
You were slumped at your desk during last period, head against your arms, staring at nothing.
And that’s when you heard it.
The faint shuffle of someone pulling out the chair next to you. Sitting down.
You didn’t look.
Then— a quiet voice, barely above a whisper:
“…You okay?”
You lifted your head.
Liz.
Hair in a loose braid. Oversized jacket. Her sketchbook tucked under her arm like always.
You blinked.
“What are you doing here?”
She looked at you, then shrugged. “Art room’s locked. Came here instead.”
But she didn’t sketch. Didn’t open her notebook. She just sat beside you.
Close.
Too close for it to be accidental.
“I’m fine,” you lied.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” she said.
Silence.
You sighed. “Just one of those days.”
She nodded slowly. Then leaned back against the chair, arms crossed.
“I get those too.”
You looked at her. “You? The ice queen herself?”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.
Then — without warning — she reached into her bag. Pulled something out. A small carton of Yakult. The one she always buys.
She placed it gently on your desk.
“…It’s familiar,” she said, repeating what she told you the first time. “Figured you might need that today.”
You stared at it. And then at her.
She didn’t meet your eyes. Just tapped the table twice and stood.
“Get some rest, golden boy.”
Then walked off.
You sat there for five minutes, still staring at the tiny carton.
Your friends peeked in later, loud and laughing, and immediately froze.
“…Yo. Is that her Yakult?”
“She gave you the holy grail?”
“He’s gonna cry.”
You didn’t.
But later that night, you opened your sketchpad for the first time in days.
And drew a girl. Loose braid. Oversized jacket. Holding out a tiny, familiar drink to a tired boy who didn’t know how to ask for help.
No labels. No titles. Just lines. Just you. Just her.
And a soft caption in the corner:
“Some people notice.”
Show and Tell day.
The room was filled with nervous energy, last-minute retouches, and the familiar sound of overcompensating groupmates trying to act like they all equally contributed.
You stood near the back wall, fingers twitching at your side.
The canvas was done.
You and Liz stood in front of it now. Side by side. Not touching. But close enough.
Your teacher nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Liz glanced at you. You gave a small nod.
And she began.
“Our piece is titled: ‘Gravity and Glass.’” She said it calmly. Softly.
You followed her lead.
“It’s a study on contrast,” you added. “On push and pull. On how things look when they’re seen from two different lenses.”
Behind you, the painting looked simple — grounded.
At first glance: Two figures. Not fully drawn. Not in color. One is reaching. The other is still. A line of broken glass divides them, but only faintly. Like a memory.
Around them, the space is soft — heavy brush strokes in greys and pale orange. One side has gold flecks. The other, quiet silver.
But no one can tell who’s who.
You continued, trying to sound casual.
“The figure on the left—" You pointed. "—represents structure. Something consistent. Predictable. It tries to shine. It believes it has to.”
“While the one on the right…” Liz’s voice was lower now. “…prefers to stay unseen. It builds worlds in silence. It doesn’t need to be known — just understood.”
The class listened, nodding, jotting notes like it was just another presentation.
No one knew.
Not even fully you two knew.
That the painting was… you.
And her.
You — all bright lines and pressure and the need to be golden.
Her — all quiet shades and walls built from years of not being heard.
You reaching. Her hesitating. But both of you — drawn into the same space anyway.
And the glass? Not really broken. Just… waiting.
You ended it the way you always did when you didn’t want to say too much:
“It’s not perfect. But it’s honest.”
The teacher smiled, scribbling something. “Very thoughtful. Thank you.”
You and Liz stepped down. The painting stayed.
You didn’t look at each other.
You didn’t have to.
Later that day, one of your friends caught up with you at lunch.
“Hey… what was that painting about?”
You shrugged. “Dunno. Ask Liz.”
They turned to her. She was mid-bite into her sandwich.
“What was it really about?”
She looked up, blinked once.
Then quietly replied:
“…Just gravity and glass.”
“AND WHY IS SHE SEATING HERE NOW?!” one of your friends finally blurted, borderline dramatic.
“Wha?” Liz asked, confused, blinking between you all.
“Nothing! Nothing!” you said quickly, waving it off. “Don’t mind the Council of Idiots.”
She paused.
“…That’s their name?”
“Yeah!” you grinned.
One of them gasped. “You told her?!”
“She earned it,” another muttered.
“Wait, wait. Do we have to… like… initiate her or something?”
“She just presented a metaphorical painting about mutual emotional codependence with him. She’s in.”
Liz blinked. “…This happens every lunch?”
“Every day,” you whispered apologetically.
And then — the weirdest part.
She stayed. She didn’t bolt. She didn’t flinch when someone accidentally knocked their juice into your tray. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow when the dumbest one started debating if fish can drown.
She just… stayed.
Even leaned toward you at one point to whisper, “You weren’t kidding.”
“Nope.”
You caught her hiding a small smile. Then she started eating like it was nothing.
One of your boys leaned in, fake-whispering behind his hand:
“She’s gone native.”
“Stockholm Syndrome.”
“She’s too far gone. Can’t be saved.”
You didn’t say anything. Just looked beside you.
She was still here.
Still sitting beside you.
And for the first time… it felt like maybe she didn’t mind the chaos.
Maybe she even liked it.
It was after school.
You were waiting just outside the gate, pretending you weren’t waiting. Just standing there. Looking casual.
Which meant: You checked your phone four times. Retied your shoelace twice even though it was perfectly fine. And practiced the line in your head:
“Hey, wanna walk home together?”
Simple. Cool. Friendly.
You saw her.
She was adjusting her bag, sketchbook tucked under one arm, earbuds in. She looked calm — but not happy. Not sad either. Just… thoughtful.
You took one deep breath.
And as she passed—
“H-hey! Uh—Liz!”
She stopped. Pulled out one earbud.
“…Yeah?”
You tried not to panic. Failed.
“So I—I was thinking, like—if you’re not too busy or like if you don’t mind— I mean, you probably have things to do but if you don’t—uh, I was just—”
Her eyebrows slowly rose.
“…Are you asking to walk me home?”
You shut your eyes in shame. “…Yeah.”
She didn’t say anything at first.
Just stared at you.
Then softly: “You’re really bad at this.”
“I know.”
That made her smile. Just a little.
You kicked the sidewalk lightly, nervous. “So…?”
She looked down at her shoes.
Then back at you.
“I’m not ready,” she said.
You blinked. “Huh?”
“For anything serious. Or even halfway serious.”
She held the sketchbook tighter.
“I’m just… used to people not staying,” she said. “So I don’t really know how to let them start.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
“I wasn’t asking you to date me,” you finally said. “I just wanted to walk you home.”
She looked at you. Quiet.
“…Even that scares me a little.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. Not really.
So you nodded.
“I get it.”
You didn’t. Not fully. But you wanted to.
“I’ll just…” you said, pointing back, “head that way.”
You took a few steps away. Didn’t expect her voice behind you.
“Y/N.”
You turned.
“…If you wanna walk me halfway,” she said, “that’s okay.”
Your heart tripped. But you kept it cool. Or tried to.
“Halfway’s good,” you said softly.
You two walked in silence for the most part.
Not awkward. Not loud. Just footsteps and fading sunlight.
She didn’t say much.
But halfway to her place, she turned and gently said, “This is far enough.”
You stopped.
She didn’t smile. But her voice was kind.
“Thanks for not pushing.”
“Thanks for letting me walk.”
She nodded.
Then left.
And you stood there. Halfway home. Halfway in love. And fully willing to wait.
The next morning.
You barely stepped into homeroom when it happened.
“HE’S HERE!”
“HE LIVES!”
“Did she hold your hand or what?! Did you guys breathe the same air?! Did you share earphones like it’s 2010?!”
You tossed your bag on the chair. “Can I sit first—?”
“No. You forfeited your sitting rights the moment you walked a girl halfway home and came back looking like an anime protagonist with a tragic past.”
You sighed.
But you were smiling. Kinda. Sorta.
Until one of them went quiet.
And that’s when you felt it shift.
“…You okay, bro?”
You looked up.
It was the loudest one — the same guy who once cried during a dodgeball game and called it a ‘near-death experience.’ But this time, he wasn’t joking.
You paused. Took a breath.
“…She said she wasn’t ready.”
The group got quieter.
You scratched the back of your neck.
“Not like, rejection-rejection. Just… guarded. Like she’s used to people leaving, so even the idea of starting something feels scary.”
Another one nodded slowly.
“Sounds like she’s been through some stuff.”
“Yeah.”
They looked at each other. Then at you.
And then — surprisingly — the fart joke guy said something honest.
“Y’know… maybe this isn’t about you making her like you. Maybe it’s just about showing her that not everyone walks away.”
The others blinked.
You blinked.
He looked around, shrugged.
“What? I have feelings too, assholes.”
“WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DID YOU DO TO RYAN—”
But then another one added, more softly:
“…You’re not trying to fix her, right?”
You turned. “What?”
“Just saying. People like her… they don’t need fixing. They just need time. And maybe someone willing to stand still for once.”
You didn’t answer.
But the thought stayed with you all day.
After class, they circled around you again.
“What now?”
They all smiled.
“We got your back, dumbass.”
You rolled your eyes.
“…Thanks, idiots.”
They grinned.
“We love you too.”
Then immediately:
“Anyway, can we talk about how your shirt yesterday made your shoulders look criminally wide?”
“OBJECTIFY HIM!”
“HE’S BLUSHING—”
“COUNCIL MEETING ADJOURNED!”
It started like before.
You were just about to head out when you spotted her near the campus gate, sketchbook clutched to her chest like armor. She saw you before you could wave.
And for a second, you thought she’d walk past. Like nothing happened.
But she didn’t.
She walked up.
No earbuds. No wall.
Just her.
“…You free?” she asked.
You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”
“Walk me home.”
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. So you just nodded. “Okay.”
This time, there was no halfway pause. No goodbye at the corner. No line drawn between you.
You walked side by side, and though the space between you stayed intact— the air felt different. Softer. Realer.
She glanced at you a few times. Like she was studying you.
You didn’t ask questions.
But halfway through the walk, she suddenly said:
“I used to wait by my door at night.”
You turned your head.
“…What?”
She didn’t stop walking. Just stared straight ahead.
“When I was a kid. I’d sit by the door. Because sometimes he’d come back.”
You didn’t need to ask who he was.
She held her sketchbook tighter.
“And most nights, he didn’t. So I learned to stop waiting. Learned to stop… expecting people to stay.”
You said nothing.
Because you knew silence was safer than pity.
“…So I don’t really do the whole ‘open up’ thing,” she added, quieter now. “I’m always bracing for the exit.”
A breeze passed between you.
She kept walking, but her voice cracked just slightly.
“I transferred here because… I didn’t want to be remembered where it happened.”
You looked at her. She was still facing forward.
“Where what happened?” you asked, gently.
“I loved someone,” she said. “Fully. Stupidly. I gave him everything.”
You waited.
“And when he left… he made sure I’d be the punchline.”
She gave a bitter smile.
“It spread. The screenshots. The jokes. The whispers. I could hear people laughing before I even walked into a room.”
You blinked hard, the weight of it hitting you like a stone.
“I didn’t just leave that school,” she said. “I ran from it.”
The streets were nearly empty now. Sun beginning to set. Her building just up ahead.
But she stopped walking.
You stopped too.
She looked at you — not guarded this time. Just tired.
“But you walked me home,” she said. “Twice.”
You nodded once. “I’d do it again.”
She laughed softly, like it surprised her.
Then, barely audible:
“…Then maybe I don’t have to brace so much.”
A beat.
She looked down.
“…I’m not good at trusting.”
You didn’t reach for her. You didn’t try to fix it.
You just said:
“You don’t have to be good at it. I’ll wait.”
The next day.
You walked into the empty classroom where your so-called "council" held their top-secret meetings—if “top-secret” meant open doors, snacks everywhere, and at least one guy sleeping under a desk.
They turned as you walked in.
And the moment they saw your face?
“HE SMILED!”
“OH MY GOD. HE SMILED AND HE MEANT IT!”
“NO FAKE GOLDEN BOY SMILE. THIS WAS—THIS WAS REAL!!”
You dropped your bag with a thud.
“Guys—”
“—Wait, wait, let me guess,” one said, dramatically throwing on his fake glasses. “She said, ‘I’ve never met anyone like you’ and then you kissed under the stars while your favorite indie band played in the background—”
“No,” you muttered, grabbing a chair.
Everyone froze.
“…No?” another asked, more cautious now.
“No kiss. No dramatic moment,” you said. “Just…” You leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “…she told me the truth.”
Silence.
Then someone whispered, “Oh.”
“Like real real truth?” one asked, mouth half-full of SkyFlakes.
You nodded. “Yeah. The kind people don’t tell unless they’re scared.”
They all looked at each other.
The fart-joke guy raised his hand slowly.
“Bro,” he said, unusually sincere. “You okay?”
You blinked.
Then smiled.
“Yeah. I am.”
A short silence passed before one idiot muttered:
“…so is she, like, your girlfriend now?”
You groaned.
“God, you guys suck.”
“WE’RE JUST ASKING!”
“CAN WE HAVE A NAME? ‘TEAM GOLDENLIZ’? ‘THE LIZARDS’?—”
“—Absolutely not.”
“But wait,” one said, sitting upright, “so if she’s opening up now… what’s next?”
You leaned forward, arms on your knees.
And with a small grin:
“I think she’s letting me in.”
Weeks Passed.
Not in big, dramatic ways. But in the kind you only notice when you slow down.
It was mutual now.
You could talk to Liz without stuttering. She replied without flinching. You smiled first — and she smiled back.
And in this quiet rhythm… something bloomed.
No confessions. No labels. Just a soft, building familiarity.
She didn’t walk with her earbuds in anymore. She let you sit beside her during breaks. She even waited for you once — near the vending machine — and tried not to look like she meant to.
You knew this kind of closeness. But with her, it felt different.
Lighter. Sharper. Like any wrong move could shatter it.
Because no matter how easy things felt now, there was still one truth that sat heavy in your chest:
“I’m not ready for something serious.”
She said it once. And she hadn’t said it again. But it never really left.
It echoed sometimes — in the pauses between your conversations, in the way she still clutched her sketchbook like a shield, in the way her eyes sometimes flicked to exits like she was still halfway out the door.
You didn’t push.
You didn’t ask for more.
But sometimes… when you walked home alone, you’d wonder what it’d be like if she ever said she was ready.
You sat in your usual spot in the empty classroom, half-expecting peace.
You were wrong.
The council was already assembled — chips open, feet on desks, and absolutely no sense of subtlety.
“She let you walk her home again?” one of them asked, already leaning forward like a nosy aunt at a family reunion.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
“And?” another chimed in. “What now? You gonna keep walking her back and forth like a Grab driver or are you gonna ask her out?”
You sighed. “It’s not that simple.”
“She let you in,” one pointed out. “You’re in the inner Liz circle. You got the sacred nod. The micro-smile. The ‘I trust you enough to walk beside me in silence’ privilege!”
“She’s not ready for anything big.”
“And you’re not planning anything big,” someone said. “But meaningful? That’s different.”
You blinked. “Like what, a café? A picnic?”
They all groaned.
One stood up dramatically. “No. Something that means something to you. If you want her to trust you, you gotta show her you’re not just the golden boy in uniform.”
“…Like what, my locker?”
“Your house, idiot.”
You stared.
“Dude. Seriously.”
“You cook, right? You’ve got a mom-approved kitchen. A soft dog. Shelves filled with trophies and zero personality. Invite her in. Let her see the real you.”
“And—don’t fake anything,” the quieter one added. “Don’t try to impress her. Just be... calm. Honest.”
You frowned. “Isn’t that too much?”
They shook their heads.
“No. You’ve been the best at everything for so long—people forget you’re a person. Let her remember that. Let her see that golden doesn’t mean untouchable.”
Silence settled.
You looked down at your hands.
“…Alright,” you said. “Dinner at my place.”
The room erupted.
“WE’RE MAKING HISTORY—”
“HE’S GONNA COOK—”
“YOU’RE GONNA BURN THE RICE, DUMBASS—”
“SHUT UP—he’s serious!”
One patted your shoulder. “We’ll help you prep. Set the mood. Clean the damn house. Get the dog a bath. No weird anime posters—”
“I don’t have those—”
“Yet.”
You cracked a grin.
THE DAY
You were already by the front gate when she arrived — Hoodie over her sketchbook, eyes wandering up the ridiculous height of your house like she was prepping herself to enter a final boss level.
She blinked. “This… is your house?”
You scratched the back of your head. “Yeah, it’s, uh… inherited. Not really mine-mine.”
Her eyes traced the multiple garages, the manicured lawn, the motion-sensor fountains for no actual reason. It looked less like a home and more like an ad for quiet wealth.
“Are we—are we holding a business meeting or eating lunch?” she asked, arms still stiff around her sketchbook.
You opened the gate wider, smiling. “Relax. We’re here for carbs, not contracts.”
Inside, the villa was just as intimidating. High ceilings. Marble floors. Enough windows to make a small planet nervous.
“My mom used to say it’s ‘modern minimalist,’” you said. “I think it’s just ‘cold hotel lobby.’”
She didn’t laugh out loud. But you swore you caught the ghost of a grin.
You guided her to the kitchen.
She stopped at the doorway like she wasn’t sure she was allowed in.
“…How is this kitchen bigger than the library?”
You were already rolling up your sleeves, prepped for cooking.
“Under those, Liz,” you nodded toward a cabinet. “Plates, bowls, cutting boards—feel free to judge my spice rack too.”
She crouched down quietly, still clearly unsure about touching anything.
And when you opened the fridge, you offered:
“Hey, you can grab whatever you want. Drinks, snacks, desserts, sketchbook fuel—go for it.”
She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then she quietly picked out a new, untouched sketchpad from the countertop stack near the pantry — probably a gift from one of your titas.
“…Thanks,” she said, barely audible.
You turned around. “What was that?”
“I said thanks,” she repeated, louder this time. “For… this. All of it.”
You just smiled.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” you said, gently. “I invited you because I want you here.”
She looked at you for a moment too long.
Then glanced away like she had to physically dodge what that meant.
While you cooked, she sat at the island counter.
She didn’t sketch at first — just watched you.
Silently.
Her fingers played with the spiral binding of the pad, occasionally glancing around at the unfamiliar domestic warmth. You chopping garlic with your sleeves rolled up. The radio playing something soft in the background. A little golden retriever puppy peeking from the hallway.
You noticed her stillness.
“You okay?” you asked.
She blinked. “Huh?”
“You’re being quiet.”
“I’m processing the fact that your stove has four burners and an induction panel,” she deadpanned.
You laughed. She liked that, even if she didn’t say it.
Lunch was surprisingly quiet — no over-the-top conversations, no big revelations.
But the atmosphere was… nice.
She sat across from you, sketchpad open but untouched. You pretended not to notice she was drawing you in quick little glances.
She caught you looking once. Froze. Then slammed the sketchpad shut like she was protecting state secrets.
You smiled, didn’t push.
Instead, you asked: “Wanna see the garden?”
You ended up outside. Under the shade of a massive tree. No noise except birds and breeze.
She sat cross-legged on the stone bench. You sat beside her, enough space between you to stay safe — close enough to share the silence.
She finally opened her sketchpad again.
And drew.
Not fast. Not to impress.
Just… peacefully.
Her hand brushed yours once. She didn’t flinch this time.
You didn’t speak. Because some things didn’t need words.
Like the way she glanced up at you more now. Like the way her eyes softened when you offered her another cookie. Like the way her shoulders weren't hunched anymore — like she’d taken off some invisible weight she always carried with her.
She didn’t say she was having a good time.
But you knew.
Because when she finally packed up her sketchpad and stood to go…
She looked at you—
And said, “Let’s do this again sometime.”
and little did you know, that “sometime” will be all the time.
“Want to hang out today?”
And now, here you were. Walking beside Liz under the soft hum of air-conditioned mall lights, the scent of cinnamon pretzels and new clothes trailing behind you.
She wore a hoodie two sizes too big—yours. The sleeves covered her fingers, and she tugged on them absentmindedly as she walked. Her other hand held onto the edge of her sketchbook, never too far from her fantasy world, even here.
“Where do you want to go first?” you asked, slowing your pace so she wouldn’t have to keep up. “I don’t know... I like just walking,” she said softly. “This mall feels like it could be a city in one of my maps.”
You smiled. You loved the way she talked about things—how everything connected back to the world in her head. It made you want to know every detail of it, just so you could build a bridge between your world and hers.
You pointed at a nearby boutique. “Want to try on some clothes?”
Her brows furrowed. “Eh? No, it’s too expensive here.” “It’s fine. I just want to see what you like. That’s all.”
You didn’t say it to impress her. You didn’t care if she picked a thousand things or just one. You wanted to learn her—her colors, her shapes, her fabric preferences. So you could know her a little deeper.
And somehow, that translated to three outfits, a hair clip, and a dress that made her twirl slowly in front of the fitting room mirror. When she stepped out in it, you blinked.
“What?” she asked, gently tugging at the hem. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “No... it’s just... I’ve never seen someone look like that before. You’re like... something from your own fantasy book.”
Liz blushed, gripping her sketchbook tighter. “Stop saying things like that. I’ll add you to the lore as a cursed prince or something.” “Do it. As long as I’m somewhere in there,” you said.
Later, you passed by a photo booth. The kind covered in neon pink stickers and cartoon hearts. You saw her hesitate, biting her bottom lip. "Come on," you said. "It'll be our first memory saved in JPEG form."
She giggled and stepped inside.
First photo: she was stiff, unsure. Second: she made a weird face, and you copied it. Third: she laughed for real. Fourth: you looked at her instead of the camera—eyes full of something you'd never say aloud just yet.
When the photos printed out, she studied them quietly, then tore the strip in half and gave you your side.
“You’re keeping it?” you asked. “Of course,” she said, slipping hers in between the pages of her sketchbook. “I’ll draw this later.”
wanna try that? you said to her while pointing at the shiny photobooth stand, “sure I don’t see why now.” The two of you squeezed into the cramped pink photo booth tucked between the arcade and the claw machines. Liz sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours, eyes wide at the array of ridiculous filters on the screen.
“Wait—this one’s got sparkles and bunny ears,” she said, poking the touchscreen with childlike curiosity.
“I’m down for whatever,” you said. “As long as I’m in frame with you.”
That made her blush a little, but she didn’t look away.
You both leaned in as the countdown began.
3... 2... 1—click. First shot: Bunny ears. Liz smiled nervously, eyes shifting toward the screen. You grinned like a fool.
3... 2... 1—click. Second shot: You stuck your tongue out. Liz was caught mid-laugh, nose scrunched, eyes closed. It was beautiful.
3... 2... 1—click. Third shot: You both held up peace signs. Her fingers bumped against yours, and neither of you moved them away.
3... 2... 1—click. Fourth shot: Liz suddenly turned her head, and—
kiss
It was soft. Quick. Barely even there. But it landed—right on your cheek.
Your eyes widened. You turned to her slowly.
She looked at the screen like nothing happened. “Oops. Ran out of pose ideas,” she muttered.
You blinked. “You… kissed me.”
“Huh? Oh.” She fiddled with her sleeves. “That was... the bunny ears made me do it.”
You stared at her in stunned silence, cheeks burning. She refused to meet your gaze.
When the photo strip printed, she took it quickly, cut it neatly down the middle again, and handed you your half. Not a word about the kiss.
Not then. Not after. Not ever.
Even now, the photo sits in your wallet—her lips a centimeter from your cheek, frozen in frame forever. A moment suspended in time that meant everything… and yet, she never brought it up again.
Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe she meant all of it.
But you kept that photo like it was sacred. And sometimes, when she’s talking about dragons and lost kingdoms and fairies with broken wings— You wonder if she knows… You’re still stuck in that fourth frame.
The sky outside had gone a soft orange. The mall lights buzzed behind you, and the air smelled like gasoline and roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor.
You walked her to the taxi line like always, one step behind her, arms filled with the things she swore she didn’t need—but accepted anyway. A small paper bag crinkled between her fingers, filled with strawberries you insisted on buying.
She looked unusually quiet.
“I had fun,” she said softly, kicking at the edge of the pavement. “Too much fun, actually. Makes it hard to go home.”
You gave a small smile. “Then let’s do it again. Tomorrow, the next day... whenever.”
Liz didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she looked up at you—and for once, really looked. No shy deflections. No daydreaming. Just her gaze, steady and full of something she had never let out before.
“I’m falling in love with you,” she said.
Just like that.
No trembling voice. No dramatic pause. Just the truth, like it had been sitting on the tip of her tongue all day, waiting for the right breath to carry it out.
You blinked.
She hugged the strawberry bag to her chest. “I like you, Y/N. Like, really like you. And I don’t want to pretend I don’t.”
A car pulled up beside her. The driver rolled down the window and called her name softly, but Liz didn’t move.
“I just wanted you to know before I go,” she whispered. “In case I chicken out later and never say it again.”
You took a step forward—speechless, stunned—but she was already climbing into the backseat. The door shut with a soft click, and the window rolled down halfway.
She peeked through, cheeks pink. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide anymore.”
147 notes · View notes
strxwbliaa · 2 months ago
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Akala ko fluff…? 😭😭 HUHUHU naunahan ng iba
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Synopsis: You were just a boy working late nights in a Tokyo karaoke bar, chasing a dream you couldn’t quite name — until she arrived. Wonyoung, with her too-big backpack and eyes that felt like a promise. One night, under a quiet rooftop sky, she gave you an address in Seoul and said, “When you finally make it, come find me. I’ll be waiting.” Years later, success feels hollow, your company’s collapsing, and the world you built is falling apart. So you follow that long-forgotten map — hoping she meant it. Hoping it’s not too late. But time is never kind. And not all promises wait forever.
Word Count: 9,094
Wonyoung X Male Reader:
a/n: first time doing the header thingy, hope y'all like it! it feels more original hehe, enjoy the read!!
10:45 PM — Tokyo, Japan
The city didn’t cry tonight. No rain. No snow. Just cold — the kind that seeps into your collarbones and settles behind your ribs.
Inside the restaurant, it was warm, almost stuffy. The kind of place where the curtains were too thick, the wine too dry, and the food too expensive to be memorable. You stared at the slab of meat in front of you — medium rare, but more raw than cooked.
A joke landed at the far end of the table, accompanied by the forced laughter of men too used to pretending things were fine.
Old Man Park raised his glass. “Let’s take a damn vacation,” he said, his cheeks already flushed. “Osaka? Or Europe maybe. Somewhere where the snow makes the world feel clean again.” He leaned back with a nostalgic grin. “I can tour you around Osaka. It’s snow season, beautiful this time of year.”
“Snow sounds nice,” his assistant muttered, eyes still on her phone.
You stayed quiet, eyes distant, fork hovering over your plate like you’d forgotten what it was for. Your company — the one you built from the ground up — was bleeding. One more bad quarter and it’d crumble.
“Y/N.” A friend beside you nudged your elbow gently.
You blinked, returned to the present. A small smile, automatic. “No, thank you… I’m thinking of going solo for a while.” You said it simply, like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. You could feel it in your chest — a need to get away from everything, and maybe… to find something you weren’t sure you’d lost.
You didn’t go back to your apartment after dinner.
Instead, your feet led you to the familiar sidewalk in Setagaya, lined with small lanterns and trimmed hedges that hadn’t changed since you were a boy. The gate creaked like it always did when you pushed it open.
Inside, the lights were still on.
Your father opened the door before you even knocked. He didn’t say anything at first — just looked at you, the same way he used to when you came home with bruised knuckles or bad grades. Not with disappointment. Just… quiet understanding.
“I heard the news,” he finally said, voice low, not unkind. He stepped aside. “Come in. You look cold.”
The warmth inside was subtle — the smell of old wood, miso soup still simmering on the stove, and the hum of a TV left on in another room.
You sat across from him at the kitchen table. It had scratches from your childhood, burn marks from your teenage years, and now, your elbows rested where your dreams used to.
He poured you tea without asking.
You didn’t speak right away. Neither did he. The silence between you wasn’t awkward — it was earned.
“I messed up,” you finally admitted, eyes not meeting his. “I should’ve sold three years ago when they made the offer. Everyone told me to.”
“Except you,” your father replied.
You looked up.
“You told me you weren’t building it to sell,” he said. “You said you were building it to last.”
You nodded, but it felt hollow now.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “So… what’s next?”
You hesitated. Then:
“Korea.”
He blinked. “Korea?”
You nodded. “Just for a while. I need to get out of here. Breathe. Think. Maybe just… walk around with no meetings to take.”
Your father stared at you for a long second, then chuckled softly. “Your mother always said you'd end up running away to Seoul with a notebook and a camera.”
“I’m not running away,” you said.
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
He sipped his tea and set the cup down. “Sometimes, the best thing you can do is go somewhere where no one knows what you’ve built — only who you are.”
You exhaled, grateful.
“Promise me one thing,” he added, eyes sharp but warm.
You looked at him.
“Don’t just disappear. Call once in a while. Your mother will kill me if I don’t know what street you’re lost on.”
You smiled, just a little.
Before leaving, you hugged your father.
It wasn’t long or dramatic. Just a firm, silent hold — one that said thank you, I’m sorry, and I’ll be okay all at once. He patted your back twice, like he always did. It meant Go on.
You slipped off your shoes and padded up the stairs, just to take one last look.
The door to your childhood room stood closed. The same stickers still peeling off the doorknob. You weren’t planning to go in. But then again… you rarely planned for the things that mattered.
You turned the knob.
The air smelled the same — wood, a little dust, the faint trace of old cologne. The posters were still on the wall, slightly faded but holding their ground. Slam Dunk lined the backboard above your bed, mid-jump shots frozen in time.
You used to stare at them for hours, believing that maybe, if you trained hard enough, studied sharp enough, you could carry the same drive they did. You didn’t become a basketball player. But you did chase success like it was a finish line that kept moving.
Your fingers brushed over the desk.
Tucked beneath a stack of old magazines was something unfamiliar — a small black box.
You sat on the edge of the bed and opened it.
Inside: A folded letter. A bundle of photos. And in the center — a girl you hadn’t thought of in years, but never truly forgot.
Wonyoung.
There she was in the dim light of your old karaoke bar — the one you worked at back when money was tight and dreams were cheap. She was holding a mic, laughing, off-guard in the photo, head thrown back like nothing in the world could ever hurt her.
You picked up the letter. Your name was on it — not in cursive, but in her blocky, neat handwriting.
You didn’t open it.
Not yet.
You just sat there, letting the past crash into you like a truck with no brakes.
The box. The photos. Her.
You remembered the way she looked at you — like you were someone worth knowing.
You closed the lid slowly, careful like it might break.
Some memories don’t fade. They just wait.
You stepped back into your apartment close to midnight.
It was dark, as usual. The lights didn’t turn on automatically anymore — your assistant must’ve forgotten to reset the smart home system. You didn’t bother fixing it. The dark was easier.
You dropped your keys onto the counter, coat still on, the black box tucked firmly under your arm.
You stood there a moment, letting the silence wrap around you. The hum of the city outside your window was faint but steady. It used to comfort you. Tonight, it made you feel like a stranger in your own life.
You set the box on the table and opened it again, slower this time.
The letter was still there.
You unfolded it carefully, like it might crumble. The paper was thin, a little yellowed at the edges. Her handwriting greeted you like an old song:
“Y/N!
Let’s visit Seoul once you’ve succeeded your dream, okay? I’ll be waiting — (address scribbled in uneven ink, circled twice) If lost! hehe”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. A half-smile tugged at your lips — the kind that hurts a little.
You read it again.
Once you’ve succeeded your dream...
Twelve years. You’d chased it all — the title, the company, the recognition. And now that you had it — or had it slipping through your fingers — it didn’t feel like success at all.
But she… she still waited in that old part of the letter like no time had passed. Like Seoul was still waiting too.
You didn’t think twice after that.
You pulled out your largest duffle, threw in some winter clothes — gloves, thermals, the coat your mother bought you last Christmas but you never wore.
Your passport was already in your drawer. Your wallet, phone charger, and the letter — you packed them like essentials.
The plane ticket was booked in less than five minutes.
And by the time the sky began to shift from black to grey, you were in a cab, watching Tokyo drift away in the rearview mirror.
April 2013 – Tokyo, Japan 7:03 AM – Shibuya District
You were late. Again.
Your breath fogged up the chilled night air as you sprinted down the narrow alley, your apron stuffed under one arm, your phone vibrating in your pocket for the third time. You didn’t even check — it was your boss, it always was.
The glowing red sign of Karaoke TENMA flickered above, half-lit, just like always. You bowed quickly to the two salarymen smoking out front and pushed the side door open.
The familiar blast of tacky music and bad reverb greeted you.
“Y/N!!”
The shriek came from behind the counter — Mayumi, the middle-aged manager who hadn’t lifted her head from her phone in the last year but always found a way to yell when someone walked in late.
“You’re on clean-up duty! The ashtrays are full again!”
You nodded quickly, bowing in apology even though she didn’t bother looking up. Her nails clicked against the screen as she scrolled through Instagram reels or some daytime drama gossip page.
“I’m sorry—I'll get on it now,” you muttered, tying the apron around your waist as you slipped behind the counter.
Oba-chan Etsuko, the kind older woman who worked part-time cleaning the karaoke rooms, gave you a small smile. She wore two sweaters no matter the weather and always had hard candy in her pocket.
“Don’t let her scare you,” she whispered with a wink, slipping you a lemon drop. “She hasn’t left that chair in three hours.”
You smiled, grateful, and popped the candy into your mouth before grabbing a tray and heading to the hallway.
You passed by Souta, your co-worker and closest friend here. He was mopping up a spilled beer in Room 4, sleeves rolled up and earphones dangling.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
“Don’t start.”
He chuckled. “You’ll never survive Boss' wrath.”
As if summoned, the door to the back office slammed open and Boss Tanaka appeared — round glasses, comb-over slicked back, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he worked harder than anyone else.
“Young man!” he barked, pointing at you with a mahjong tile still in hand. “You think this place runs itself?! If I see you dozing off one more time—”
You bowed instantly. “I’m sorry, sir! I got stuck at the train station—”
“Excuses! This isn’t some charity!” He waved his hand dramatically and disappeared back into his office, where the unmistakable clack-clack-clack of mahjong tiles started again seconds later.
You looked at Souta. He raised a brow.
“Has he been playing all day again?”
“All day,” Souta said, smirking. “I brought him coffee three hours ago. It’s still warm.”
You sighed and moved down the hallway, balancing ashtrays and empty glasses. The carpet was sticky. The lights flickered. The speakers in Room 6 were blown out again.
The worst part wasn’t the cleaning.
It was the hope.
You tossed a pair of used tissues into the trash bin — one of them soaked in lipstick, the other in god-knows-what — and slid the tray across the hallway floor with the tired grace of someone who had accepted the defeat of the day.
Back at the front desk, Souta was counting coins.
You slumped into the chair beside him, apron loose, hair slightly damp from someone’s spilled draft beer. He didn’t even look up.
“You look like a failed idol.”
“I feel like one,” you muttered, resting your head on the counter. “Why did I think working at a karaoke bar would lead me to true love?”
Souta snorted. “Because you’re an idiot.”
“No, seriously,” you said, lifting your head slightly. “Think about it. Music. Late nights. Intimacy. Emotional vulnerability. It screams romance.”
Souta finally looked at you. “You scream delusion.”
You sighed.
“Every customer is either an old woman screaming Enka like she’s auditioning for Hell’s Kitchen...”
“Room 2?”
“Yeah. That’s her third round of drinks. I think she’s using the mic to communicate with ghosts.”
You both laughed — tired, real.
You glanced down the hallway. “Then there’s the wannabe yakuza guys with fake piercings in Room 5.”
Souta rolled his eyes. “The one who kept yelling ‘Kanpai!’ every thirty seconds?”
“Yeah. One of them almost choked on a cigarette. I had to slap his back while his friend took a selfie.”
“And don’t forget the horny couple in Room 7,” he added. “The mic's still on, and I swear someone just moaned into ZARD's Makenaide.”
You covered your face. “This is hell.”
Souta grinned. “No, this is Tokyo.”
A soft ding rang as another customer walked in — a group of college girls giggling, already a little tipsy. You stood automatically, pasted on your polite smile, and grabbed the menus.
Souta nudged your arm. “Maybe one of them is your soulmate.”
You glanced back. “If my soulmate drinks strawberry chu-hi and screams IU songs off-key, I think I’ll just stay single.”
Next Day – 4:17 PM, Karaoke TENMA
You were late. Again.
But by now, nobody was surprised. Not Souta. Not Mayumi, who just grunted and pointed at a stack of delivery boxes when you walked in. Not even Boss Tanaka, who waved you off with a half-glance, too busy settling a bet over a losing mahjong hand.
“Break’s at four,” Souta mumbled, tossing you a rag. “Try not to cry before then.”
You made it to 4:00, barely, then slipped out the back door with a half-empty water bottle and the beat-up basketball you'd found in a thrift shop months ago. You’d built the little makeshift court yourself — just a rusty ring nailed onto the side of the back wall, some painted lines, and enough space to pretend you were back in high school.
It wasn’t much. But it was yours.
You dribbled lazily at first, letting your mind clear. The rhythm of the bounce and the chill air helped. The bar was quiet around this hour. No rowdy customers yet. No karaoke screams.
You took a shot.
It bricked hard off the rim and flew straight over the alley fence.
“…Ah, crap.”
You jogged over, slipping through the narrow side path that opened onto the small street beside the bar. The ball had rolled toward the sidewalk and stopped at the feet of someone crouched near the vending machine.
She looked up.
A girl — maybe your age, maybe younger. Backpack too big for her frame. Hair tucked behind one ear. In her hands was a large, crinkled paper map like something straight out of the 2000s. She stared at the basketball first, then at you.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “This yours?”
Her Japanese had a playful, practiced tone — the kind you hear from someone who grew up on anime and learned the language between episodes of One Piece and Your Lie in April.
“Yeah,” you said, a little breathless. “Sorry about that. Bad shot.”
She smiled and picked up the ball with both hands, wobbling slightly under its weight.
“You’re not very good, huh?”
You laughed. “I’m not. That’s fair.”
She handed the ball over.
There was a pause.
You noticed the corner of the map had scribbles — Korean words. Transit lines. A red star by a karaoke bar nearby.
“Are you looking for something?” you asked.
She hesitated, then pointed to the star on the map.
“This place,” she said. “Ten…ma?”
You blinked. “Karaoke TENMA?”
She nodded quickly. “Is it close?”
You smiled, holding the ball under one arm.
“Yeah,” you said. “I work there.”
Her eyes lit up.
She grinned, sheepish. “I just got here last week. I memorized the train system from a manga, but I think the artist was lying.”
You laughed again.
She stuck out her hand, casual and unbothered. “Wonyoung.”
You shook it.
“Y/N.”
“B-Boss?” she asked, looking up at you, her grip tightening on the map. Her Japanese cracked around the edges — hesitant, careful, like she had practiced it in front of a mirror a few too many times.
You blinked.
Then laughed — softly.
“Ah, boss?” you repeated, pointing at yourself. “No, not boss.”
You looked around awkwardly for a moment, then tried to remember all the Korean phrases you'd picked up from binge-watching Reply 1988 and Crash Landing on You.
You cleared your throat.
“따라와...?” (Follow me?)
It came out clumsy, too flat — you were pretty sure you just sounded like an anxious potato, but somehow she lit up anyway.
She nodded, shoulders easing.
“Okay!”
You motioned toward the alley beside the vending machine. “It’s just this way.”
She followed without hesitation, bouncing slightly as she walked, the oversized backpack hitting her from side to side like a second person.
“Sorry about earlier,” you added in Japanese, then repeated in Korean: “미안해요…공, basketball…”
She laughed. “It’s okay! No injury!”
You opened the side door to Karaoke TENMA, holding it for her as the familiar hum of fluorescent lights and distant bad singing poured out.
Mayumi barely looked up from her phone at the desk. Boss Tanaka was still yelling something about a cheating hand from the back office.
Wonyoung took it all in with wide eyes.
She leaned closer, whispering, “This is a karaoke bar?”
You smirked. “Welcome to Tokyo.”
As you stepped inside, the familiar scent of old upholstery, beer foam, and air freshener masked in cigarette smoke welcomed you and your new accidental guest.
Wonyoung followed close behind, eyes darting around like she’d entered an alien world.
“Is this… really the place?” she asked in Japanese, eyebrows lifting.
You nodded. “Yep. Tenma. Legendary.”
Just then, a customer screamed the opening notes of Let It Go from Room 3 — not even remotely on key.
“…Iconic,” Wonyoung whispered, half in awe, half in horror.
At the front desk, Mayumi finally glanced up from her phone. Her eyes narrowed. “Friend of yours?”
Before you could answer, Boss Tanaka yelled from the back room, “If that’s another singer audition, tell them we don’t pay for talent!”
Wonyoung raised her hand suddenly, blurting in slightly broken Japanese: “Excuse me—part-time… part-time job! Me! I want!”
You turned slowly. “Wait, what?”
Mayumi blinked. “You’re applying?”
Wonyoung nodded enthusiastically, pulling out a neatly folded, anime-sticker-covered resume from her backpack like it was a sword of destiny. “I want part-time job. I learn fast! I sing! I clean! I can make omelet rice!” She added in rapid-fire Korean, “I just need to pay rent please hire me I promise I won’t mess up and I’m very good with mops—”
You stared.
Boss Tanaka shuffled out from his office, mahjong tile still in hand, glasses slipping down his nose. “Did someone say ‘free labor’?”
“She’s asking for a job,” you clarified, stepping in a little.
Wonyoung straightened her posture, trying to look formal — though the backpack was still swallowing half her frame.
Boss Tanaka eyed her up and down. “Can she read Japanese?”
“Fluently,” she lied. (You think.)
“Can she speak?”
“Sort of.”
“Can she work nights?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “You’re hired.”
“What?” you and Wonyoung said in unison.
Mayumi grunted, already handing her a spare apron. “Go mop Room 4. The drunk guy puked again.”
And just like that, Wonyoung was handed the Tenma life.
You blinked as she looked down at the mop, unsure how to hold it, then up at you with wide, slightly panicked eyes.
You stepped beside her, took the mop gently.
“I’ll show you how,” you said softly.
She smiled in relief.
A WEEK LATER
You stopped being late.
Not because you suddenly became a responsible adult. Not because the trains improved or the alarm clock worked.
No.
Because she was there.
Every day now — ten minutes early, standing behind the desk with a mop in one hand and a juice box in the other. Backpack always too big. Hair tied back loosely. Her name tag crooked, because she refused to fix it.
Wonyoung.
You didn’t even notice you were coming in early at first. But Souta did.
“You’ve been here on time for five days straight,” he said, squinting at you suspiciously while folding clean towels. “Should I be worried? Did you hit your head? Did your rent go up?”
You didn’t answer. You just looked across the hallway — where Wonyoung was humming softly while wiping down Room 6’s stained table, making exaggerated faces as she scrubbed like she was in a music video.
You smiled a little. “Guess I just feel more… motivated.”
“Gross,” Souta muttered. “You’re smiling like a Disney prince.”
One slow afternoon, the bar was unusually quiet. Rain tapped lightly on the window. Wonyoung was crouched under the counter, restocking bottled water.
You sat on the other side, pretending to sort receipts but mostly just watching her through the glass.
She popped up, cheeks puffed. “Done!”
Her hair was slightly messy, and there was a smudge of dust on her cheek.
You blinked.
“You have…” You pointed.
She blinked, confused.
You reached forward before you even thought about it and gently brushed the dust off her cheek with your thumb.
She froze.
You did too.
“…There,” you said softly.
She stared at you for a second, then burst into a shy laugh, ducking behind the counter. “You scared me! I thought I had a bug on me or something!”
You smiled, heart doing strange things inside your chest.
From the break room, Mayumi called out. “Stop flirting and clean the beer machine!”
“Not flirting!” you both shouted back at the same time.
Then looked at each other and laughed again.
Later that evening, she tugged on your sleeve after clocking out.
“Wanna sing one song?” she asked, holding up the mic with a soft grin.
You hesitated — you never sang. Never.
But she looked at you like the world would be just a little better if you said yes.
“…Okay.”
One song.
You sang badly. She sang worse.
By now, everything had changed.
You still cleaned ashtrays. Still dealt with broken mics and stubborn karaoke machines. But your world had shifted — a quiet tilt toward her.
You started bringing two canned coffees in the morning. One for you. One for her. She never asked for it, but she always smiled, saying, “Wow~ You know my favorite now!” like it was a magic trick.
She started leaving you sticky notes. Tiny reminders on the desk. Sometimes helpful:
Don’t forget to restock Room 3! — Wonyoung 🐣
Sometimes not:
You looked tired today. Eat something or I’ll be mad!!
You’d find them tucked in the register drawer or on your locker. You saved every single one.
One night, it rained so hard the city blurred outside the karaoke bar. Most customers cancelled. The air smelled like steamed dumplings from the shop next door.
She had no umbrella. So you walked her home, both of you squeezed under yours, shoulders brushing every step.
She kept mumbling, “I can just run, it’s okay—”
But you shook your head. “No. You’ll get sick.”
She peeked up at you through dripping bangs and smiled. “Then I guess you’ll have to take care of me.”
You looked away fast. Too fast.
She noticed. And giggled.
7:46 PM, FRIDAY
It started normally.
Crowded bar. Two loud businessmen in Room 1. A group of college kids in Room 6.
Wonyoung was helping serve drinks to Room 5 — a group of men in their 30s, a little too loud, a little too drunk. You noticed one of them whisper something into her ear. She laughed politely, stepping back.
The second time, he reached for her wrist.
Too far.
You didn’t think.
You were already walking.
“Hey.”
Your voice was low. Steady.
The guy turned, brows raised. “What, staff can’t joke around anymore?”
“She’s staff,” you said, eyes hard. “Not a joke.”
He scoffed. “Relax. We’re just having fun.”
You stepped in between them, gaze unwavering. “Then you’ll have fun somewhere else. Room’s closed.”
Boss Tanaka peeked out from the office. Mayumi had already pulled the plug on their mic.
The group cursed under their breath but didn’t argue. You watched them leave, door slamming behind them.
Only then did you turn to her.
Wonyoung stood frozen, lips parted.
“…You okay?” you asked, voice softer now.
She nodded. “I’m fine. Just…”
You waited.
“…Thank you.”
Later that night, after the doors were locked and the last lights dimmed, you found her on the rooftop.
It was where you sometimes went to breathe. To forget the cigarette smell, the yelling customers, the clatter of broken mic stands. You never invited anyone up here.
But there she was, legs dangling over the edge, her jacket pulled tightly around her shoulders, a can of warm milk tea cradled in both hands.
You stood there for a second, just watching.
The city lights glowed beneath her like stars fallen upside-down — neon signs blinking in red and white, vending machines flickering on the sidewalk, rainwater reflecting every shimmer.
“You followed me?” she asked without looking.
You walked over and sat beside her. “You stole my spot.”
She smiled faintly. “Your bossy rooftop.”
“Exactly.”
She sipped the milk tea, then leaned her head back, staring at the sky. “It’s always loud here. Even when it’s quiet.”
You glanced sideways. “Not used to it?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been in louder places. Just... not for this long.”
There was a pause.
Then she spoke again — softer this time.
“I’ve been to thirteen cities. Four countries. Two continents.”
You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
She nodded, still staring up. “Vietnam, Thailand, Australia… I lived in Busan, then Jeju. I was in Osaka last spring. Then Tokyo.”
You let that sink in.
“Why?” you asked, voice gentle.
She didn’t answer.
Her lips parted slightly. She blinked, just once.
Then she took another sip of her tea.
You watched her carefully, the wind tugging at her hair.
“I just… keep moving,” she said finally, barely above a whisper. “Whenever I feel like I’ve stayed too long… I pack my things.”
“And now?” you asked, quieter still.
She smiled, eyes still on the sky.
“I’m still here.”
And that was all she said.
But it was enough.
You didn’t push.
You just sat there beside her, two paper cups between you, city buzzing below — like the world could wait a little longer this time.
And just like that, the night was finished.
MONDAY, 1:03AM
You were cleaning the bar in silence.
It was nearly 1AM — the kind of hour when the city outside began to yawn instead of scream. Mayumi had clocked out early, and Boss Tanaka had passed out mid-game again.
Just you and Souta, rearranging chairs and wiping tables like always.
Except… not like always.
You glanced toward the hallway, where Wonyoung’s laughter still echoed faintly from earlier. She’d spent her break drawing on napkins and showing you “serious” menus she designed for a fake café idea. Her eyes sparkled. Her voice had weight and wind.
You were in trouble.
“You’ve got that face again,” Souta said, tossing a damp rag your way.
You caught it without thinking. “What face?”
“That one,” he said, leaning on his mop, smirking. “The one that says ‘I just realized my playlist is full of sad love songs and I don’t know how we got here.’”
You sighed, leaning on the counter.
“I think I’m falling.”
He raised an eyebrow. “...Into a coma?”
“Into her.”
The mop froze mid-swipe.
You rubbed your face with both hands. “It’s just— It’s fast. Too fast. I’ve only known her a month.”
Souta didn’t reply at first.
Then, after a moment, he walked over, dropped his mop, and sat beside you.
“You ever jumped into a pool from a high ledge?” he asked.
You squinted at him. “What does that have to do with—”
“Just answer.”
“Yeah. Once. Why?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“When you’re up there, everything looks scary. High. Like you’ll crash or sink or embarrass yourself.”
You stayed quiet, letting him go on.
“But the thing is, no matter how high you jump, once you’re in the water, you’re in. Doesn’t matter if you fell slow or fast. You’re wet either way.”
You blinked.
“That’s your analogy?”
He shrugged. “I never said it was poetic. I said it was true.”
You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
Souta nudged you with his shoulder. “It’s okay to fall fast, Y/N. As long as you’re not swimming alone.”
You looked at the rag in your hand. Then toward the hallway again — toward where Wonyoung had just reappeared, yawning and rubbing her eyes, holding a half-folded napkin drawing.
She caught your gaze and smiled without a word.
That was it.
No music. No slow motion. Just that quiet look.
And you were in.
All the way in.
The next day, she brought you lunch.
Not a full bento — just a bag of konbini food. A rice ball, a can of corn soup, and a chocolate-covered almond pack that she admitted stealing from Boss Tanaka’s secret stash.
You stared at it blankly as she placed it on the counter during break.
“Did I forget something today?” you asked.
“Nope,” she said, cracking open a melon soda for herself. “I just thought you’d skip eating again. You always do when it’s busy.”
You blinked, then smiled slowly. “You watch me that closely?”
“I don’t have to watch,” she replied, not missing a beat. “You always make a weird face when you’re hungry. Like…” She scrunched her nose dramatically, squinting like she was solving a math problem underwater.
You laughed so suddenly it startled her.
She grinned, proud. “See? I’m funny.”
You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just quietly opened the corn soup and took a sip.
It was perfect.
And so was the silence between you.
Later That Week
She got a paper cut while folding flyers.
It wasn’t serious — just one of those shallow, annoying ones. But she hissed so loud you thought she’d lost a finger.
You rushed over with a band-aid before she could ask. Strawberry-patterned.
She stared at it in disbelief. “Why do you have these?”
“…They were on sale,” you mumbled, ears red.
She let you wrap her finger anyway. Didn’t say thank you. Just looked at you — quietly, softly.
Like she understood something you hadn’t said.
Even Later
It was raining again.
She stayed after close, arms resting on the front counter, chin on her hands, watching the droplets tap against the window.
You brought over a space heater.
She looked up, wide-eyed. “You brought this for me?”
You shrugged. “You always shiver when it rains.”
She turned her body toward it, letting the warmth sink into her sleeves.
You sat beside her in silence.
Neither of you said anything.
But in that moment — in the space heater hum and the smell of lemon cleaning spray and her slow-breathing — something unspoken settled between you.
A promise, maybe. Or a beginning.
PRESENT DAY.
12:05 PM — Incheon International Airport, South Korea
You stood still for a moment as the airport doors opened automatically in front of you.
A cold gust hit your face.
The Seoul skyline was nowhere in sight — just grey concrete, quiet signs in Hangul, and people walking past in coats heavier than yours.
You tightened your grip on the handle of your suitcase. One winter bag, a folder with old photos, and the letter from years ago — her letter. That was all you brought.
No one was waiting. No one ever said they would.
But still.
You exhaled, walked past the arrival gate, and headed straight for the train station — eyes lowered, footsteps echoing louder than they should’ve. It felt like the world had changed ten times over, but somehow you were the only one still living in the past.
You didn’t even pause for food.
Didn’t bother checking your phone.
You knew where you were going — at least vaguely. The address she wrote down years ago was still etched into your mind. Scribbled under the doodle of a cat in the corner of her note.
“Let’s visit Seoul when you’ve made your dream come true, okay?” “I’ll be waiting.”
You hadn’t made your dream come true.
But you were here anyway.
You bought a train ticket in silence, boarded the express toward Seoul Station, and sat near the window — watching dull winter fields pass by like forgotten memories.
No soundtrack. No laughter. Just the soft screech of metal and the hum of people talking in a language you hadn’t used in years.
Your breath fogged up the glass. You wiped it with your sleeve.
MARCH 21 2013, 7:03 AM
The restaurant buzzed with noise.
It was Boss Tanaka’s birthday, and for once, Karaoke Tenma closed early. The team — plus a few honorary regulars — squeezed into a cramped, family-owned izakaya. Wood-paneled walls, smoke from grilled yakitori, a radio playing old J-pop, and tables pushed together without mercy.
Beer poured non-stop.
The middle-aged co-worker, three drinks in, started ranting about her ex-husband to a karaoke mic that wasn’t even plugged in.
Boss Tanaka had already passed out with a party hat on his head, muttering something about winning mahjong.
Mayumi sang half a song before lying face-down on the table. Souta was trying to balance a cup on his forehead.
You were nursing your second beer — still sharp, still watching.
And across the table, quietly detached from the noise, was Wonyoung.
She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t even tipsy.
She just sat there, cross-legged on the seat, nibbling on tamagoyaki with the smallest smile on her face. Her cheeks were a little flushed, probably from the warmth in the room. Her eyes wandered the chaos like she was watching a strange TV show, amused but slightly lost.
You stared without realizing.
Until a voice cut through your thoughts.
“Stop gawking,” said the old woman, grinning with wise eyes. “I’ll take care of these kids.”
You turned. “What?”
She leaned in, patting your shoulder.
“You go take care of her.”
She tilted her head toward Wonyoung, who was now poking her food absentmindedly, clearly overwhelmed but trying not to show it.
You hesitated, but stood up.
Crossed the room. Gently tapped her shoulder.
“You okay?”
She looked up, surprised. “Huh? Oh—yeah. Just full. Kinda noisy.”
You smiled. “Wanna step outside?”
She nodded quickly, almost relieved.
The vending machine hummed behind you as Wonyoung sipped from her warm can of milk tea, cheeks glowing gently from the cold.
She stretched her legs out, the hem of her skirt brushing the sidewalk.
You looked over, quietly admiring how the neon light from a nearby sign painted her skin in soft purples and blues. She looked like a character straight out of a manga.
And then she said it—
“Have you ever been to Shibuya at night?”
You blinked. “Shibuya?”
She nodded, eyes suddenly wide with excitement. “The lights! The food! The giant crossing like in the anime!” She spun the half-empty can in her hands. “I always see it in dramas. But I’ve only ever passed by during the day…”
You hesitated.
It was past 10. The others were still inside. But you looked at her and thought:
Why not?
“Let’s go,” you said, standing up.
Her eyes lit up instantly. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll show you my favorite store, too.”
You lead her back to the parking lot and starting your vespa.
She tilted her head. “This is… cute.”
“Don’t call my bike cute.”
“Cute,” she repeated with a smile, running her hand over the mirror.
You handed her an old helmet — slightly too big, paint chipped at the edges. You wore your own, paint peeling in places from years of sun and rain.
She wobbled putting it on, and you had to reach over and help buckle the strap.
Her cheeks flushed under the chin strap. “So serious,” she mumbled.
“Safety first,” you replied.
11:22 PM — ON THE ROAD
The Vespa coughed to life, and you pulled out into the cold night streets of Tokyo — engine purring softly beneath you, buildings flying past in streaks of neon and shadow.
Wonyoung held onto your jacket with both hands, arms tight around your waist, face buried behind your shoulder.
You felt her laughter before you heard it — soft, muffled against your back.
“It’s so windy!” she yelled over the hum of the engine.
“That’s the point!”
You turned left through the alleys, then merged into a wide road that led downhill toward Shibuya. The street lamps blurred into warm gold. The cold air numbed your fingers but made your heart feel alive.
Behind you, she started humming.
Some random song. Maybe from a drama. Maybe one she made up on the spot.
It was off-key.
But it was hers.
At a red light, you slowed down. She leaned closer, her chin resting briefly on your shoulder.
“You ride this every day?”
“Yeah.”
“Alone?”
You glanced back slightly. “Not tonight.”
She didn’t say anything.
But her grip tightened just a little.
11:47 PM — SHIBUYA CROSSING (AGAIN)
You parked near a side street, beneath a flickering street lamp.
She got off, shaking her helmet hair out with both hands, breath visible in the cold.
You looked at her — cheeks red, scarf half-loose, eyes wide with light.
“You cold?” you asked.
“No,” she said honestly, still smiling.
“I don’t mind the wind.
You stood side by side under the soft glow of a blinking traffic light — helmets tucked under your arm, Vespa parked a few steps behind.
Shibuya was alive.
The crossing swelled with waves of people — students with backpacks, couples holding hands, someone walking a shiba inu in a sweater. Giant screens flashed above you, each ad louder than the last. It should’ve been overwhelming.
But beside her, it felt distant. Like the world was happening, and you two were just… watching.
Wonyoung stepped closer to the curb, letting the light of a storefront catch her face.
“This place feels like it’s pretending to be awake,” she said quietly. “But it’s actually really tired.”
You glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
She hugged her arms a little. “Everyone’s running. So loud. So bright. But no one’s really looking at each other.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Like they’re rushing through their own movie scenes.”
She looked up at you. “Exactly.”
You smiled. “So what are we doing?”
She thought for a second. “I think we paused ours.”
The signal changed, and the crossing erupted again — hundreds of footsteps colliding and parting like waves.
Neither of you moved.
You found a quieter spot near the back of a konbini — one of those plastic benches tucked beside a vending machine humming softly in the cold. You sat side by side, each with a warm drink in hand. Yours was canned coffee. Hers, of course, was milk tea.
She took a long sip, then stared out at the passing lights.
“Have you always lived here?” she asked.
You nodded. “Born and raised. This city raised me, even when I didn’t want it to.”
She turned to you. “Did you ever think about leaving?”
“All the time,” you said. “But… I guess I was always waiting for something to happen here.”
“Like what?”
You looked at her. Then back down at your coffee.
“Like you.”
She blinked, lips parting slightly.
But you didn’t press it. You looked forward again, casually — like it was just something you said, like it didn’t mean your heart was pounding.
And she let the silence hang for a while, sipping her tea.
Then:
“You know,” she said softly, “You look like you belong here.”
You glanced at her. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the jacket. Or the eyes. Or the way you ride that silly Vespa like it’s the only thing in the world that listens to you.”
You laughed. “It kinda is.”
She smiled too. “Still… you fit here. Like a local character in a movie I accidentally became a part of.”
You turned toward her, voice quieter. “And what about you?”
She looked away, eyes on the crossing again.
“I’m still figuring that out.”
The crowd changed again. Another wave of footsteps. More blinking lights. More noise.
But none of it touched the small world between you and her.
Not tonight.
Back at the karaoke bar, the others were already gone. The lights were half off, a mop bucket left in the middle of the hallway, someone’s scarf hanging from a chair.
You both took off your helmets in silence.
“I’ll go wash up,” she said quietly, brushing her hair back.
You nodded, but your throat felt dry.
As she walked past, you caught the briefest flicker of something — not anger, not sadness — just… distance.
Something in her eyes was elsewhere.
Later, you found her in the back, folding flyers alone.
“You okay?” you asked.
She looked up like she hadn’t heard you come in.
“Yeah.”
You sat across from her.
“I just— You’ve been quiet since we got back.”
“I’m just tired,” she said, still folding.
A beat passed. You stared at your hands.
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
She looked up at that — not sharply, but slowly.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Wonyoung paused.
And then with the softest voice, she said:
“Sometimes it’s dangerous… to make a memory too nice.”
Your chest tightened.
“What do you mean?”
She folded another flyer. Slower this time.
“Because if one day I have to leave… it’ll hurt more.”
3 DAYS LATER.
The night dragged on longer than it should’ve.
The radio in the back room played something old and slow. Souta was snoring faintly behind the staff curtain. You were pretending to clean, just so you could stay near her a little longer.
Wonyoung was wiping the counter, humming quietly. Not happy, not sad. Just trying to fill the silence with something safe.
You didn’t realize how tightly you were holding the cloth in your hand until she spoke:
“I’m leaving.”
Your head shot up. She wasn’t looking at you.
“I didn’t want to tell you today,” she continued. “But I figured… you should know.”
“…When?”
“A week.”
You said nothing. The cloth in your hand dropped onto the floor.
“I’ve always been like this,” she said softly. “I stay somewhere, I meet people, and then I leave. Sometimes for school, sometimes for my family, sometimes… just because I’m scared of staying too long.”
You took a step closer.
“Are you scared now?”
She finally turned toward you.
Her eyes weren’t teary. But they were tired.
“A little,” she whispered. “Because I didn’t think I’d meet someone here I’d want to stay for.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
But she kept going — calm, composed, like she’d practiced it.
“I made a promise back home. After this trip, I have to go. No choice.”
You stepped back.
And it was your voice now that cracked.
“So that’s it?”
She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.
“I’m sorry.”
You stared at her for a long time.
At the girl who changed your mornings. Your shifts. Your quietest nights.
And all you could say was:
“…I hate that you waited this long to tell me.”
She looked down.
“I didn’t want to ruin the memory.”
There’s something strange about last times — how they don’t feel like endings until long after they pass.
Tonight, the karaoke bar looked the same. The blinking neon outside still buzzed faintly. The floor tiles still creaked where the mop never quite reached. The same scent of citrus cleaner lingered in the hallway. But there was a silence behind it all — the kind of silence only two people feel when neither of them wants to admit what’s coming.
Wonyoung arrived early.
Not to work. Not really.
She dusted counters that didn’t need dusting. Reorganized the menus for the third time. She smiled at customers with that practiced ease, but her eyes didn’t stay on anyone for too long. Every sound, every shadow, felt a little slower — like she was pressing each detail into memory.
You kept yourself busy too. Too busy. Restocking straws. Refilling the tea station. Fixing a wobbly chair that had been wobbly for months.
It was easier to work than to speak.
It was easier to pretend.
Until it wasn’t.
At closing, she asked if she could clean the karaoke room. You said yes, even though you’d already done it earlier. You watched her disappear behind the door, lights flickering once before she turned them on.
She stayed inside for almost an hour.
No sound.
No music.
Just her.
When she finally stepped out, her hair was tied back again, but her eyes looked different. Like something inside her had quietly unraveled and been tucked away neatly, somewhere you couldn’t reach.
She handed you the keys like she always did.
And you held them a little too long before letting go.
Outside, the city breathed like it always did — tired and electric. The Vespa sat parked where you always left it. For a moment, you didn’t move. Neither did she.
Then: “One last ride?” you asked.
She didn’t answer with words. Just pulled on the helmet.
The ride was slower this time. Not because of traffic. But because you didn’t want it to end. Shibuya passed by in soft colors — blurred by wind, half-muted by the sound of her laughter behind you. Not loud laughter. Just the kind you let out when you know it might be the last.
You drove without a destination. Circles. Alleys. The long road near the river.
Until finally, you stopped by the hill overlooking the city. A place you never told anyone about. A place you always came to when you needed the city to feel small again.
She got off the Vespa. Pulled off her helmet.
And said nothing.
Neither did you.
You just sat beside each other, facing the skyline, two feet of quiet between you.
The wind wasn’t kind. It bit at your jackets. But neither of you moved.
Until finally, she spoke:
“I wish I met you later.”
You turned to her.
“Why later?”
She looked up at the sky.
“Because if I met you later, I might’ve stayed.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.
Because what do you say to that?
What do you say when someone hands you the truth with a smile too soft to argue with?
PRESENT DAY, SEOUL 3:08PM
Seoul was colder than you expected. Not snowing. But still — the kind of wind that cuts through your coat like it remembers who you used to be.
You’d been walking for hours. Not aimlessly — no, you had a letter. Folded and worn thin from being read too many times. The ink was smudged from years of fingers tracing it like scripture.
“Come here once you’ve made it.” “I’ll be waiting.”
And then the address. No zip code. No phone number. Just a promise on paper.
You found it.
A quiet neighborhood — nothing special. Fences with chipped paint. Stray cats stretched across parked cars. The kind of place no one rushes through.
You stood at the front gate of a two-story house with soft beige walls and laundry swaying on the rooftop lines. The mailbox said “JANG” in neat, metallic letters.
You hesitated.
Then lifted your hand.
And knocked.
Once. Twice. A pause. Then again.
Silence.
You were just about to lower your hand when you heard little feet scrambling on wooden floors.
The door creaked open.
And there she was.
Not Wonyoung.
A little girl — six, maybe seven. Cheeks red from indoor heat. She stared at you, blinking hard like she was trying to solve a puzzle just by looking at your face.
“…Who you?”
You blinked.
You took a breath.
“…Is Wonyoung Jang here?”
The girl turned her head and yelled back into the house without hesitation.
“MOM!! Someone’s at the door!!”
And just like that, your heart slipped into your stomach.
Mom.
You heard a chair push back. Dishes clink. Then soft footsteps approaching. Not rushed. Just normal.
Then—
The door opened wider.
And there she was.
Wonyoung.
Older.
Still beautiful — but different now. Softer, grounded. Her hair shorter. A faint apron crease still visible over her sweater. She looked at you for exactly one second before she reacted.
Her breath hitched.
Eyes wide.
The kind of look someone gives when a memory walks back into their life and dares to be real.
“…Y/N?”
You couldn’t speak.
You just nodded.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Not sorry. Not surprised. Just stood there, the echo of your name hanging in the space between you.
And then — faintly, barely above a whisper:
“You found it.”
You sat at the kitchen table.
Same table she probably ate breakfast at every morning now. A child’s drawing taped onto the fridge. A pink sippy cup drying on the rack. The faint smell of soup lingering in the air.
She made tea. Jasmine, just like before.
Neither of you said much at first.
Wonyoung sat across from you, hands wrapped around her mug, eyes tracing the steam like she was afraid to look at you too long.
“How long are you staying in Korea?” she finally asked.
You shrugged. “Not sure. Just… felt like coming.”
“You still hate winter?”
“I still pretend I don’t.”
That made her smile — small, nostalgic.
She looked older, but not in a bad way. Just… fuller. Like life had added things you didn’t get to see. You didn’t know what she liked to eat now. What shows made her laugh. Whether she still read manga or played that one Korean drama OST in the shower.
But for a few minutes, none of that mattered.
She glanced toward the hallway. You followed her eyes — small shoes by the door. A single coat hung on the rack.
“She’s yours?” you asked.
She nodded slowly. “Juri. She’s six.”
“She’s cute. Smart too.”
“She has her father’s mouth,” she said, half-laughing. “Talks too much.”
You swallowed hard.
Silence again.
Then, as if she felt you needed to hear it, she said:
“I’m married now.”
“I figured.”
She looked down. “I didn’t know how else to say it.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said. “I came knowing it was too late.”
She looked at you then. Really looked. Like she wanted to say something — anything — to soften it.
But before either of you could speak again— the front door clicked.
A man’s voice echoed in the hall, casual and warm.
“I’m home!”
Your chest went still.
You heard keys hit a dish. Shoes off. The kind of movements that belonged to a place. A life. A man with a toothbrush already in the bathroom.
Wonyoung stood up.
She didn’t look at you.
“Stay here,” she said quickly, gently. “I’ll… I’ll explain.”
You nodded.
And in that moment, all the years caught up to you.
You weren’t twenty anymore. You weren’t cleaning karaoke rooms at midnight or riding around Tokyo like the world might wait for you to figure it all out.
She had grown. And you had grown. Just not together.
From the other room, you heard her call out.
“Hey… someone came by today.”
A pause. Footsteps.
Then a deeper voice — kind. Curious.
“Yeah? Who?”
She hesitated.
And you imagined her standing there, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater.
“…Someone from before.”
You didn’t stay long after.
You didn’t have to.
The past had finally answered. But the future?
It was no longer yours to walk into.
MARCH 31, 2013, 12:22 AM
2013
It was late.
The bar was closed. Lights dimmed. Souta had left early, and even the boss was passed out snoring on the couch, one slipper missing.
You and Wonyoung sat on the rooftop.
It wasn’t special. A few rusted pipes. The smell of smoke from the street below. Cold concrete under your legs. But up here, above the buzz of Tokyo’s nightlife, it felt like a world no one else knew about.
She hugged her knees to her chest, wearing a hoodie you lent her.
The stars were faint, but she was still looking up like they were telling her secrets.
“Do you ever think about where you’ll be in ten years?” she asked.
You blinked, sipping from the lukewarm can of coffee in your hand. “Not really. I barely know what I’ll eat tomorrow.”
She laughed, soft. “I think about it a lot.”
You turned to her. “Where do you think you’ll be?”
She hesitated.
“…Not here.”
A gust of wind swept through. She pulled her hood up.
“I don’t belong anywhere too long,” she said. “But maybe… if someone ever makes me want to stay, I’ll try.”
You swallowed, throat dry.
“You don’t want to settle down someday?”
“Maybe. But only if it’s earned. You know?” she glanced at you, smiling faintly. “If someone really fights for what they want, really climbs… then maybe that’s someone worth staying for.”
You looked at her for a long time.
Then: “What about me?”
She turned.
You weren’t joking.
Her voice got quiet. “Are you gonna climb?”
“I’m trying.”
“Then when you make it…” She paused, then reached into her pocket. Pulled out a pen and a scrap of receipt paper from her part-time uniform.
She scribbled something. Folded it.
“Here.”
You opened it.
An address. Somewhere in Seoul.
“What’s this?”
Wonyoung smiled — wide, brave, impossible.
“When you finally make it, come find me. I’ll be waiting.”
Your breath caught.
And for the first time, you realized how cruel a soft voice could be — how dangerous a promise was when it felt that good.
You folded the paper. Put it in your wallet.
You wouldn’t forget.
You couldn’t.
Because even if the years drowned everything else— You knew.
Some part of you would always look for that girl on a rooftop with stars in her eyes and a future you thought you could catch up to.
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strxwbliaa · 2 months ago
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Masterlist (2)
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Karina
“You always shine brighter, while I’m here burning.” - Angst
“Dad!, Tooth Ache” (Author's Recommendation, Fluff)
“They love you more than me” - Fluff
“Mom!, I’m Hungry” - Fluff (Author's Recommendation, Fluff)
Others
The Beautiful Fallacy of Love - Jang Wonyoung, Angst
“Sunflowers.” - Choi Jiwoo, Fluff
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strxwbliaa · 2 months ago
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My Official Masterlist
Recommended Read!
"The House Of Us"
Real Convenient
“My First in Everything”
“Love’s Gonna Get You Killed” (Ongoing)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
That’s My Seat ! (Finished)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The Rainbow After the Rain (Epilogue)
Taste Of Millions (Ongoing)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Vanilla Fluff
“The Compass Never Worked Anyway”
“I love you even if the world doesn’t~”
Same Time Tomorrow
Quiet Hours
Dumbass
The Cats
Half Of Everything.
“Not like that!” (EngVer)
“Not like that!” (TagVer)
First Love
Covers~
Courtside secrets.
Late Night Partners.
Can I just please have you?
Even the Ordinary Feels Like a Dream.
Miles From Home, Close to You
Love you, Doctor.
A Planet in a Crowd Full of Stars
Food Genie
Meowww
Rain Records
Sweet Like Caramel
Because!, I’m jealous of Him.
In your arms, after class.
A Week at Hers
Cafe Buddy
You’ll Stay Right?
Rules were made to be broken
Dummy
I want to be the only one she dreams of.
Midnight Romance
You’re Mine
Set for Love
I have everything, but I want you
Bruises
In the Midst of the Crowds
Driving My Love
Everybody here wants you.
Karina Angsts
Lover You should've come over
Forget Her
For Her Fake Chinese Rubber Plant
No Alarms, No Surprises.
Last Buzzer
I'm sorry I couldn't be your forever.
I miss her too.
I Drink, because it brings me back to you.
Dream Needle.
Fading Echoes.
Right Person, Wrong Time.
OK computer.
Outcasts.
Can I just please have you?
Icarus Laughed as he fell
I wish I was Bulletproof
Other Non-Karina Fics.
Kim Minjeong
A week and a Half
Bet
You’re Dating Who?
Multo
“Loving You feels like winning~”
“You’re a goddess, You’re my rockstar”
Aeri Uchinaga
Late Night with You
Stirring Comfort.
Late Night Project
Ning Yizhou
Reserved For You
“Sick Day Spoils”
Kang Haerin
Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now
Between The Shelves
Kim Minji
“It was late at night, you held on tight”
Pham Hanni
"Oh say it First"
Hong Eunchae
This is our Exit Music
Kim Chaewon
“Not Joking, Never Was”
Huh Yunjin
Gosh I'm screwed
Soft Wins (Engver)
Soft Wins (Tagver)
Miyawaki Sakura
I'll crochet us together
Jang Wonyoung
You should've come over
Pop Up Pleading
When the Light Comes Back
Others.
“Within Reach” Sakai Moka
Always been You. TripleS Mayu
Bento Delivery~ Yunah
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strxwbliaa · 2 months ago
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Hello everyone!
Im Karl and I’m 18 years old, I made this blog for stories I’ll be writing about my favorite idols that I would love to share with you all!
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