#wc: 307 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bintheredreamedthat · 2 days ago

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𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 | 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 : ̗̀➛

summary: when global idol Choi Soobin returns to his quiet hometown for an unexpected hiatus, the last thing you expect is to run into him—the boy you once shared everything with...until you cut him off without a word.

you swore you’d never let yourself want him again. he swore he’d stop waiting for you to look back. but this time, neither of you is quite ready to walk away.

cw: sub!soobin, dom!reader, idol!au, angsty!!, fluff, slow and i mean slowburn, friends to lovers, mentions of death, implied depression, mental health issues (pls take care of urselves), unprotected sex, smut, reader just can't process emotions well

wc: ~30k... forgive me...or love me idk....

i was really inspired by netflix's new kdrama called "our unwritten seoul" and their friendship to lovers dynamic but was also gobsmacked at txt's new tour dates announcement after writing this so...PERFECT :DDDD. this is basically both of those things. you can tell because of the humidifier mention. like bro it's so random.

part one | part two

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the space as sunlight filters through half-open blinds, casting a warm glow on the cluttered desk. You, dressed in a cozy sweater and gingham pajama pants, sit up right on your bed, losing track of time as you doom scroll on reels. Your cat, Peanut, curls up beside you, purring contentedly.

You pause, glancing at the clock—8:45 AM. With a sigh, you set your phone down and begin your morning routine which basically just consisted of just washing your face. As you make your way to your living room, you begin to tidy up last night’s dirty dishes that sat on top of the coffee table.

Your house is modest but filled with personal touches: framed illustrations, a collection of obscure game discs, and a bookshelf overflowing with novels.

After you get yourself dressed, you step outside for a walk, your sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythmic thuds. You pass by the local café, where the barista waves at you, and the bookstore, where you stop to browse the new arrivals of manga. Afterwards you take the bus to the nearby hospital.

This had become your routine every Wednesday—a bit repetitive, perhaps, but it was what you enjoyed. The endless stretch of countryside outside your window had never been the life you envisioned in your twenties.

You had imagined a high-rise apartment in the city, a high-paying job, and a life surrounded by people who didn't know your name—all amidst the buzz of urban life. But circumstances have kept you here, in your hometown.

At first, the monotony felt suffocating. The same roads, the same faces, the same small-town rhythm. Yet, over time, you began to find comfort in the predictability.

The quiet mornings, the familiar greetings, the slower pace—it all started to feel like home. You had traded the city's chaos for the calm of rural life, and while it wasn't the life you had planned, it was a life you were learning to appreciate. In the simplicity of the countryside, you discovered a deeper connection to yourself and the world around you.

You hated it from time to time, sometimes cursing and beating yourself up for staying with what feels familiar, but what could you do?

—

As you stepped into the sterile hospital corridor, the faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the soft hum of distant conversations. With a sigh, you adjusted the strap of your bag and made your way to room 307. As you approached the door, you noticed it slightly ajar.

Pushing the door open, you see your mother first, who seemingly is having a conversation with another person in the room. Upon opening it further, you found that it was your mother’s best friend, Mrs. Choi, sitting beside the bed and chatting animatedly, that was keeping your mother entertained. Mrs. Choi looked up, her face lighting up with recognition.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat to lead you to your mother’s bed. Her eyes flicked to the bags of home-cooked food hanging from your elbow and the two iced Americanos wrapped around your hands. “Looks like your mom will be eating for two all week!” she teased, taking the bags from you and placing them alongside her own on the bedside table.

You let out a soft laugh, extending your arm toward Mrs. Choi. "This is for you, Mrs. Choi. You must've gotten up early this morning." You bowed slightly, politely offering her the other coffee in your hands.

“Oh dear, it looks like I’ll be having a caffeine rush today!” She joked, which made your mother let out a laugh as well. You look at both of them confused, yet still wearing a smile on your face.

You see her lift up an almost empty cup of coffee, one that was exactly from the same place where you got yours. “Ahh~, I see…” Your murmur. Mrs. Choi already bought coffee for herself.

You set the other coffee down by the bedside table and turned to your mother, who was propped up on the bed, flipping through a magazine you had gifted her last week. "How are you feeling, Mom?"

Your mother looked up, offering a reassuring smile. "Better now that you're here." You smiled, sliding your hand down her cheek, your heart melting at the tender moment you were sharing.

Just then, the door swung open, and a nurse entered for your mother's morning check-up. You stepped aside to let her pass and shared a glance with the two ladies inside the room before making your way out to the hallway.

You always left the room during these times, finding that you became queasy when you saw the numerous needles they attached to your mom and the way they conducted diagnostics as if she were a machine.

Sitting down on one of the seats outside your mom’s room, you pulled out your phone to respond to some emails and refresh your news feed. A new headline caught your eye: “TXT’s Soobin to Temporarily Halt Activities Due to Health Reasons.” Your stomach sank as you skimmed the preview.

Curious and concerned, you clicked the link and quickly scanned the article, completely unprepared for what you might read. The piece confirmed that he had recently visited the hospital after showing signs of being unwell. Medical staff had advised him to take time to rest and recover.

As a result, Soobin would be absent from several upcoming events, including big awards and fan events. You scrolled down, hoping for more news, more updates. And then you saw it. A handwritten letter from Soobin himself.

Reading his words, you felt a mix of emotions—concern for his well-being, admiration for his dedication, and a deep sense of connection to someone who had been a part of your childhood for so long, despite losing contact several years ago.

The article had been published just two hours ago, but you knew that Mrs. Choi (and assuming your mother), was already aware of the news. Why they had kept it from you, you had some inkling.

The last time someone took a break for health reasons was your mom. The doctors had said she just needed some time to rest, that she was overworked and needed a break from physical labor.

The very next morning, she had gotten a fever, and her sickness never went away—just slowly eating her up from the inside out. You had been so young then, too young to understand the gravity of it all. Now, as an adult, you couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu.

Soobin, your childhood friend—the person who had unknowingly been your anchor during the darkest times, was now facing his own battle. And you were left here, unable to support him or ask how he was even doing.

You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes and letting out a deep sigh. As you relished the silence of the sterile hallways, the occasional sound of footsteps and doors opening and closing punctuated the stillness.

Then, you felt it—the unmistakable presence of someone standing before you. Without lowering your head, you slowly opened one eye, cautiously scanning your surroundings.

What you never expected was the very man whose face you had seen on your phone less than five minutes ago—standing there, staring down at you.

You jolted upright, your phone nearly slipping from your lap. Rubbing your eyes, you looked up at the man standing before you, his presence both unexpected and surreal. You shook your head, trying to dismiss the impossibility of it. But why would he be here? What reason could he have? The stress of the past week—no, the past months—had taken its toll. You wondered if this was just another symptom of your exhaustion, a moment of derealization.

But this felt different. This felt real.

—

TWELVE YEARS AGO

It was a hot summer afternoon, the kind where the sun sat high up on the horizon, casting its hot rays over the neighborhood. The summer fair was in full swing, with the distinct smell of water from popped balloons hitting the pavement and street foods wafting through the air. Children darted between booths, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of pop music.

You and Soobin, inseparable since you were both knee-high and full of dreams, strolled leisurely through the fairgrounds. Your hands brushed now and then—not quite holding, but never far apart. Every few steps, you pointed excitedly at something: a glittering ring toss booth, a caricature artist drawing wide-eyed portraits, a balloon animal vendor with a long line of sticky-handed kids. The scent of nostalgia hung thick in the air, and the moment felt impossibly alive.

Then you saw it: the talent show sign-up booth, marked by a colorful hand-painted sign fluttering in the breeze. A flyer, curling at the edges. "Are you sure?" he hesitated, his usual confidence "Absolutely!" you insisted, grabbing the pen and signing both your names.

The day of the talent show arrived, and nerves set in. You and Soobin had decided to perform a duet—his favorite song at the time, "Twinkle," by Girls' Generation. You had practiced tirelessly, but now, standing backstage, doubt crept in.

"I can't do this," Soobin whispered, his usual smile replaced by a nervous frown.

“I’ll buy you endless Kara merch if you do,” You placed your hands on his shoulders, shaking him like a soda can. “Seriously. Light sticks. Albums. Posters. Even that ridiculous towel.” A beat passed—and then, like magic, his eyes lit up. “Really?”

You watched as Soobin sat up straighter at the mention of the girl group and you couldn't help but let out a huff at how easily he was convinced. “Wow...” You shook your head, exasperated. “Remind me to never call you if I get kidnapped.”

Soobin looked up at you with furrowed brows, as if genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”

“They’d probably ask for your merch in exchange for me. Knowing you, you'd choose the merch.” He smirked, shrugging nonchalantly. “Of course.”

His nonchalance only fueled your annoyance. Without missing a beat, you grabbed him in a playful headlock, ruffling his hair. “Idiot,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

When your names were called, you stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding you momentarily. The audience's murmurs faded into a distant hum as the music began. Soobin's voice filled the air, and your nerves melted away. You sang your heart out, treating the talent show as if it were just a playful karaoke session. Soobin, however, seemed to belong on that stage. When the final note faded, the crowd erupted into applause—parents, teens, kids, strangers all clapping like they’d just watched something special.

You turned to Soobin.

He stood there, beaming, the mic still clutched in both hands like a prized possession. Then, without a trace of shyness, he bowed. A real bow. You stared for a moment—because in that instant, he wasn’t just your goofy best friend. He looked like someone born to be on that stage.

You stepped back, letting him shine.

That performance became a cherished memory, a testament to your friendship and Soobin's budding talent. Little did you know, that day planted the seed for his future in music.

–

“You're back.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, more a whisper to yourself than a question to him.

Soobin stood in front of you, barely resembling the old version of him that you always saw him as. Just his outfit alone–meticulously chosen, each piece exuding a quiet luxury. It wasn’t something you thought you’d see him in in a million years. You were accustomed to seeing him in school uniforms, always looking youthful despite being six months older than you. But the Soobin now before you was undeniably an adult.

His gaze swept over you, lingering just a moment too long. "You look..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Different."

The simplicity of his statement stung more than you expected. You had changed, hadn't you? But had it been for the better? You met his gaze, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the fluttering in your chest. "You look horrible yourself, too," you teased, trying to mask the unease creeping in.

Soobin chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, yet distant. "Fair enough," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. You wanted to ask him everything—about his life, his experiences, the years that had passed—but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you stood there, two people who once shared everything, now separated by time and circumstance. Soobin shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's been a while," he said softly.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "A while."

The soft click-clack of the nurse’s cart rolling outside your mom’s room broke the comfortable silence between you and Soobin. Only then did you notice the small electronic device in his hands—so tiny it looked almost out of place in his grasp.

“Humidifier?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s a gift... for your mom. I went and filled it up with some water” he said shyly, as if embarrassed to be seen with such a thoughtful gesture. You couldn't help but smile at his bashfulness. “She’ll love it,” you reassured him, nudging him gently toward the door.

As you both entered the room, the familiar scent of antiseptic and the soft beeping of medical equipment filled the air. Your mom looked up, her face lighting up at the sight of you and Soobin together, briefly exchanging glances with Mrs. Choi.

“Look who’s here,” you said, your voice filled with warmth.

“I already saw him, honey,” she said with a playful smile, her voice tinged with that familiar teasing warmth, then gestured toward the table beside her, where several bags were neatly stacked. “He helped bring those in earlier,” she added, nodding toward the tall figure behind you.

You looked behind at Soobin, who was already crouched near the wall, carefully plugging the humidifier into the outlet. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, the soft fabric of his sweater bunching at the elbows as he adjusted the cord, making sure it didn’t tangle with the IV stand nearby. He handled everything with the kind of quiet precision you’d come to associate with him—gentle, but steady.

The little device gave a soft mechanical hum as it came to life, a faint mist beginning to rise from the spout. Soobin straightened up, brushing his hands together as if completing a sacred task, then glanced at your mom with a nervous half-smile.

"I set it to low," he murmured. "So it won't be too much, just enough to keep the air from feeling dry."

Your mom tilted her head toward the thin ribbon of vapor swirling in the air, a flicker of surprise and gratitude crossing her face. "Thank you, Soobin," she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve been feeling like my throat’s been made of sandpaper.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks turning a little pink again. "It’s nothing, really. I just… thought it might help." You watched the way your mom looked at him, her gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual—gentle, assessing, as if seeing him act like this reminded her of the old times and that made her quietly glad.

Your mom’s eyes softened as she glanced at Soobin, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You’re very thoughtful,” she said gently, reaching out to adjust the humidifier’s mist.

Soobin shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I just wanted to help.”

You caught the faintest shadow across your mom’s face—a quiet mix of pride and something else, something like a wish she could say aloud. But instead, she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, you’re doing a good job at it.” As if hinting at more than just showing gratitude for the gesture. The mist from the humidifier caught the light, casting soft shadows on the white hospital sheets, and for a moment the sterile room felt just a little more like home.

–

Before you knew it, time had slipped by, the way it always does when you're avoiding looking at the clock. The room had grown quiet again, the only sounds were the soft whir of machines and your mom’s slow, steady breathing. You stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your clothes, more out of habit than anything else. Soobin followed suit just like always, moving a half-step behind you, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to leave yet.

Outside, the corridor was still and cold under the harsh fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else—something tired. You walked side by side, just close enough to feel his presence but not enough to brush shoulders. The silence sat between you, not uncomfortable, but not easy either.

“So,” you said, voice catching slightly in your throat. “When did you get back?”

He glanced over, offering you a small, almost sheepish smile. “I assume you know?”

Right—the headlines. You’d seen them without even trying to. His name had been everywhere for days. It was hard to avoid when your past suddenly became the world’s news. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I saw.”

He let out a short breath of laughter. Not a real laugh—one of those quiet ones that feels more like a sigh. “They really don’t let you disappear quietly, do they?”

You wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came. What could you even say? That sucks? I’m sorry? I read every article twice, looking for signs you were okay? Instead, you settled on, “Looks like you’ll be around for a while.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but it wasn’t light or offhand. There was a drag to it, something unspoken anchoring the gesture. “Yeah. Forced break.”

You raised an eyebrow, hoping a little teasing might soften the edges. “Forced break? Sounds like a long vacation.”

He gave you a half-smile, one side of his mouth curling up. “If only.”

The silence crept back in as you continued walking, your shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor. It should’ve felt comfortable—you’d walked like this before, years ago, without needing to say much. But now? Now it felt like stepping around the edges of something you both weren’t ready to touch. You stole a glance at him. The curve of his jaw was more defined now, his hair a little longer than you remembered. He still walked with that same quiet presence, like he was trying not to take up too much space. But there was something else, too—something a little more closed off.

You swallowed. “So... what now?”

He looked over at you, not stopping, just watching. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I’ve never had this much free time before.”

You let out a soft huff of air, unsure if it was a laugh or just a release of tension. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said, then after a beat, added, “kind of uncomfortable, honestly.”

You nodded, because you got it—maybe not in the same way, but close enough. You understood what it was like to be stuck between chapters, unsure what comes next or who you're supposed to be without the thing that defined you. For a moment, you considered saying something real. Something like, I missed you or you don’t have to pretend around me, but your throat tightened. You hadn’t earned that kind of closeness anymore.

So instead you said, “Guess it’s a new kind of challenge.”

He gave you a look—mild, but maybe grateful. “Yeah. But... maybe not the worst kind.”

You nodded again, lips pressing into a thin line. And still, the things you wanted to say hovered behind your teeth. You wanted to ask how he was really doing. If it felt like everything had stopped too suddenly. If he was scared of what came next. But none of that would come out right, not with all this space between you.

The silence settled again as you both neared the elevator, the hum of lights overhead a constant backdrop.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual but failing, “where are you staying?”

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing over at you with a small smile. “Uh... just down the street, actually. Back in my parents’ place for a bit.”

You blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He let out a short breath. “Kind of surreal.”

You scoffed, the sound too sharp but real. “So... we’re neighbors again.”

He laughed, a real one this time. “Guess so.”

You nodded, trying not to smile too much. “Weird.”

“Definitely weird.”

Another pause. Another silence. But this one wasn’t so stiff. It settled more naturally between you, like maybe it didn’t need to be filled.

You both stood there, not really moving, not really sure what to do next. Just... hovering in that space where familiarity and distance existed at the same time. Where you wanted to say remember how easy this used to be? but knew neither of you quite had the words.

Maybe it would take time. Maybe it would stay awkward like this for a while.

But still, there was something in the quiet that felt like a beginning.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, but neither of you moved.

You thought that was it—that this was the part where you’d say goodbye with a tight smile and an awkward promise to “catch up later.” But instead, Soobin turned, leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the elevator, and said, “Want to walk for a bit?”

You blinked. “Around the hospital?”

His mouth tugged up slightly. “We’ve had weirder hangouts.”

That was true. Once upon a time, your “hangouts” included hiding in stairwells during school festivals and playing cards in the back of the library while pretending to study. So maybe walking quiet halls and dodging nurses wasn’t that strange after all.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I better go, lots of things to do today.”

He nodded. Then, with one last glance at you—long enough to hold, short enough not to ask too much—he turned and walked down the hallway, his steps slow, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

You stayed where you were, hands in your pockets, the echo of his words still lingering in the air.

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. And you'd be lying if you said you hadn’t looked him up that very same night you saw him again. After that day, it was like something broke loose inside you—some quiet restraint you’d kept for years.

You found yourself scrolling endlessly through his performance videos, one after another, chasing something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was your way of making up for all the time you’d forbidden yourself from watching them.

It wasn’t because you resented him. Not really. But it had always been easier to pretend you weren’t curious than to admit the truth: watching him chase his dream made something twist in your chest. Not bitterness, exactly—just jealousy.

A quiet, aching sort of envy that you never wanted to confront. He had gone out there and done what he said he would. He lived it. All while keeping you completely in the dark. Not a message, not a word—not even a hint of what his life had become.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—not that he left, but knowing it was your fault he never reached out.

You remembered the night he left. You didn’t know it was the last time you’d see him, not then. He said something vague about having a “big audition” coming up the previous week, and you, always the loyal friend, had smiled and wished him luck, unaware that he would succeed to the point where he was at now. You hadn’t known that "audition" would become the beginning of a chapter that didn’t include you.

At first, you hesitated. You told yourself he'd text first. Call. Drop by. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually, you stopped refreshing your messages, stopped checking your phone late at night like a fool and stuck your nose into your studies.

The only person who stayed by your side, from your father passing, through your mother getting sick, was now gone. And you couldn’t bring yourself to be the one who reached out first, fearing that you would only receive the silence you thought you deserved.

So you buried it. Packed it into the same mental box where you kept all the “what ifs” you never wanted to admit you had. You stopped watching his interviews, muted hashtags, scrolled past his face without letting your eyes linger. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That people grow up, they move on. That it was nothing personal.

But seeing him again, in that hallway outside your mom’s hospital room, had cracked something open.

You hadn’t realized how much you still carried. How much weight was tied to his name, his voice, his smile. And now, after that one encounter, you were spiraling—late into the night, alone in your room, your screen glowing softly in the dark as you watched him perform with the same boyish intensity he’d always had, only now refined, polished. A professional.

There were moments when he’d show a dimpled smile between lyrics, or toss his hair a certain way, and you’d see glimpses of the boy you once knew. The one who used to walk you home after school. Who used to text you dumb memes and write notes on the edges of your notebooks when the teacher wasn’t looking. The boy who once promised he’d tell you everything.

But he didn’t.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—he had become someone the whole world knew, but not you. Not anymore. You didn’t deserve that chance.

You set your phone down eventually, the videos still looping on autoplay, the sound dim. You stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the person on the screen with the quiet boy who used to sit beside you at lunch. Trying to figure out where the thread had snapped—and if there was any way to pick it back up again.

You weren’t sure. But part of you hoped—achingly, stubbornly—that he came back not just to rest… but to remember.

To remember you.

—

The next time you saw Soobin, it was raining on a Wednesday.

Not the cinematic kind of rain that comes with thunder and dramatic declarations. Just a light drizzle that blurred the edges of the world and left your jacket damp where it clung to your shoulders.

You’d just finished your shift at the café near the hospital. You weren’t technically supposed to be working while your mom was still admitted, but she’d insisted—said the distraction was good for you. And truthfully, it was. It gave you something else to focus on besides white walls and the sound of machines beeping in the night.

You had your headphones in, your hood up, eyes on the sidewalk—when someone stepped into your path, blocking your way.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Soobin.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand, a bottle of something green poking out the top. His hoodie was damp, darkened around the seams, but he looked almost amused by it. Like the rain wasn’t a bother. Like maybe it reminded him of something.

Your headphones hung limply around your neck now. “You stalking me?” you asked, only half joking.

“I swear I’m not,” he said, lifting the bag. “I was headed to the hospital. Thought your mom might like these.”

You glanced at the label on the bottle. Herbal tonic. Your lips curved upward despite yourself. “She’ll roll her eyes when she sees this. But this is good, she needs these.”

He grinned. “Good. Then mission accomplished.”

You hesitated. You should’ve said goodbye, should’ve kept walking—but you didn’t. Something in the way he was standing, not quite stepping forward but not walking away either, mirrored exactly how you felt. Stuck in the middle.

“Want to come up with me?” you asked finally. “She’s been asking about you.”

His expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You walked side by side again, like no time had passed—but with every footstep echoing on the hospital floor, you felt the gap between who you were and who you’d become. And still, he matched your pace without question.

Upstairs, your mom greeted him with a tired but genuine smile. You watched her lit up face switch over to a disgusted one in an instant as he handed her the tonic, made her laugh with something dumb, and you realized how easily he still fit into the spaces you thought time had sealed off.

Later, when she fell asleep and the lights dimmed around her bed, you and Soobin slipped out into the hallway again. It was quieter now. The storm outside had tapered into silence, and the air smelled faintly of rain on concrete.

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely over your chest, the distance between you filled with everything unsaid.

“She still makes that face when she doesn’t want to take medicine,” he said, glancing at the door behind you.

You smiled faintly. “Some things never change.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You did.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what happens when you’re not around for eight years.”

His mouth tugged to the side in something between a grimace and a smile. “Fair.”

There was another beat of silence, but this one felt warmer. You glanced down the hallway, watching a nurse wheel a cart past the far end, the soft rattle of it fading into the hum of fluorescent lights.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “your mom was always really kind to me.”

“She likes people with manners,” you replied, then added, “and people who eat her leftovers without complaining.”

“She used to pack extra, just for me,” he said, eyes distant now. “Even when she said she didn’t have time.”

“She did that with people she loved.” The words left your mouth before you could decide whether or not to say them.

Soobin looked at you, and for a second, you almost couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much. Too real.

The hallway buzzed faintly—the dull drone of fluorescent lights, distant intercom announcements, the occasional footsteps echoing down the corridor. Somewhere, a nurse’s soft laughter floated through the air.

The moment settled like dust, thick and heavy.

“I missed this,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Not just your mom. Not just the neighborhood. You.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, twisting it between your fingertips like a lifeline. He turned his head slightly toward you but didn’t push you for a response.

Instead, he said, “Can I show you something?”

You glanced over, curious despite yourself. “Now?”

He nodded, pulling his phone from his hoodie pocket with a slow, deliberate motion. He flipped through his gallery, swiping a few times, then handed it to you. A video.

Not one of the polished concert clips uploaded for fans, but a raw, shaky recording from a recent show. The camera was angled toward the crowd, thousands of tiny lights flickering like stars. Then it shifted to the stage—him, standing at the microphone, eyes closed, singing a slow, acoustic song. Your breath caught, chest tightening. He must’ve seen it on your face because he said softly, “Wrote it the week I moved to the city. Never released it.”

You watched the video again, seeing a side of him you hadn’t seen in years—vulnerable and unpolished. The words carried little references, tiny fragments of shared memories—a phrase you’d said once, a place you’d both known, a worn bench you’d sat on together.

“It was about you,” he said quietly. “Still is.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, heart pounding in your ears louder than the soft hospital hum. You handed it back, not because you wanted to stop watching, but because it felt too much to hold all at once.

Another silence bloomed. But this one felt different, like the air between you had shifted, charged with something fragile and new.

He stood slowly. “I should go. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You didn’t try to stop him, but as he turned, you called out softly, “Hey.”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

You gave him a small, tired smile, the kind that held hope and history all at once.

“Next time… don’t bring tonic. Bring peaches. She actually likes those.”

He laughed—a sound that was still boyish, warm, and real.

“Got it. Peaches.”

He walked down the hallway, the soft squeak of his shoes echoing behind him.

You stayed seated, staring at the empty space beside you, wondering how many more times you’d find the courage to let yourself take one step closer.

—

It had been a long week.

You’d spent most of it moving between home and the hospital, the lines between day and night beginning to blur. Your mom’s condition hadn’t worsened, but it hadn’t improved either—and somehow, that was its own kind of exhausting. Hopeful. Heavy. Endless.

So when the knock came on your door that Saturday afternoon—three quick taps and a pause—you almost didn’t answer.

But then you remembered the way he knocked.

You opened the door.

“Delivery,” Soobin said, holding up a brown paper bag like it was a peace offering. “One bottle of overpriced juice, and…” He pulled out a small carton with a mock ceremony. “Peaches. Fresh. Not those disgusting canned stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really took the note.”

“I aim to please.” He grinned, wide and shameless. “Also, the guy at the fruit stand said these were ‘kissing sweet,’ which made me deeply uncomfortable. So I had to buy them.”

You snorted, stepping aside to let him in. “That’s the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard for buying fruit.”

He walked in casually, already toeing off his shoes like second nature–- like he’d done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I missed your mom’s high standards. And your judgment.”

“Both still going strong,” you said, accepting the bag. “You want coffee or are you planning to make a dramatic exit again?”

He shot you a look. “That exit was graceful and respectful.”

“That exit was weird and full of emotional tension.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “So… par for the course?”

You tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

He sat on the edge of your couch, glancing around like he was taking inventory. You watched the way his eyes lingered on the bookshelf, the stack of hospital visitors passes on the table, the blanket still folded from when you'd last crashed there after a long night.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said. “Very... ‘haunted by fatigue but still trying.’”

You grinned. “That’s actually the theme of the whole apartment. You should see the bathroom.”

He laughed again—an easy, warm sound that made your ribs feel too tight.

You went to the kitchen, opened the bag, and found not just the peaches and juice, but a pack of sweet rice crackers tucked at the bottom.

“Are these for me or for her?” you called.

A beat.

“...Yes,” he replied.

“She’s going to eat all of these and then yell at me for letting you spend money on her.”

“Let her yell at me instead,” he said, already settling onto your couch like he owned the place. “I can take it. I survived our high school math teacher. Your mom has nothing on that woman.”

You smirked. “That teacher made you cry.”

He gasped. “I teared up. Once. And it was allergy season.”

“Sure it was.” It had been a strange comfort, having him around again—even if it was awkward most of the time.

“Thanks,” you said, shrugging and avoiding his eyes. “for not bringing tonic this time.”

He chuckled. “Hey, I learned my lesson. Peaches or bust.”

A silence passed. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It sat lightly between you, like an old friend resting its elbows on the table.

“So…” he said slowly. “You going to the hospital later?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just after dinner. They changed some meds, so they want someone to watch her overnight.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the mug. “Mind if I come with you?”

You looked up. Not because he hadn’t offered before. But because this time, he said it differently. Gently. Not just wanting to visit—but to be there.

“…She’ll be happy to see you,” you said. “And if you bring those crackers, she might even be nice.”

He smiled, setting his mug down.

“Oh, and by the way,” you added, pretending to inspect a peach like it was under review. “She only likes the white ones. If you brought yellow—”

“Don’t insult me,” he said, already pulling a peach from the bag and rolling it across the table toward you. “Do I look like someone who would buy the wrong kind?”

You caught it mid-roll, lips twitching. “I don’t know. You’ve been gone a while. You could’ve turned into someone completely unreliable.”

He leaned back on the couch, arms stretched along the top cushion, looking maddeningly smug. “I’m still me.”

You turned the peach over in your hand, pretending not to notice how warm your cheeks felt.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.”

—

NINE YEARS AGO

The living room was a mess. A good kind of mess—snack wrappers littered across the coffee table, cushions scattered like casualties, your shared laughter still lingering in the air like static. It was the Friday before the weekend, Soobin had waited for you to finish your badminton practice to walk you home to spend the rest of the afternoon with you.

Soobin was on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other tucked underneath him, controller in hand, glaring at the TV screen with the same intensity he used when talking about stage lighting or choreography.

“You’re cheating,” he said flatly. You didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m not.”

“You’re button-mashing,” he accused, pointing at your hands like he was building a legal case. “That’s not skill, that’s chaos.”

You grinned. “Chaos works.” A second later, his character flew off the edge of the map with a dramatic final explosion. KO. Soobin dropped his controller and flopped backward onto the floor like he’d just been shot. “Unbelievable. I come here in good faith and get demolished.”

You leaned over your knees, stretching out your arms with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe you just suck.”

He peeked at you through narrowed eyes. “I’m rethinking our friendship.”

“Because I’m better at Smash?”

“Because you’re a smug button-masher with no honor.”

You laughed, the kind that curled your shoulders inward and left a small warmth in your chest. This was easy. Ridiculously easy. Soobin had always been like this with you—quick to tease, slow to anger, all soft jabs and boyish huffs. Like a habit you never had to think about. He could go hours and hours just bantering with you about the most unimportant topics.

You reached for the plastic bag sitting on the coffee table, rifling through until you found what you were really after. “You want the last peach?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Sat up like he’d been summoned from the dead. “I do. Really. Deeply.”

You held it just out of reach, twirling it by the stem. “Then admit I’m better than you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no peach.”

“You’re evil.”

You were about to answer—probably with something smug, possibly with another insult—when he lunged forward.

It wasn’t even a real lunge. More like an exaggerated grab, like he was trying to be ridiculous on purpose. But you misjudged the distance—he was faster than he looked—and suddenly he was right there, fingers overlapping yours, and the peach tumbled from your grip, rolling a few inches before coming to a stop between you.

You both reached for it at the same time.

And then you were touching.

Just barely—his knuckles brushing yours, the pad of his thumb catching the back of your hand. Your knees bumped, one of his legs tangled slightly with yours from the way he’d thrown himself forward. The closeness was sudden. Clumsy. And absolutely still.

The peach sat in both your palms now, soft and overripe, a little dented from the fall. But you weren’t looking at the peach anymore.

You were looking at him.

He was looking back.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You could feel your heartbeat shift—quicker, louder. Like your body realized something your brain didn’t want to name.

He was close. Too close.

There was something different about the way he looked at you just then. Like he was searching for something—confirmation, maybe. Permission. Or maybe he wasn’t searching at all. Maybe he was just seeing you, for the first time in a way that wasn’t casual or safe or platonic. You told yourself to laugh. To say something to break it. But your mouth was dry and your fingers were still curled around the stupid peach.

God, you thought, this is just a moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t make it mean something.

Because if you made it mean something, you’d have to face the fact that everything would change between you two, and you weren’t ready for that.

And worst of all—you didn’t know if he wanted it too.

So you were the first to let go.

“Fine,” you said, easing the peach into his hands, forcing a smile. “You win. Peach privileges restored.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a second longer, then pulled back, sitting cross-legged again, the fruit cradled like a trophy.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice light again. Too light. “I’m going to crush you in the next round.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smirked. “Big talk from someone who just got obliterated.”

He took a bite of the peach—flesh soft, juice dripping slightly down his wrist.

You looked away.

Because watching him eat a peach had absolutely no right being that distracting.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a second.

“Just letting you enjoy your victory,” you replied, folding your arms.

“Mm.” He chewed, then added through a mouthful of fruit, “This is the taste of justice.”

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

He laughed, muffled but warm, like it lived somewhere behind his ribcage. Like it was meant just for you.

And later, after he’d gone, after the controller had been set aside and the cushions lazily put back, you sat on the couch and stared at the empty spot where his leg had touched yours.

It was nothing, you told yourself.

But your heart wasn’t convinced.

—

It had been three days since Soobin last came by to accompany you to the hospital.

Not that you were counting.

Your mom was still in the hospital. Her condition was stable, but “stable” was the kind of word doctors used when they meant unchanged, when the machines still beeped and the days still blurred, and you didn’t know how to exhale without guilt.

So you kept your head down. Worked your shifts. Folded laundry. Refilled the humidifier in her room. Then, one quiet evening, your phone buzzed.

Unknown: You up?

You stared at it for a second too long, the number was foreign to your contact list. The number wasn’t saved. But the timing, the tone—it could only be one person.

Another message came in.

Unknown: This is Soobin, by the way.

Of course it was.

You: No. I’m sleep-texting. You

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Then came back again, like he was typing and deleting and thinking too much—just like always.

Soobin:

Maybe. Or just bored.

Wanna walk?

You didn’t answer.

Fifteen minutes later, you were outside. Hoodie zipped to your chin, hands in your pockets. The air was cool, kissed with the hush that only lived in your neighborhood at night.

A faint breeze moved through the trees overhead, the streetlamp buzzed quietly, and the sidewalk stretched out ahead like a question you didn’t know how to ask.

He was waiting by the gate. Same hoodie from the other night. Same hands buried in the front pocket. His hair was a little messier now, falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to push it back. He looked like someone trying not to look like he was waiting.

When he saw you, he straightened—not all the way, just enough to seem like he hadn’t been pacing.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft like he wasn’t sure if it would reach you.

“Hey,” you replied, tugging your sleeves over your hands. And then you walked. Not toward anything in particular. Just forward. Side by side. Close enough to hear the other breathe.

The silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt… familiar. Like this was a rhythm you both used to know. Like your feet still remembered how to fall into step with his even if your hearts hadn’t caught up yet.

After a while, he spoke.

“I’ve been writing again,” he said, just above a whisper.

You glanced at him. His eyes stayed on the sidewalk. “Yeah?”

“Mostly bad stuff,” he added with a breath of a laugh. “But… some of it feels honest.”

You nodded. “That’s the hard part.”

There was a pause.

“I used to write when I missed home,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. But he kept going anyway, his voice quieter now. Like if he said it too loud, it would sound like a confession.

“I stopped for a long time. Everything started to sound the same. Even the stuff I wrote just for me—it didn’t sound like me. It sounded like someone trying to remember what real felt like.”

Your chest pinched. Because you recognized that feeling, even if it wore a different face.

“You mean the industry?” you asked, your voice gentler than you meant it to be. He nodded, hands tightening in his sleeves. “The schedules, the shoots, the interviews where they ask you how you’re doing and expect you to say you’re grateful.”

You looked over. His face was still turned ahead, but his jaw was set—like he was fighting back something that had been building for years.

“It looks big,” he said. “To other people. All the lights and cameras and screaming fans. But most of the time, it felt… small. Like I was inside this beautiful box I couldn’t leave. Like I was shrinking in a place everyone said I was meant to grow.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not at first. Because it was Soobin—your Soobin. The one who used to doodle lyrics on his wrists during exams. The one who used to talk about Seoul like it was a promise.

And now he was here. Telling you the promise didn’t keep.

“I used to envy you,” you murmured.

He turned his head slightly, startled. “What?”

“You had direction. Purpose. You left. While the rest of us stayed behind wondering what we were doing. You knew.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I pretended I did.”

You exhaled, eyes on the path ahead.

He slowed, enough that you had to slow too.

“I didn’t reach out,” he began to answer your life’s biggest question, “because I was afraid if I told you how bad it was, you’d tell me to come home.”

You stopped. Right there on the path.

“And that would’ve been so awful?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. “Me wanting you to come home?”

He looked down.

“It would’ve made it real,” he said. “Made me feel like I failed.”

The ache that had been sitting under your ribs stretched, deep and familiar.

The wind stirred again, carrying the sound of distant cars and rustling trees. Then, your voice dropped. “You know, Soobin… you did a good job.”

His eyes shot up to meet yours. Cautious. Almost confused. You let the words settle before continuing.

“I mean it. You chased something you believed in. You worked hard. You got somewhere people only dream about.” You swallowed. “You just… never took a second to see how far you’d gone. You kept running like someone was going to take it away from you.”

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“You should let yourself rest,” you said. “You deserve to breathe.”

He looked at you like no one had ever said that to him before. Not in the way that mattered.

And maybe no one had. A silence fell again, but it was different now. Thick with emotion, weighted with years of distance and grief and care that had nowhere to go.

Soobin stepped forward—not enough to cross the space between you, but enough that you felt the warmth of him again.

“I’m trying to be better,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. So instead, you reached for the edge of your hoodie sleeve and twisted it around your fingers, grounding yourself in the way you used to back when emotions felt too big to hold.

And beside you, Soobin just stood there.

Not asking to be forgiven, not like he had to.

Just… asking to stay a little longer.

–

The hospital room was quieter than usual.

Your mom was asleep, or at least pretending to be. Her breaths came soft and even, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket. The late afternoon light filtered through the slats in the blinds, painting thin gold bars across the white walls. Outside, the city buzzed softly beneath the window, too far away to touch.

You sat by the bed, elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting in your hand. The chair creaked when you shifted. You’d meant to read. Meant to answer that message from work. But your mind kept drifting—backward, sideways, toward things that hadn’t happened yet but already pressed too heavy on your chest.

Soobin hadn’t texted since the walk.

Three days wasn’t long. Not really.

But you found yourself reaching for your phone more than usual. Pausing at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Imagining him leaning on the doorframe again, holding some half-thought-out excuse to stop by. You hated how easily hope made a home out of silence.

Your mom stirred, just slightly, eyes fluttering open. “You’re still here?”

You smiled faintly. “Where else would I be?”

She looked at you for a beat longer than usual. “You’ve been coming earlier,” she said, voice scratchy from sleep. “Staying longer, too.”

You shrugged. “There’s not much else to do.”

“Mm.” She turned her head to the side, watching you now. Not like she was accusing—more like she was waiting. “He’s been coming around again.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the window, at the sky that had turned that in-between color of fading blue and soft orange.

“Yeah,” you said eventually.

“He’s been good to you,” she added, gently. “I see it.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, heart doing that stupid thing again—like it couldn’t decide whether to clench or melt.

“He’s not staying,” you said. Your mom didn’t answer right away. That kind of silence said more than any reply.

You leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “I don’t know why it matters. It’s not like we’re… anything.”

“But you want to be?” she asked softly.

You didn’t look at her. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “It doesn’t matter what I want. He came back because of his health. Because he needed space from all that. He’s not… this isn’t forever.”

And if you let yourself want something more like last time—if you gave it a name—what would happen when he left again?

She was quiet for a long time. Then, just as you were about to change the subject, her voice returned. “You know,” she said, “I think the hardest kind of love is the kind that feels temporary.”

You blinked. “This isn’t–this isn’t love.” You protested.

She didn’t argue. Just gave you a look that said she’d been your mother long enough to know when you were lying—to her or to yourself.

You shook your head, staring down at your hands. “It’s not like I’m holding onto something that could actually last.”

“But you’re still holding it,” she murmured.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because yeah. You were.

You were holding the way his voice sounded in quiet places. The way he never pushed when you went silent, just waited with that kind of patience that only people who’d known you for years could manage. You were holding the way he remembered the things you forgot you ever told him. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

And it scared the hell out of you.

Because people leave. Sometimes they come back. But rarely do they stay.

Your mom reached out, her fingers brushing yours. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said gently. “It’s not okay to pretend you don’t feel anything.”

You didn’t respond.

You just stared at the sunlight crawling across the linoleum floor, and wondered how long you could keep pretending that what you felt was nothing.

–

The engine made a low, confused noise as Soobin turned the key. You braced your hand against the dashboard. Soobin sat up straighter, lips pursed like he was preparing for war. You couldn’t help watching the way his knuckles tensed on the wheel, the way he kept muttering to himself like this was more of a concert performance than a suburban test run.

"Okay," you said cautiously. "Brake. Check your mirrors. Put it in drive—no, that’s reverse. Reverse is—Soobin—!"

The car lurched backward, an alarming jolt that made your seatbelt dig into your collarbone.

“Okay! Okay! Got it!” Soobin slammed the brake, and the car shuddered to a halt. Your heart was somewhere near your throat.

“You almost ran over a mailbox,” you hissed, hands clutched tightly on your seat. “My mailbox!”

He winced. “It’s still standing.”

“Barely.” He shot you a look. “I told you I didn’t finish my license! You didn’t have to volunteer your car for this.”

“I didn’t think this was what we’d be doing when you said you wanted to ‘catch up.’

“Out,” you ordered. “Switch seats.” He didn’t argue.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you grumbled, turning the key and reversing smoothly out of the lot.

“Aw,” he said, smirking. “You like me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You looked at him. He looked back.

There was a beat of silence.

You circled back around the block, only to end up parked in front of your house once again. Soobin spotted the shed that sat behind your house, most importantly, what’s next to it.

“No way,” he said, rushing ahead.

Sure enough, there they were. Your old bikes. Rusted at the chains, tires flat, but still recognizable.

“I can’t believe you kept mine,” he said, brushing off a handlebar like it was a relic.

“My mom was too sentimental to throw it away. She thought you’d come back.”

He paused.

The air shifted.

“Guess she was right,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond.

–

A few minutes later, you were riding through town—laughing, breathless, avoiding potholes and startled pigeons. Soobin’s bike creaked horribly, but he insisted on pedaling like he was racing someone only he could see.

You took the long route, past the bookstore where you used to loiter, the convenience store where he once bought you a yogurt drink with his last few coins, the bus stop where you used to sit until the streetlights flicked on.

Then he slowed. You turned to look—and watched, helpless, as his front tire clipped a curb and sent him flying.

“Soobin!” He landed with a thud, half in the grass, half on the sidewalk.

You dropped your bike and ran to him.

“Oh my God—are you okay? Why weren’t you paying atten–”

He blinked up at you, dazed. “That bus stop looks exactly the same.”

“You fell off your bike because of nostalgia?!”

He groaned. “I got caught off guard.”

“By a memory?”

“You looked back at me…,” he mumbled.

You stopped. The world stilled for half a second. Then you shoved that away.

"You're bleeding," you said, kneeling next to him, choosing yet again to overlook the deeper weight hidden in his seemingly innocent words.

It wasn’t bad—just a scrape at his temple, but the sight still made something twist low in your stomach. You pulled a tissue that you luckily had in your pocket and dabbed at the cut.

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmured, dabbing at the cut with soft fingers. “What if you end up with a scar? Your fans might actually riot.”

He winced, sucking in a breath.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, eyeing you suspiciously.

“I’m not,” you said, lips twitching.

“You’re not even trying to be gentle.”

“I am,” you lied—though your touch grew just a little softer.

But your hands had slowed. And now that you were this close, you couldn’t help but really look at him. His hair was a little damp, curling slightly at the edges. There was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek, and the cut on his brow was still fresh—but none of it dulled him. If anything, it made him feel more real. Not the polished idol with perfect lighting and stage smiles, but Soobin—your Soobin.

The boy who used to race you home on bikes, who got grass stains on his knees and laughed until he fell over. And maybe that’s why your breath caught, just a little, because his eyes weren’t darting away this time. He wasn’t teasing or laughing. Just looking. Steady. Unafraid.

It felt like the earth was tilting under you.

He reached up, fingers brushing your wrist—soft, tentative. But you stood up before the silence could grow teeth.

“C’mon, head injury or not, we’re riding back. You can’t die dramatically knowing that it was a curb that took you out”

He laughed, clutching his ribs. “You’re such a comfort.”

You didn’t tell him that if he’d looked at you for one more second like that, you would’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Because your pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. And your heart didn’t know if it was from the fall…

…or from him.

—-

The rain started halfway through the ride home. Not a drizzle, not a soft mist. No, the sky decided to absolutely open up on you.

“Seriously?!” you shouted up at the clouds as you and Soobin coasted to a slow, skidding stop under a half-dead tree. Soobin was already laughing, clothes plastered to his skin, hair dripping into his eyes. “This is kind of perfect, though. Right? Very K-drama of us.”

You glared. “I’m going to get sick. You’re going to get sick.”

“I already feel stronger. This is character-building.”

You groaned and dropped your head back. “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, wheeling his bike alongside yours, “but I’m starting to think you just like having an excuse to say my name angrily.”

You opened your mouth, ready to shoot something back—but a particularly angry clap of thunder cut through the air. You both jumped.

“Let’s just go home...” You muttered.

By the time you made it back to your house, you were soaked through—shoes squelching, hair matted to your cheeks, laughter still catching in your throats between shivers. You tossed your bike on the porch without care, unlocking the door as quickly as your frozen fingers would let you.

“Leave your shoes by the door,” you told him, kicking yours off with a squelch. “And try not to drip everywhere.”

Soobin peeled his hoodie over his head with a groan. “That’s an impossible task. I’m basically a human sponge.”

You grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at his face. “Here. Dry off, Mr. Sponge.”

“I’ll need a medal for surviving this ride.”

“You’ll get a warm meal and some dry clothes, and you’ll like it.”

He grinned, following you into the hallway. “Wait. Dry clothes?”

"Yeah. I think I still have one of your old sweatshirts lying around" you said over your shoulder, stopping just outside your room. You glanced back at him, standing awkwardly in the hallway, damp hair dripping and clothes clinging to him like a soggy afterthought. He looked like a miserable, oversized puppy.

"If it even fits..." you mumbled under your breath.

Because looking at him now, you weren’t so sure. He’d always been tall, but somewhere between the boy who used to sprawl across your couch and the man standing there now, he'd filled out—broad shoulders, long limbs, that quiet weight people carry when they've grown into themselves. It was weird. Familiar.

“You still have that?”

You shrugged, trying not to overthink the warmth crawling up your neck. “It’s a good sweatshirt.”

“Can I have it back?”

“No.”

He laughed, and you disappeared into your room, pulling out the hoodie in question—still soft and oversized—and a pair of sweatpants you knew would be way too short on him, but it’d have to do.

You handed him the clothes and pointed him toward the bathroom. “Go. Change. And hang your stuff up unless you want it smelling like mildew forever.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mock saluting.

When he disappeared behind the door, you exhaled. Why did this feel like something?

You pushed your wet hair back and padded into the kitchen to grab some water, heart still annoyingly thudding. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers, and somewhere in the background, the bathroom door creaked as he rummaged through a drawer for a comb, a towel, who knew.

After changing into dry clothes, you settled onto the couch, towel in hand as you ran it through your damp hair. Without thinking, you reached into your pocket for your phone and opened reels—more out of muscle memory than intention.

You scrolled for a good minute before pausing.

There it was.

A video of Soobin. Blonde Soobin. All black suit, legs spread like he owned gravity, eating some sort of sour candy in that dazed, effortless idol way that did things to people.

The sound was some kind of slowed-down R&B track. The caption read: “what do you mean he’s not my boyfriend??”

You snorted and shook your head, tapping the screen like you meant to scroll past it.

“You watching fan edits of me?”

You jumped, your heart skipping a beat.

Soobin was standing just behind the couch, freshly changed, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he rubbed at his damp hair. His cheeks were flushed pink—not from embarrassment, but from the lingering warmth of the shower. The faint scent of your soap clung to him, familiar and comforting.

You scrambled for words, panic rising in your chest. “N-no.”

He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, the hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady your voice. “It just popped up on my For You page!” you insisted, your tone shooting up an octave in protest.

“That’s not how the algorithm works,” he teased, eyes sparkling as he leaned in a little. “I can literally see you liked it.”

You huffed, flinging your phone onto the couch as if it had personally betrayed you. “I didn’t save it or anything.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, grinning as he walked slowly around the couch and flopped down beside you. The heat radiating from his body made the space between you feel smaller, cozier.

“I didn’t know you were into the blonde era,” he added with mock surprise.

You tried not to look at him, but it was impossible. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way that made your chest ache with something tender and unfamiliar. He smelled like your soap—clean, soft, and utterly real.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, crossing your arms defensively, “you looked ridiculous.”

He laughed—a low, easy sound that made your heart flutter. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

You risked a glance at him—and made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

Something electric passed between you, and it wasn’t from the static of the hoodie. It was heavier. Warmer. Your breath stuttered. You could say this, right? You were friends, right?

“You know,” you started, voice quieter, “it’s kinda unfair.”

He tilted his head. “What is?”

You picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, pretending not to notice the way his thigh was pressed against yours.

“You look like that, even if you’re just eating.”

He blinked.

The teasing fell out of his expression like someone had pulled a thread loose. You looked at him—really looked.

And there it was again. That thing that hung between you like a held breath. That invisible thread that pulled tighter and tighter every time you got close enough to see each other clearly.

His hand caught your wrist just as you were about to step away.

You froze, startled by the gentle hold, your heart skipping a beat.

His hand closed around your wrist—gentle, hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch you but couldn’t let the moment slip away without trying.

You froze.

Not because it was dramatic or shocking, but because your body had trained itself to notice every tiny shift around Soobin. The way his fingers were warm against your skin. The way his thumb hovered just slightly, like he thought about brushing it across your wrist but didn’t.

When you looked at him, really looked, he was already looking away—blushing.

His ears were a little pink at the tips, and the expression on his face was… shy. Maybe even a little self-conscious, like he was trying to laugh it off before you said anything that would make it worse.

“That clip you saw…” he said, clearing his throat, his voice softer than usual. “It’s not really me looking good or anything.”

You blinked. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, still not letting go of you. “That livestream—the one with the blonde hair and the… uh, the sitting posture.” He made a vague motion, embarrassed. “We were just coming off a performance. Everyone was still in stage makeup, and the stylists kind of go all out when there’s press watching. It’s not really how I… look. Normally.”

He wasn’t even making eye contact now, suddenly fascinated with a dent in the hardwood floor.

“I mean, they style us a certain way. The lighting’s good. The outfits are picked for us.” He glanced up, almost sheepish. “It’s not real-real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too busy staring.

Because here was Soobin—not the idol, not the polished version beamed out to millions—but your Soobin. The one who got defensive about reverse parking and couldn’t cook instant noodles without supervision. The one whose hoodie sleeves still hung past his wrists, whose hair was a little damp from the rain, whose voice always got smaller when he was trying to be honest.

And he didn’t know. He didn’t know that the moment he tried to downplay it, you somehow liked him even more. Your heart was doing something dangerous. Something stupid and fluttery. And warm. You smiled, just a little. “So what you’re saying is… the Soobin in that clip is false advertising?”

He huffed a laugh—still nervous, still a bit pink. “Exactly.”

“Well,” you said, pretending to think it over, “I guess I’ll just have to get used to this version of you, then.”

He tilted his head, eyes meeting yours at last. “This version?”

You nodded, trying to act nonchalant even though your pulse was kicking wildly in your throat. “The version that wears wrinkled sweats and drips water on my floor and thinks too much about livestreams from six months ago.”

He smiled, small and real. “That version’s not very cool.”

“Good. I like him better.” You shrugged. “He reminds me of an old friend.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like a held breath. His hand was still on your wrist, warmer now. Closer. And even though neither of you said it, something shifted.

He lingered a second longer, still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing your skin in a barely-there touch. Neither of you moved, as if breaking the stillness might shatter something fragile between you.

And then, almost offhandedly—like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for days—he said, “You look good too, you know. Even after all these years.”

Simple. Uncomplicated. But it cracked something open in you all the same.

You turned away first.

“I’m gonna go make dinner,” you said quickly, already halfway to standing. “Before I say something else embarrassing.”

He let go, fingers slipping away from yours slowly, reluctantly.

And you walked to the kitchen with your heart in your throat.

Dinner was on the stove.

But it wasn’t the only thing simmering now.

—

You stood in front of the pot, stirring with more intensity than necessary, trying very hard not to think about the compliment Soobin had just casually lobbed at your entire existence. His words still clung to your skin more stubborn than the rain had.

"You look good too."

What did that even mean? You were in an old hoodie, hair still damp, socks mismatched. You looked like a soggy couch cushion with a pulse.

Still. He’d said it. Earnestly. Like he meant it.

You stirred the pot a little too aggressively.

Behind you, Soobin leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you like he had nowhere else to be—and no desire to be anywhere else. He looked so at ease there, like he belonged in this space, in your space. The hoodie he wore—the one you’d cut around the collar back in high school during a brief “DIY fashion” phase—hung slightly off one of his shoulders now, exposing a sliver of collarbone. Your brain short-circuited every time your eyes drifted that way, completely unprepared for how something so small, so casual, could feel so intimate.

His eyes drifted toward the stove, then to you—quiet, lingering. He wasn’t staring exactly, but it was close. Like he was watching something he couldn’t quite name. Something small and domestic and too warm to look at directly. And when you caught it, just barely from the corner of your eye, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He dropped his gaze instantly, toeing at the rug with the tip of his sock like it had personally offended him.

“What… uh, what are you making?” he asked, voice soft. Like raising it too loud might break something fragile.

You tossed chopped onions into the pan with a hiss. “Soup,” you said. “It’s quick. It’s easy. And you probably won’t die eating it.”

Soobin gave a little laugh—short and breathy. “That’s a really strong endorsement.”

“I’ve seen your cooking, Choi. This is already an upgrade.”

He gasped, hand clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

“Three different instant noodles. All undercooked. All aggressively beige.”

“That was years ago!” he protested, a smile tugging at his lips. You nudged him with your hip as you passed behind him. “Just don’t set anything on fire, and we’ll call it a win.”

“I can be helpful,” he mumbled, already reaching for the cutting board. “You just… never let me.”

You glanced at him, amused. “You’re the one who told me not to let you near knives.”

“Right, but like…” He shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. “That was before.”

You handed him a block of tofu and the world’s dullest knife. “Okay, Chef of the Year. Tiny cubes. No bleeding.” He took it with an exaggerated sigh. “No faith in me at all.”

You turned back to the stove, only to hear the distinct sound of tofu being… destroyed.

You looked. “That’s a massacre.”

“I panicked,” he muttered, eyebrows drawn together like he was concentrating on defusing a bomb. You stepped beside him without thinking. “Here,” you said, adjusting his grip. “Like this.” Your fingers curled gently around his hand, repositioning his hold on the knife. Your chest brushed his arm. He stilled.

The silence bloomed wide. You felt his breath catch—just barely. Like a sound he wasn’t sure he should let out. When he turned his head, your faces were closer than they’d meant to be. Too close.

“I think I’m messing up on purpose,” he said, voice so low it barely reached you.

You blinked. “Why?” He hesitated. His eyes flicked to your lips, then away again, like he didn’t mean to. “Because, uh… getting corrected isn’t so bad?”

Your heart stuttered.

And for one wild second, you thought he might actually mean it. Not in a joke way. Not in a “we’re just friends messing around” way. But in the kind of way that stayed with you, long after it passed. You pulled back quickly, your voice higher than it needed to be. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are,” he mumbled, looking weirdly pleased with himself. You turned back to the soup before your face could fully betray you. “Dinner’s almost done.”

“Smells good.” The way he said it—it wasn’t loud or performative. Just warm. Quiet. Like he meant it and didn’t know how to say much else.

“I can, um… I can set the table,” he offered after a beat, fiddling with the towel draped over the chair. “If that helps.”

“It’s just two plates.”

“Still,” he said, moving toward the cupboard. “Feels like the least I can do.”

You watched him open drawers like he didn’t remember where anything was—even though he’d been to your kitchen more than once. Even though this version of Soobin—the soft one, the one who tiptoed through domestic spaces like they were breakable—was getting harder and harder to pretend didn’t feel different.

By the time you both sat down, your pulse still hadn’t settled.

He waited until you took your first bite before speaking again.

“This feels nice,” he said, toying with his chopsticks. “Like… familiar.”

You looked up. “Familiar how?”

He hesitated. “Like, I don’t know. Like we used to do this all the time. Even if we didn’t.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” There was a pause. He tapped his chopsticks together gently, then added, “Not like this, though.”

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew what he meant. Not with the late rain tapping at the windows. Not with the soft glow of the kitchen light, the quiet between bites. Not with the way his leg brushed yours under the table like it didn’t mean anything… except it kind of did.

He looked down at his bowl, then back at you, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s probably dumb. Sorry.”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s not dumb.” You both sat in the quiet that followed, tension settling like steam in the air between you. Soft. Warm. Unspoken.

And still—he glanced at you again, eyes lingering a little longer this time.

“This,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is the part I think I missed the most.”

You didn’t trust yourself to ask what he meant. So you took another bite instead. But your fingers itched where they’d touched his. And you could feel the weight of the moment, real and quiet and waiting for someone to name it.

So neither of you did.

You just stayed like that—two bowls between you, hearts too full for your mouths to keep up.

—

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. A month, at least.

His mom had mentioned he was out of town visiting family—some cousin’s wedding, maybe. You didn’t ask too many questions. Just nodded, said “ah,” and tried to pretend your chest didn’t ache a little every time you passed his house, reminding you of how alone you felt the first time he had disappeared.

In his absence, the days blurred. You slipped too easily back into your old routine—working, grocery store runs, folding laundry half-awake, hospital visits that drained more than they gave. You didn’t have time to miss him. You barely had time to be anything other than tired.

But that night… that night was different.

The doctor had been gentle, but that didn’t soften the words. Your mom’s condition wasn’t worsening—but it also wasn’t improving. They’d be moving her into a more intensive unit, “just to keep a closer eye.” That was what they always said. A closer eye. As if that made it better.

You left the hospital numb, your body moving through the motions—bus ride, walking home, dropping your keys in the dish like muscle memory. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed without meaning to.

And before you knew it, you were opening your laptop. Not the mindless doomscrolling of nights past. Not some clip appearing on your for you page by accident.

You typed it out yourself this time.

Soobin. Variety show. “Faves Fave.”

Intentional.

The screen filled with thumbnails—bright, curated images of him laughing, grinning, clutching his stomach as he teased his guests. You clicked one. Then another. Then another. It was like oxygen after two weeks of holding your breath.

He looked… the same. Familiar and not. Confident, magnetic, a little shy around the edges if you knew where to look—which, of course, you did.

And then you found that episode.

The one with the “dating coach” guest. Just a cute concept—flowers, mukbang, the whole club presentation skit . You watched with your chin in your hand, blinking slowly as he fiddled with his sleeves and answered questions with his soft, hesitant smile.

Until the girl leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and asked with a teasing lilt, “Soobin-ssi, what’s your type?”

He laughed first. Ducking his head, already shaking it. “You’re gonna make me get in trouble…” The staff cackled. The guest encouraged him.

“Someone who… leads?” he finally said, face pink and gaze darting away. “I’m more… I think I’m usually… the follower type.” The camera zoomed in. He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking utterly sheepish.

You sat frozen, mouse hovering over the pause button. Your stomach did something ridiculous.

It was the way he said it—like it wasn’t meant to be scandalous. Just honest. Earnest. And yet your brain short-circuited.

He wasn’t lying.

Over the next few days, you found yourself spiraling. Not in a dangerous way. Just… quietly. Internally. You kept replaying his words—the shy, almost whispered confession that he liked being led. That he was the follower, not the leader. It was a simple thing, but it hit you in a way you didn’t expect.

You found yourself wondering what that really meant—how it would feel to be the one guiding him, to be the person he trusted enough to follow. It was strange how just thinking about it made your chest tighten, your skin buzz with something like electricity. You tried to tell yourself it was just the stress, the exhaustion, the endless waiting for your mom to get better. But you knew better.

When you saw him again, it was like the air between you had shifted, though nothing had really changed. You were hanging out like usual—talking, laughing, stealing quick glances at each other—but now every look carried weight. Every casual brush of your hands or accidental touch sent your heart racing.

Soobin was the same—soft-spoken, a little awkward, but somehow more open, more vulnerable. He wasn’t joking when he said he liked being led. You could see it in how he deferred to you on small things, how he hesitated before making decisions, like he was waiting for your cue. And you? You were barely holding yourself together inside.

The doorbell rang just as you were finishing up dinner—your hands still a little flour-dusted, the kitchen smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary. You wiped them on your apron, heart skipping in a way that was maybe more than just nerves about having company.

When you opened the door, Soobin was there, standing with that familiar, slightly sheepish smile that always made your chest tighten. His hair was a bit tousled from the wind, and his eyes held that soft, tentative look you’d come to know so well.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice low like he was trying not to disturb the calm.

“Hey,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in.

He kicked off his shoes like he always did—neatly, side by side by the door, like a good guest. Like someone who belonged.

You didn’t say anything, just followed him with your gaze as he wandered into the kitchen, peering into the pot on the stove.

“Ooh,” he said, drawing out the sound, his voice lilting with approval. “It smells like… actual food. I thought you were just gonna microwave ramen.”

You rolled your eyes, your heartbeat thudding annoyingly fast. “Excuse you. I am a cooking god.”

He was joking. You knew that. Just Soobin being Soobin—soft and playful and a little smug without realizing it. But the way he leaned against your counter, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up, collar loose…

Yeah. This was going to kill you. Because he had no idea.

No idea that you’d spent two nights watching him on screen—smiling, laughing, stupidly talking about his ideal type like it was just another throwaway question. Like it hadn’t rearranged something inside you.

“I’m usually the follower type,” he’d said.

And maybe it was stupid, the way your brain latched onto that. The way your body responded like it had been waiting for an excuse. You turned away quickly, grabbing bowls from the cabinet with more force than necessary. Focus.

“So,” he said behind you, “what’s the occasion?”

“What?”

“You cooked. For me. Without bribery or threats involved.” He leaned over your shoulder, just barely, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. “Should I be worried?”

You forced a laugh. “Maybe I missed having someone around who bugs me while I’m chopping onions.”

“Ah,” he said with mock solemnity. “So I am but a tool for your entertainment.”

You could feel the heat of him behind you—just barely there, just enough to make it impossible to think straight.

Tool for your entertainment, he’d said.

You nearly dropped the ladle.

God, he had no idea what that did to you.

Your brain, already frayed from too many late nights watching his interviews on loop—watching him smile at someone else, laugh at someone else's joke—now seized on that one line, innocent and offhand, like your nervous system needed a final push toward collapse.

"I’m the follower type."

Most people would’ve let it pass. A throwaway comment. But not you. Not after hearing the way he’d said it—voice low, almost shy, like it had slipped out by accident. Like it meant something.

And now here he was. In your kitchen. Wearing your hoodie. Joking about being your “tool,” like the universe had a twisted sense of humor and was testing your ability to not spontaneously combust.

“Sure,” you managed, ladling soup into a bowl with what you hoped was a steady hand. “An incredibly useful tool.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Wow. I’ve been demoted to household equipment. I used to be someone.”

You bit your lip.

Don’t laugh. Don’t think about what he said. Definitely don’t think about what that would look like.

You turned to hand him the bowl—and instantly regretted it.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faint sprinkle of freckles near his collarbone, the soft curve of his throat. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. And worse—close enough to see his smile up close, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that felt entirely, devastatingly sincere; his dimples on full display.

You passed him the bowl with a shallow breath, eyes on anything but his face. He took it gently. But didn’t step away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer now. Too soft. The kind of softness that pried things loose.

You looked up. Mistake number two. His brows were slightly furrowed, gaze searching—not teasing this time, not even curious. Just… concerned. Like he could feel the ripple of something under the surface but didn’t know where it led.

“I’m fine,” you said too fast, too light. “Just tired.”

He didn’t argue, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t buying it completely. Still, he nodded, letting the moment settle.

You grabbed your own bowl and sat down quickly, needing the table between you. Needing space. Needing something solid to keep you from doing something stupid like saying the actual thoughts screaming in your head.

He sat across from you, legs tucked up like always, like your living room wasn’t any different from his. Like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t just accidentally unraveled you with a single joke and a borrowed hoodie.

Like he belonged here.

And you let him. Of course you did. Even now, even with your pulse skipping and your thoughts stuck on that clip. The one where he’d smiled, soft and unguarded, and said “I don’t mind being told what to do,” and the room had laughed, but you hadn’t.

Because it hadn’t felt like a joke to you.

It had felt like a truth. One he hadn’t meant to share. One you couldn’t unhear.

And now it sat in your chest like a secret too big to hold. A glowing ember you couldn’t stamp out.

He slurped a spoonful of soup and let out a satisfied hum. “So what’s in this? Other than the tears you shed while I was gone”

You swallowed hard, fighting for focus. “Garlic. Herbs. A careful measure of what’s left of my sanity.”

He snorted. “Well, it’s seasoned perfectly.”

You gave him a weak smile, cheeks already warm, though it had nothing to do with the stove.

Because this wasn’t just banter anymore. This wasn’t normal. It was familiar, yes—but in a way that felt dangerous now. Because the more he settled back into your life, into your house, into the clothes you used to sleep in—the harder it became to separate who he used to be from what he was starting to mean now.

He had no idea. None. He didn’t know that every casual smile, every soft laugh, every offhanded comment was completely undoing you. You glanced up—and found him already watching you.

You froze.

“What?”

He blinked like he hadn’t meant to get caught. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… quiet tonight.”

You looked down at your bowl.

“Yeah,” you said again. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered, and in the stretch of silence that followed, you wondered—just for a second—if he saw it. The shift. The crack in your composure. The storm is blooming just beneath your skin.

But then he took another bite. Casual. Comfortable.

And you sat there, across from the boy who was quietly ruining your life, wondering how much longer you could pretend it wasn’t happening.

—-

EIGHT YEARS AGO

It had been the class field trip to the mountains—the last big outing before graduation.

Everyone had been buzzing about it for weeks: a whole day out of school. You hadn’t planned on going at first—too many people, too much noise—but your friends insisted. And somewhere deep down, beneath your careful excuses, you knew Soobin would be there.

And yeah. Maybe that was the real reason you said yes.

The day itself was easy. Light. The sun shimmered across the water, laughter bounced off the docks. Soobin had helped pass out life jackets, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back by the wind, that easygoing smile on his face. He was joking with everyone, relaxed—but his eyes kept finding you. When he thought you weren’t looking.

You caught him once. Watching.

He smiled. You looked away.

It should’ve felt warm. Comforting. Safe.

But then, later—when everyone was crowded around a picnic table, eating soggy sandwiches and swatting mosquitoes—you overheard it.

Two classmates, sitting a few feet behind you. One of them is his friend. The other a notorious gossip.

“I’m telling you,” one said, tearing into a juice pouch. “Soobin was gonna ask her to the lake.”

“Her? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Said he’d do it if she said yes to coming. But then he got all weird. Said she shuts down whenever he gets close. But, like, you can tell. He does everything she says. It’s kind of sad.”

You froze, a sandwich half-bitten in your hand.

He was going to ask you. You hadn’t imagined it. The quiet tension, the soft attention—it had meant something. And maybe, just maybe, it still would have meant something.

But then came the second realization. The one that burrowed deeper.

He would’ve done it just because you came.

Because you said yes.

Because he always listened.

Because he always followed your lead.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because if he liked you like that—really liked you—then that meant being wanted. Being chosen. Again. And what had that ever brought anyone?

Everyone you loved either left or got sick. That wasn't a coincidence. That was you.

You had started to believe, somewhere in the quiet dark, that maybe you were the problem. That maybe there was something inside you—ruinous and invisible—that made people go. Like you carried a sickness only the people closest to you ever caught.

And Soobin? Soobin was the kind of boy who would’ve followed you straight into the storm, no questions asked.

He didn’t deserve that.

So you shut down.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You avoided his gaze. Didn’t laugh at his jokes. When the canoes got pulled out, you volunteered for the group on the other end of the lake. You didn’t even sit near him on the bus ride back.

And the texts, later that night? Left unread.

When he approached you in the hallway the next week, worry in his eyes, asking if something was wrong—you shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. And then walked away.

You never told him why. Never told him that your silence wasn’t about him. It was about you. What you believed you did to the people who loved you.

He didn’t chase after you. Not out loud. But you saw him watching you in class a few times after that. Quiet. Like he was waiting for a sign that never came. The last time you saw him was three days after the hike. He was standing by the bike racks after school, bag slung over one shoulder, kicking gravel. He looked up when you walked out with your friends.

You paused.

He straightened. Took a half step forward. “Hey.”

You stopped. Barely. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to ask if I… said something wrong?”

He looked so unsure, so open, so soft. All you wanted was to walk back toward him. Say something. Say everything.

But you didn’t.

You gave him a weak smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” Then you left.

No final goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.

And that was the last time you saw Soobin. Before the auditions, the debut, the lights and cameras and screams and fame turned him into someone the whole world watched. You’d think about that moment by the fence. About how he would’ve done anything for you, if you’d only let him.

But you hadn’t. Because somewhere deep down, you still believed you were the thing that made people sick. And you couldn’t let him catch it too.

So instead, you let him go. Quiet. Clean. Cowardly.

And the worst part?

You were never sure if he even hated you for it.

—

The soup was gone. The dishes were rinsed, half-drying on the rack.

The living room was dim now, only the lamp in the corner still on, casting long golden light over everything. The night had settled in soft around you—quiet, still, deceptively calm. Soobin was sprawled out on your couch, legs long and socked feet hanging off the edge like he forgot how tall he was. You sat on the floor with your back against the coffee table, scrolling through a playlist on your phone, pretending like you weren’t hyper-aware of his presence. Of the warmth of his thigh brushing the cushion where your elbow rested. Of the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were looking.

“Wanna watch something?” you offered, keeping your voice casual. “You haven’t seen the new season of that show you liked, right?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, quiet for a second. “I kinda just wanna sit like this.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. Your mouth had gone dry. Because the way he said it wasn’t teasing. It was simple. Earnest.

Like this.

With you. In your space. With your things and your scent on the throw blanket and the memory of your hand on his guiding a knife hours ago. He turned his head a little, resting his cheek on the back of the couch.

“You’re really quiet tonight,” he said again. “Not just tired, quiet… It’s like…you’re thinking too much.”

You stared ahead at the wall, the grain in the wood, the dust in the lamp’s halo of light.

“I’m always thinking too much.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But this feels different.”

You drew your knees up to your chest, arms wrapping around them.

“I just…” You hesitated. “I think I’ve forgotten how to be around you.”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, trying to laugh, trying to swallow the tension, “we hang out like this and it’s supposed to feel easy, but it doesn’t anymore.”

He looked at you carefully. Slowly.

And then, softer than before: “Why doesn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence stretch a beat longer, then got up.

You thought maybe he was going to leave. But instead, he walked over and sat beside you on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder. Close. Warm.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

You turned your head. “You just did.”

He gave you a look, but there was no bite to it. Only hesitation.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

Your heart thudded.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not—” You exhaled hard. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?”

You turned your face toward your knees, hiding your expression. But his voice followed, low and careful.

“You didn’t do anything,” I say again, quieter this time—almost a whisper, like if I say it soft enough, maybe it’ll unravel the knot tightening in my chest.

Soobin stays still. Not a word. No response. He just waits.

And somehow, that silence makes everything harder to bear.

I press my cheek against my knee, voice muffled and uneven. “It just got me thinking… back in high school. That field trip to the mountains.” You don’t know why you’re bringing this up now.

I feel the faintest tilt of his head, a subtle sign he’s listening, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“After that trip…” I trail off, twisting the sleeve of my shirt around my fingers, the fabric rough beneath my skin. “I don’t know why—” The words catch in my throat, and the room feels heavy with unspoken things. I swallow hard. “I don’t know why I stopped talking to you.”

Lies. Lies. Lies. Because I know the truth, but it’s too fragile, too raw to say out loud.

Finally, I steal a glance at him—just for a moment.

His face softens. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, maybe something else too. Something like understanding. Or forgiveness.

And in that quiet exchange, it feels like a small crack opens in the wall between us—fragile, but real.

He shifts beside me, the couch groaning beneath his weight. Then, softly:

“I didn’t know,” he says.

His voice is different now. Not teasing. Not soft for the sake of comfort—but careful. Honest.

“I thought…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. “I thought maybe you didn’t like me. That I was too much.”

My heart stutters.

“You weren’t,” You say quickly, instinctively. “You weren’t too much. You were just…”

You falter again. He looks at you now—really looks at you—and you feel like he’s seeing through every version of you you’ve built up over the years.

“I overheard some guys talking about you,” You keep going, twisting the sleeve of your shirt around your fingers. “They said you were going to ask me out, maybe confess something.”

So much silence.

“And it just... freaked me out.”

You don’t say it lightly. You say it like a confession, like a weight lifted from your shoulders but also like a wound reopened. Because it costs you something to admit.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” You admit, voice catching a little. “The idea that you might like me... that I might have to say it back.”

You finally glance at him—just for a second. His face softens. A flicker of surprise, maybe something else.

“So I did the worst thing,” You confess, taking a shaky breath. “I avoided you.”

You swallow hard. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d forget. But I never did.”

He stays quiet longer than you want. You think maybe You’ve ruined everything.

“You know,” he says after a long moment, “I used to think about that field trip a lot.”

You turn toward him.

“I kept wondering if I said something wrong. Maybe I embarrassed you.”

“You didn’t.”

He nods. “I know that now. But back then…”

His voice drifts. There’s a different kind of sadness in it. Not bitter. Just the kind that comes from remembering a version of yourself who didn’t know better.

“…I guess I needed you to say this more than I realized,” he finishes.

You both don’t say anything for a while after that. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full of things finally said, finally heard.

Then—like the Soobin you’ve always known—he cracks a crooked grin, glancing sideways at me.

“So…” he says, light but sincere, “now that we’ve established we were both emotionally constipated teenagers…”

You snort. “You’re the worst.”

He nudges your shoulder again, softer this time. “Just saying. We had a lot of potential for a coming-of-age drama. Tears, longing stares, tragic misunderstandings.”

“And a bad soundtrack,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, though something twists in your chest. “You would’ve done well with a sad ballad.”

“Oh, definitely,” he murmurs, looking forward now, like he’s watching a movie that only he can see. “Fade to black. Cue emotional credits.”

You smile faintly at that. Or maybe you try to. Because the warmth between you—the comfort, the quiet—it feels like something that could settle. Something that could stay.

But then the silence stretches again. Not like before. This one sharpens. Something shifts in the air, almost imperceptibly, and you feel it before you hear it. The way Soobin suddenly exhales, the weight in his shoulders changing.

You glance at him.

He’s not smiling anymore. His eyes darken with something unsaid—an emotion too raw to voice but too heavy to hide.

In that moment, the space between you changes. It’s no longer just a shared past. It’s a crossing point.

A line drawn. Between what was… and what could be.

And somehow, without words, you both know it.

This is the turning point.

The moment everything begins to change. His eyes darken, intense and searching, as they lock onto yours. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you—breath mingling, hearts hammering in sync.

guys...i reached the 1000 word block GO TO PAHT TWO

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brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 2 years ago

Text

where the sidewalk ends | pablo gavi

🎃 synopsis: Sofie meets an ex-hookup during a Halloween party. The full moon is high in the sky, the Summer they shared is now only a memory, and there are weirder things to worry about. warnings: alcohol consumption, smut, spooky themes, social media, fluff (Wc: 3k)

(this is a sequel to ibiza night fever, but can be read as standalone)

|the playlist|

“But all the magic I have known I've had to make myself.” ― Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends

It’s finally October, every melancholic girl's favorite time of the year. After a breakup and a much-needed Hot Girl Summer, what Sofie needed was a Sad Girl Autumn, and she’s been taking advantage of the season.

She started doing yoga and has been reading a lot more; you can confirm that by checking her Insta feed – she’s been filling it with intellectual aesthetic pics.

Strolls through the park, loud sighs, pumpkin spice drinks—anything that makes her look like the protagonist of a pretentious European indie film.

Tonight, though, is a special night. Tonight Sofie is a sexy Barbie Cowgirl, and she’s accompanied by Black Swan, Sleeping Beauty, and Carrie. Or, Chiara, Luisa and Becca, as they are known the rest of the year.

It’s Luisa’s annual Halloween party. It’s been a hit since the first edition and the first time Sofie will be attending it as a single lady.

If the last few months have taught her anything, it is how to be casual, or at least how to appear casual. Sofie was focused on having fun, holding her phone in one hand and a gin tonic drink in another. She scrolled through social media while taking another sip. She wasn't trying to arrive already drunk at the party, only to loosen up a bit.

She and her friends have already posted their outfits; half of them were already at the party. Sofie took a deep breath, put away her phone and walked out of the door.

chiaraaraujo

liked by rebeccaamorim and 307 others

i am so stressed out #natalieportman

oliviaaraujo amen sister ⤷chiaraaraujo 🦢 ⤷sofiemartins 🦢🦢🦢

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rebeccaamorim

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its halloweeen happy birthday stephen king

sofiemartins uhh so i just googled stephen king birthday and... uh... ⤷rebeccaamorim nah i got it right, shut up ⤷pedri 😂😂

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sofiemartins

liked by pablogavi and 326 others

🦄💗

luisafernandes girl marry me chiaraaraujo gatinha 🖤

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luisafernandes

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i'm your favorite disney princess 🩷

francisca.cgomes tão lindaa rebeccaamorim u the love of my life. fr.

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When Sofie walks into the party, she gasps with excitement. The decor was straight out of a Halloween movie. A fog machine was filling the room with mist, cobwebs were hanging all over the place. Jack-o'-lanterns grinned from every nook and cranny, their flickering faces casting playful shadows, giving the whole scene a spooky, dimly lit charm.

It was clear Luisa had gone all in to make this party amazing.

And the guests really brought their A-game in the costume department. Among the crowd, there was a wickedly realistic zombie, a time-traveling Doctor Who, a whimsical unicorn with a shimmering horn and even a comically oversized banana. The variety was as entertaining as it was impressive.

Music was thumping from the speakers, mixing old-school Halloween hits with some current jams, setting the mood for the night.

Sofie's eyes locked onto a familiar face in the sea of costumes – it was Pedri, dressed like a pirate and laughing at something Rebecca said. He looked a bit different since she last saw him, sporting a cool beard that suited him perfectly.

Sofie wasn’t surprised to see the two chatting; Becca and Pedri have been in a complicated long-distance situationship since they met in Ibiza, in the summer. But seeing the football player at the party gave Sofie goosebumps, as she tried to forget her own antics in the Spanish island.

She goes on to greet the couple.

“Cool beard, you really committed to the theme, didn't you?” Sofie jokes about his costume and Pedri laughs. “What are you doing in town, anyway?”

They were in Lisbon, far away from Barcelona, where he should be. Sofie half asks because she worries about her friend ending up heartbroken, but she’s mostly scared that his answer might get herself in trouble.

“We had a game here last night. Figured we could stay for the party.” Pedri winks.

We. There it was, what Sofie was scared of.

“We?” She asks, anyway, even though she knows the answer.

Pedri then tilts his head to the other side of the room, pointing at something. Or someone. When Sofie looks, she’s met with a figure standing by the door, somebody wearing a Ghostface costume. She rolls her eyes and looks back at Becca.

“I’m getting a drink, have fun you two!” Sofie says.

“Don’t get lost!” Becca yells and Sofie gives her a thumbs-up and a nod, but the moment she turns away, the music swallows her up. Luisa's mansion was like a maze. Sofie knew she was in for a tough time trying to do what Becca had asked.

The music was blaring, making it feel like she'd stepped into a nightclub. There were chill-out rooms with people sprawled on fancy couches, a glittering dance floor with a DJ dropping beats, and dimly-lit hallways that seemed to lead to who-knows-where.

Sofie's search for a drink brought her to a bustling room, where she was comforted by another known face, Chiara. She was dressed as Black Swan and deep into a lively, tipsy, philosophical convo with a small group of friends.

Sofie couldn't resist joining the shenanigans. "Hey, Chiara," she chimed in, with a wide grin, “what are you guys talking about?”

Chiara turned her swan-like gaze toward Sofie, her theatrical makeup adding extra drama to her expression. "Oh, you know, the meaning of life, the universe, and why we all wear costumes on Halloween," she replied, her words accompanied by giggles from her friends.

Sofie grabbed a chair and got cozy, all set to dive into the amusing and philosophical banter.

But the conversation didn’t last long; A muffled scream suddenly pierced through the party chatter, instantly grabbing their attention. Sofie and Chiara exchanged a concerned look.

"Did you hear that?" Sofie asked, her eyes darting around the room.

Chiara nodded, her curiosity piqued. "Yeah, that sounded pretty real. We should check it out."

They both rose from their seats, leaving their group of friends momentarily and headed in the direction of the mysterious scream.

Sofie and Chiara followed the sound down a dimly lit corridor. The place was spooky, and their nerves were on edge, so they just froze, waiting to see what would happen next.

They exchanged nervous glances, ears perked up, hoping to catch any hint of what had caused that scream. The whole scene felt like something out of a suspense movie, and they were bracing themselves for a sinister revelation.

“Hey,”

The girls screamed at the voice behind them, as they jumped in shock. With a hand on her chest, Sofie took a deep breath, looking back to the figure standing now in front of her. Ghostface.

He took off his mask in a hurry. It was Gavi, and he tried to show them there was no need to be scared.

“It’s just me…” Gavi says.

Sofie and Chiara breathed a collective sigh of relief. Sofie was particularly happy to see that it was Pablo, and for a moment, she considered giving him a hug. But that thought made her freeze in her tracks, and her mind drifted back to their time in Ibiza, and the nights they shared. They hadn't talked since then.

“Is everything okay?” Gavi asks, torn between wanting to laugh at their reaction and genuine concern.

“We just heard something weird,” Chiara begins to explain.

Then, out of nowhere, loud banging noises erupted from the same place they'd heard the scream. The sudden, unexpected noise sent a fresh wave of tension through the group.

Sofie, swallowing hard, spoke up. "So, we came here to check it out..."

Pablo, shaking his head with a sly grin, says, "I don't know, I'm not super into the idea of investigating 'bang' sounds." He shot Sofie a knowing look.

“Do you think that that's somebody having sex?” Sofie asks, almost relieved at the possibility, since she had not considered it.

Chiara doesn't buy the theory, it doesn't sound to her like somebody is having a good time. “But if it's something serious, we should at least make sure everyone's safe." She says.

Pablo relented with a sigh. "Alright, fine. Let's check it out. But stick close, and let's not turn this into a horror movie cliche, okay?" He jokes.

With cautious steps, they followed the sounds down the corridor until they reached a closed bedroom door. The weird rhythmic banging noises were definitely coming from inside, and a mix of curiosity and fear gripped them.

Gathering their courage, they exchanged one last glance before Gavi, the designated leader of the group, slowly turned the doorknob. The door creaked open, revealing the dark room on the other side.

When they pushed the door open, they were in for a surprise – a room filled with Roomba vacuum cleaners gone rogue. The little bots were spinning around, bumping into furniture, and beeping like they were part of some bizarre dance routine. It was like a small-scale robot rebellion.

Gavi burst into a loud laugh, "Seems like the robots have picked Halloween for their big uprising, huh?"

“That’s why I don't trust robots…” Sofie says, tip-toeing closer to Pablo, trying to avoid the bots.

“What about the scream?” Chiara couldn't help but bring up the initial reason for their investigation.

The group tenses up once again, remembering what brought them here in the first place.

"It was me," came a voice from the corner of the room. Luisa was sitting down, carefully wrapping a band-aid around her toes. "One of these things nearly took my toe out, and I don't even know how to turn them off."

With everything finally making sense, the group gathered their efforts to grab the rogue Roombas. After some trial and error, they successfully managed to turn off the little vacuum cleaners and carefully piled them up in a closet.

luisafernandes

liked by pedri and 873 others

thanks everybody who showed up. it was the best halloween party ever. my vacuum cleaners literally almost unalived me. i love all of my friends so so much. happy halloween!

rebeccaamorim what was that in the middle? ⤷sofiemartins don't even worry about it pablogavi 👻 chiaraaraujo maybe like. get a broom or something

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Pablo and Sofie stayed behind after hushing the girls back to the party. In the dimly lit bedroom, it was just the two of them. Pablo sat at the edge of the bed, and Sofie stood by the window. They both felt the urge to talk but weren't sure where to start or what to say. The unspoken tension loomed in the room.

Should they bring up Ibiza? Or should they pretend like nothing happened? They exchanged glances every now and then but mostly remained silent as they gathered their thoughts.

"It's pretty crowded out there..." Sofie says, her thoughts interrupted by the party noise.

Gavi cleared his throat, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I know... This is better. I prefer being alone."

Sofie couldn't help but giggle,"Well, you're not entirely alone. I'm right here, you know."

Pablo met her gaze and said, "When I'm with you, it doesn't feel like there's anybody else in the room." Gavi's face flushed like a tomato, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he realized what he had just let slip. "Do you... um, understand what I'm saying?" he mumbled, his words stumbling out as he anxiously awaited Sofie's response.

“I feel the same way.” Sofie says, her words escaping before she could even fully process what she was saying.

A palpable tension hung in the air as they locked eyes. It felt like an unspoken challenge to see who would look away first. It was like a silent game of vulnerability chicken, and neither of them was ready to blink.

In an instant, Gavi was right in front of her, his hand gently resting on her hips. His eyes pleaded for permission. Sofie, taken aback by his bold move, simply nodded, her eyes fixed on his lips.

He kissed her hungrily and passionately. Their minds immediately turned into a total mess, as they both desperately tried to savor the moment while also trying to let each other know just how much they'd missed this.

Sofie instinctively placed one hand on his chest, while running her fingers through his soft hair with the other. Pablo deepened the kiss, taking his time exploring her mouth and playfully licking her bottom lip.

He carefully guided her to the bed, lowering himself onto her. Their lips finally parted, leaving them breathless and flushed.

They stared into each other’s eyes intently. They couldn’t wait anymore. The desire between them was so strong, neither of them could speak. They both just wanted each other, no more holding back.

Sofie grabbed him tightly by the neck, pulling him closer. After gasping for air, Gavi brought his lips to her again, his hands moving down her sides and gripping her waist firmly.

She took off her shirt and Pablo gently pulled off her lacy pink bra.

“I missed them so much.” Gavi jokes, looking at her breasts. Sofie gives a playful slap on his arm.

“I missed you too.” She whispers in his ears. She can feel the goosebumps all over his body as she says that.

“Are we really doing this?” He asks, tenderly kissing her neck. He can’t seem to keep his mouth away from her body for too long. He knows they don’t have much time together, he’s going back to Barcelona in the morning.

“I want you so, so much.” Sofie answers in between whimpers, she’s already too lost in pleasure to consider the consequences of what she’s doing.

“But we have to be quiet.” Pablo looks at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If somebody hears us moaning, they might get worried for our safety.” He whispers. Sofie has to bite her lip to hold back a giggle.

“I can be quiet.” She promises.

Pablo enters her slowly, taking his time to enjoy every second of their reunion. They get lost in each other and it feels like their first time all over again.

She wraps her legs around him and digs her nails into his back, demanding more of him. His body starts rocking, slowly thrusting harder and faster until he loses control completely.

Their bodies move together easely. Sofie has to put a hand on her mouth to stop herself from crying his name out loud.

The sigh of her desperation is enough to drive him off the edge. He reaches down and starts massaging her clit, just like he knows she likes it. Pablo speeds up his pace, when he senses they’re both close to orgasm.

He collapses in her arms and Sofie holds him close as they reach their peak together.

They have their eyes closed and for a while the only thing on their mind is each other's heartbeat.

But then, Sofie feels her anxiety creeping in, and it is enough to break the magic surrounding them. "We should probably head back to the party," she whispers. To their ears, her words seemed louder than the music outside.

"Right," Pablo mumbles, eyes still closed, lingering in the moment for a little longer.

They quietly slipped out of the bedroom, making their way back to the party without exchanging another word.

Even without speaking, as they get out of the bedroom, they share a sly, knowing look, hinting at the possibility of meeting again, without the need for words.

Sofie, without Gavi noticing, sneakily slipped a piece of paper with her phone number into his pocket.

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