haechanhues - Tumblr blog

haechanhues · 12 days ago

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what could’ve been 3

lee minho x f!reader, bang chan x f!reader

synopsis: eight ex-couples who once called off their weddings reunite on a reality show built for closure or rekindling. you thought you came to find new love, not to face minho, the man you left without explanation. now, stuck under one roof, old wounds reopen as new feelings grow. did you make a mistake... or are you about to make another?

warnings: reality show au, angst, emotional distress, infertility, themes of heartbreak, abandonment, and unresolved trauma, some swearing. hurt/comfort.

wc: 11,961

part 1 / part 2

You didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not after the host announced so casually that Minho was gone like it was just another change in schedule, another twist for the audience. No warning. No goodbye.

Now it’s later, maybe early evening, maybe later. You don’t even know anymore. The sun’s gone down, and you’ve been curled up in the corner of your once shared room, knees tucked to your chest, sweater still smelling faintly like him. You hadn’t moved since going upstairs to confirm it for yourself. The bed was made. His stuff was gone. He was really gone.

The ache is back.

The door opens, and Gyuri steps in quietly, her expression soft but serious. You barely register her until she sits next to you on the edge of the bed. Her voice is cautious, like she doesn’t want to tip you over completely.

“I think I know why Minho left.”

That snaps you out of it.

You turn to her, blinking, waiting.

She hesitates. “Yujin overheard something earlier… She wasn’t going to say anything, but after seeing you like this… she told me Chan said something to Minho like really said something. Right before Minho left. She said she wasn’t close enough to hear it all, but then I went to go find Chan…”

You sit up straighter.

“And?”

Her mouth flattens. “He was downstairs. Laughing. With Felix, Jeongin, and Changbin. Literally telling them that his ‘competition’s finally gone.’”

Your stomach drops.

“He said that?”

She nods once. “Exactly that.”

That’s all you need.

You stand, almost on autopilot, storming down the hallway. You hear your name called behind you, Gyuri telling you to breathe, but you don’t. You push the door open to the lounge and spot him immediately, reclined with a smug half-smile, eyes lighting up when he sees you walk in, but not because he knows what’s coming. Because he still thinks he won.

You wait until he finishes laughing at some half-finished joke before you speak.

“Can we talk?”

The room quiets. He shifts uncomfortably, the mood changing fast. He stands slowly, feigning confusion.

“Now?” “Yes. Now.”

He steps toward you, his tone already guarded. “What, you want to talk now because you realized I’m the one who’s still here?”

“No.” Your voice is cold. “Because I found out what you did.”

That’s when the mask cracks.

He rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. “Of course Gyuri couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

You blink. “So it’s true?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I didn’t do anything. I just told him what everyone else was thinking. That you clearly weren’t over him and I was tired of pretending it didn’t bother me.”

“So you pushed him to leave?”

“I didn’t push him. I just... said what needed to be said. If he couldn’t handle that—”

You cut him off. “You didn’t want to deal with the fact that my heart was never fully yours. So instead of being honest, you played dirty.”

His face hardens. “I was honest. You were the one who kept stringing me along. Every time I looked at you, your eyes were somewhere else—with someone else. I like you. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel like a fucking rebound.”

It boils over then.

“Of course you felt like a rebound, Chan!” you snap, your voice cracking as emotion finally spills through. “Because maybe you were. Maybe I wasn’t ready, and I thought I could be, and I’m sorry if I hurt you for it, but you don’t get to punish someone else because of that. You don’t get to play victim and sabotage someone else's healing—our healing—because you felt insecure!”

The room’s gone still. Some of the others stand awkwardly nearby, Gyuri, Jisung, Yujin. Sana’s halfway up the stairs, clearly overhearing everything.

Felix tries to intervene, placing a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Maybe just take a breath, mate.”

But Chan pulls away. “So I’m the villain now? For loving someone who couldn’t love me back?”

You shake your head. “You’re not the villain for loving me, Chan. You’re the villain for making someone I love feel like he had to leave just to breathe.”

His jaw clenches, and he spits out the last dagger.

“You left him first. Don’t forget that.”

It hurts. It lands. But not the way he wants.

Because you did leave Minho. But you came back. You told the truth. You tried.

Chan’s words aren’t new wounds. They’re just salt in the ones you’re already healing from.

Your hands are shaking, and your eyes sting, but before you can say anything else, Gyuri gently pulls you by the arm. “That’s enough.”

You let her guide you out, out of the lounge, out of the noise, out of Chan’s bitterness. You don’t even cry right away. You just sit. And breathe.

You needed to be alone. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

You looked at Gyuri as gently as you could and said, "Can I just… have a minute?"

She looked like she wanted to say no, to hold your hand and keep you from collapsing, but she nodded, just once. You mouthed a “thank you” before slipping away, your steps quiet but heavy as you made your way to your bedroom.

You didn’t even bother closing the door all the way. The tears came fast.

They poured out the second your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you curled over them, muffling your sobs into the comforter.

You weren’t even sure what hurt more.

Minho leaving without a goodbye.

Or the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be gone.

You talked. You told each other everything. You even laughed. You shared that sweater, that walk, that space where, for once it didn’t feel like the past was chasing either of you. And now?

Nothing but an empty bed where his duffel used to be.

You tried to hold yourself together, but your chest ached from holding so much inside. You weren’t just crying about today, you were crying about two years of pain that never truly had the chance to breathe. Not until now. And now it was all crashing down again.

You didn’t even hear the knock.

Just the voice too calm, too rehearsed.

"Sorry to bother you, but… we were told about your walk this morning with Minho. The cameras didn’t catch it. Would you mind doing a quick confessional?"

You didn’t lift your head right away.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to say no. To tell them to go to hell and leave you the fuck alone.

But you knew how this worked. Knew they’d keep knocking. Knew they’d keep waiting. And most of all, you knew they wouldn’t let it go.

So you wiped your face with the sleeve of Minho’s sweater, the one you still hadn’t taken off and stood on legs that barely held you.

The walk to the confessional room felt like dragging your body through cement. The lights were already on when you entered. That stupid black couch was waiting. The cameras were already rolling. No one said anything at first.

Then someone behind the monitor cleared their throat and gently asked:

“Can you talk to us about the walk this morning with Minho?”

You blinked. Just stared for a moment.

Then nodded slowly, voice raspy.

“We didn’t argue… if that’s what you’re asking. It wasn’t like that. We just talked. We needed to talk. About everything. About… what happened back then, why I left him, how he felt. How I felt.”

You looked down at your hands, clenched so tight your knuckles were white.

“We finally said the things we never got to say two years ago. It wasn’t perfect. But… I thought we understood each other now. I thought—” you paused, swallowing hard, “—I thought he might stay.”

There was a long pause.

Then came the second question.

“But he left shortly after. Was it something said on that walk?”

You shook your head instantly. “No. Not by me.”

But you didn’t offer anything more. Because it wasn’t your job to tell them what Chan did. You weren’t going to make it easier for them to spin the narrative. You weren’t going to hand them your pain in a neat package for them to air as drama.

They waited. Then moved on.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say to Minho? Now that he’s not here?”

You stared straight into the camera. Your throat tightened.

“I thought we were okay. I thought we were finally finding our way back to being… something. Even just friends. And I’m sorry you had to go through what you did. I wish I had said more. I wish I had stayed with you longer this morning. I wish I hadn’t… let someone get between us.”

You bit your bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“I don’t know if you’ll see this. Or if you even want to. But I’m sorry. And I hope you find peace. Even if it’s without me.”

Another beat passed.

Then they hit you with the one you were expecting, but still didn’t feel ready for:

“Do you think you’ll give Chan a chance?”

You paused.

Your first instinct was silence. But they waited. Always waiting. Always pressing.

“Do you see yourself walking away from the show with him? As your future partner?”

It sounded like bait. It was bait.

You looked at them for a long moment. Then down again. And then, finally, you spoke.

“I don’t know what my future looks like right now. But I know one thing: I don’t want to end up with someone who can’t respect my pain, even if they love me.”

Your voice cracked a little.

“I don’t want to be someone’s choice out of convenience. And I don’t want to love someone who chooses to hurt others when they feel insecure.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“So no. I don’t think I’ll walk out of here with Chan.”

The room was silent.

No one said a word.

And for the first time in days, you felt a strange kind of peace in that silence.

A hollow, fragile peace.

But peace nonetheless.

The wheels touched down with a hollow jolt, but the ache in Minho’s chest had been steady for hours. Maybe days. Months, if he were honest. The seatbelt sign chimed off above his head, and he moved on autopilot, grabbing his bag, nodding at the stewardess who smiled too brightly, stepping out into the familiar humidity of Seoul’s summer heat like it was supposed to wrap him in some kind of relief. It didn’t.

He was home. That was what he kept telling himself. Home. But it didn’t feel like home. Not really.

The drive back to his apartment was quiet. The taxi driver tried to make small talk. He didn’t want to talk about. He just thought about the promise the producers made to him when they’d recruited him:

"It’ll help you move on. Maybe you’ll even fall in love again."

What a joke.

They didn’t tell him that you would be there. They didn’t tell him that he’d see your face across the firepit on the first night, so sharply real it felt like he’d hallucinated it. He remembered the way his hands had clenched in his lap. The cameras had caught it, he was sure someone out there made a compilation of how his jaw ticked every time your name was mentioned. But that didn’t matter anymore.

The car pulled up to the curb outside his apartment building, and before he could even get the door open, his mother was there. Of course she was. She’d tracked his flight; he’d expected that. What he didn’t expect was the sound of her voice catching in her throat when she saw him.

“Minho,” she gasped, pulling him into her arms like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. Maybe she had. “You’ve lost weight.”

He smiled faintly, letting her fuss. “No, I haven’t.”

“You have. Your cheeks—look at your cheeks.”

He let her cup his face, gently brushing her thumb across his jaw. Her hands were warm, comforting in a way only a mother’s could be. But he saw it in her eyes, the worry. The quiet disappointment. And something else buried beneath her affection.

"Come in," she said quickly. "Come see the kids. They're dying without you."

The kids. Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, his lifeline.

He stepped inside and the familiar sound of tiny paws scuttling against hardwood met his ears before he even had his shoes off. They meowed wildly, winding around his legs, tails high, rubbing their scent back onto him like he’d been gone for years. His mother watched with a proud grin as if she had raised them herself.

"They missed you every day," she said, smoothing her skirt as she followed him inside. "I had to sing them that stupid little song of yours just to get them to eat."

He chuckled. The first genuine laugh in weeks. “You sang it?”

“Don’t mock your mother. I’d do anything for these furballs.”

Minho dropped his bag by the door and sank to the floor, letting the cats crawl all over him. Their warmth, their unfiltered love, it was the only thing that anchored him. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing them in, feeling their soft fur brush against his skin like forgiveness.

Then, his mother’s voice cut through the quiet.

“So…” she started, casual but cautious. “The show. How was it?”

Minho stiffened.

He didn't look at her, just scratched behind Doongie’s ear and said, “It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

He shrugged.

"You were gone for so long, Minho. I expected something more. Did you meet anyone?"

“I saw y/n.”

Silence.

Her voice sharpened. “You saw her? Y/n?”

Minho’s fingers paused mid-stroke, eyes fixed on the floor.

His mother’s face darkened instantly.

“How stupid,” she said, cold now.

“She didn’t know either,” Minho muttered.

“She should’ve walked out.”

“She had just as much right to be there as I did.”

His mother crossed her arms tightly, leaning against the wall. “You’re too kind, Minho. You always have been. That girl—she shattered you. And I was so wrong about her.”

Minho flinched. “Mom…”

“No. No, you don’t get to defend her. Not here, not after everything I watched you go through. Do you know what you looked like after she left? Like someone had cut the strings inside you. I couldn’t even talk to you without worrying you'd cry, and you never cry. You—”

“I’m not talking about this,” he said firmly.

His mother fell quiet, staring at him.

Then, softer now, she tried again: “You know… my friend’s daughter is still single. I told you about her. Smart. Successful. Pretty. She runs her own clinic now. She’s still very interested. She even asked about you recently.”

Minho didn’t reply.

“You two would be perfect,” she pressed. “Someone who knows what she wants. She’s not—”

“I’m tired,” he said, voice dull.

His mother pursed her lips, disappointed but not surprised. “Fine. I’ll leave you to rest. But Minho, I mean it when I say—you deserve someone who sees your worth. Who doesn’t make you question everything. Someone who stays.”

And with that, she picked up her purse, leaned down to kiss his hair, and let herself out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The silence in the apartment settled like fog. He stood still for a moment, the cats still circling him, then made his way to the bedroom.

The sheets were just as he left them, tightly tucked, no wrinkles, no warmth.

He lay back, fully clothed, and pulled out his phone.

He stared at the black screen for a long time, debating. He’d told himself he deleted it all. He had, on social media, on the shared drive, even off his old backup. But not here. Not where it counted. His private vault, buried beneath folder after folder.

He tapped it open, and the first thing that appeared was a video: you laughing, your hair blowing messily in the wind, your hand reaching for his with a gleam in your eyes that said this, this moment was real.

He watched it three times.

Then the pictures your birthdays together, your hands laced in a museum somewhere in Berlin, your tearful smile when he surprised you with the rescue cat you later named Dori. You, curled up in his arms after a long day. You, quiet in the morning, reading with his sweatshirt draped over your frame.

He hadn’t deleted anything that mattered.

The ache was sharper now.

He rolled onto his side, phone clutched against his chest like a shield.

And the thoughts came.

Was Chan with you now?

Now that he was out of the picture, did you finally give in to something more with him? He saw the way Chan looked at you. Thought no one else noticed. But Minho did. Always did. Back when it used to make him bristle. Back when he trusted you enough not to doubt.

But now?

He hated that it wasn’t jealousy that ate him alive, it was the uncertainty. The fear that if you had moved on, you might never know why he left in the first place.

Because it wasn’t about you. Not really.

It was him. His own doubts. His own belief that maybe you deserved someone more whole. Someone who could promise you more than he thought he could give.

He would’ve held you tight that night.

He would’ve said something. Anything.

Because he didn’t care.

He didn’t care that you couldn’t have children. There were other ways. There were options. Adoption. Surrogacy. Or even no kids at all, he didn’t care, not if it meant being with you. Waking up next to you. Watching the lines in your face deepen with time and love and age.

But instead, he let the silence grow.

He let his own fears fester.

He let the weight of what-ifs sink him into something numb.

You don’t even remember how you got back to your room.

The confessional had taken something from you. Like it cracked something open that you had been desperately trying to hold together all day. The lights, the questions, the way they asked you if you “saw yourself walking away with Chan” as if your world hadn’t just collapsed hours earlier like you were still playing a game when none of it felt like a game anymore.

You didn’t even cry on the walk back. You felt numb, your feet moving on their own as producers thanked you for being “so honest.” You didn’t say a word. You just walked away.

Now, hours later, the room was dark. Everyone else had retreated to their own corners of the villa. You had curled up in bed still in your clothes, not bothering to change facing the wall, replaying everything over and over in your head.

Minho had really left.

And you had really let him.

The sweater he gave you after the morning walk still hung off the chair by your bedside. You hadn’t touched it since you took it off.

You felt like you had nothing left in you, no more strength, no more words, no more hope. Just a lingering ache in your chest where love used to live, where confusion had settled.

Then.. a knock.

Soft. Barely audible.

You almost thought you imagined it.

Then again, a voice.

“Hey… are you sleeping?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t have the energy to.

Your head turned slightly on the pillow just enough to glance at the door. A sliver of hallway light seeped in as the door slowly creaked open.

Chan. Hair messy. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Barefoot. He looked… hesitant.

“Can I come in?” he asked, softer this time.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either.

That was enough for him.

He stepped in, gently closing the door behind him. The silence between you was awkward, fragile and delicate like walking on cracked glass. He approached slowly, sat down near your feet. You were still curled up, eyes staring blankly past him.

He didn’t try to joke. Didn’t try to smile.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You blinked.

His voice cracked a little. “For what I said. What I did.”

Still, you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Chan sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. “I got jealous. I know. And I know I shouldn’t have said anything to Minho. I just—” he paused, then looked down at his hands, “I really like you.”

You swallowed, shifting your eyes away from him again.

“I didn’t want to mess things up. But I guess I did. And I don’t regret liking you, I don’t. But I shouldn’t have tried to make him feel small just to make myself feel important.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then added, “I think… I knew your heart was never really here with me. Not fully. Not when he was around. But I didn’t want to admit it.”

You closed your eyes. That… that hurt. Because it was true.

He gently reached out and rubbed your arm.

You didn’t flinch.

But you didn’t lean into it either.

His thumb moved in slow circles.

“I’m not asking you to love me,” he murmured. “Or choose me. I just needed to say I’m sorry. And I wish I hadn’t pushed him out like that. That wasn’t fair to you… or to him.”

Your throat tightened.

“I think I was so focused on winning you,” Chan whispered, “I forgot you’re not a prize.”

That hit deeper than you expected. You stayed quiet.

Chan finally stood, brushing his hands against his pants awkwardly. “I’ll go now. Just… rest, okay?”

He hesitated before turning to leave. But this time, he didn’t wait for a response.

When the door closed, you were left in silence again. But something felt different. Not better. Not lighter. Just... quieter.

You turned your face back into the pillow, breathing deeply. The air smelled like Minho’s hoodie. Like eucalyptus and warm spice. You pulled it off the chair slowly and hugged it to your chest.

And in that moment, you didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You just held onto what was left of him  and let the silence say everything you couldn’t.

The hallway light flickered softly above you, casting pale shadows on the walls as you padded down the stairs barefoot, careful not to make a sound. The villa was still, almost too still, like it was holding its breath. You could hear the whisper of crickets outside through the barely cracked kitchen window and the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cool night air.

You didn’t bother turning on the overhead light when you entered the kitchen. The glow from the fridge and the moonlight spilling through the blinds were enough. That, and the fact that you didn’t want to be seen. Not right now. You didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to explain or be looked at with knowing eyes. You just wanted water. A few moments of silence. Some kind of peace.

But of course, the universe had other plans.

She was already there.

Gyuri.

Perched on one of the barstools by the counter, her long hair pulled up in a messy bun, a half-finished mug of tea cradled between her palms. She wasn’t supposed to be here. You blinked at her, caught off guard.

She offered a soft smile, not the bright kind that felt performative, but the quiet kind you give someone when you know they’re barely holding it together.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked gently.

You shook your head. She didn’t ask anything else. She didn’t need to.

You opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and leaned back against the counter. The silence stretched comfortably between you, not awkward, just… mutual understanding.

“I saw Chan go into your room earlier,” she said after a moment, her voice low but not nosy.

You nodded. “He apologized.”

She rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her tea. “Of course he did.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure there was anything to say to that.

“What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

You exhaled, slow and long, the kind of breath you take before confessing something you’re not ready to say aloud. “I don’t know.”

But that wasn’t true. You did know. You just weren’t sure you were ready to admit it. Not even to yourself.

“I want to leave,” you said finally, eyes fixed on the bottle in your hands, the condensation sliding down your fingers.

Gyuri didn’t look surprised. She didn’t even blink.

“Why?”

But she knew. You both did.

“Because he left,” you said quietly.

She nodded, like she’d expected that answer. “You want to go after him.”

You didn’t answer.

She tilted her head. “You should.”

You glanced at her.

She smiled again, softer now. “You should do whatever it is you need to do. Because no one here will say it out loud, but I see it. I see how much you still love him. Even when you pretend you don’t.”

That made you smile, small and sad. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” she said, setting her mug down. “This place, it’s not a prison. You don’t owe anyone here your unhappiness.”

You stared at the floor for a moment. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea. I don’t know if he wants to see me. If he’s… angry.”

“You won’t know unless you go.”

There it was. The truth. The choice.

But before you could say anything else, before the momentum could carry you somewhere real and irreversible, a door creaked open down the hallway and footsteps echoed softly across the floor.

Chan.

He stepped into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. His shirt clung slightly to his chest, and his hair was a tousled mess from sleep. He blinked at both of you, surprised but quickly recovering.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, reaching for a glass. “Just getting water.”

Gyuri stood, clearing her throat. She gave you a small, pointed look, think about it before brushing past Chan with a nod. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” he mumbled, then turned back to you once she was gone. “You guys didn’t have to make it so obvious you were talking about me.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. He said it teasingly, a faint smile playing on his lips, but you knew it was a jab. The tone was just a shade too sharp.

You looked away, sipping your water.

He watched you for a moment, then leaned back against the counter beside you, his shoulder close to yours but not touching.

“Is it true?” he asked, voice lower now. “Are you actually thinking of leaving?”

You didn’t answer right away. You figured he’d heard most of what you said anyway. The walls weren’t that thick. You sighed. “I don’t know.”

“But it’s because of him,” he said. Not a question. A fact.

Still, you hesitated. “…Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d already known but needed to hear it from you anyway. The glass in his hand remained untouched.

He leaned a little closer, voice softer. “I know I already said it, but… I’m sorry.”

You turned your head slightly.

“I didn’t mean for things to get this messy. I just—I thought maybe, if we talked, if we spent more time together, alone, it could… I don’t know. Heal something.”

“It did,” you said, quietly. “For a while.”

“But now it feels like we took ten steps back,” he finished for you. “I know.”

The room felt heavier with every word.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I want us to try again. For real. If you’d let me.”

You looked at him then. His eyes were honest, pleading, but tired. The kind of tired that comes from trying too hard to fix something that might never go back to what it was.

You swallowed. “Chan…”

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he interrupted gently. “I just needed you to know. If there’s even a part of you that thinks we could be something again… I’m here. I’ll keep being here.”

You didn’t answer.

Because what could you say?

That every time you closed your eyes, you still saw Minho?

That you remembered the way he used to reach for you in his sleep, the way he’d run his hand down your back like he was memorizing you in the dark?

You turned back to your water, fingers trembling slightly against the cool glass.

Chan was quiet beside you, waiting for something, anything.

But you didn’t know what to give him.

Chan was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that meant he’d said all he needed to say. It was the silence of someone who still had something to prove, something to take, something to change. His presence lingered beside you, radiating that quiet desperation you’d grown familiar with since Minho left, since everything fell into that unspoken silence between you and the rest of the house.

You didn’t realize how close he was until he leaned in slow, hesitant, but deliberate.

His hand reached up, his fingers brushing gently under your jaw, lifting your face toward his. It was a familiar gesture, the kind that once would’ve made your breath catch in your throat. But now… it felt foreign. Wrong.

You froze.

He was looking at you like he meant it, like he thought maybe this was the moment that would shift everything. His thumb grazed your cheekbone slow, careful. Tender, even. You remembered that kind of tenderness. You remembered liking it once.

But that was before.

Now, all you could think about was how his touch wasn’t the one you missed. It wasn’t Minho’s hand, warm and steady, tracing soft circles on your face just to make you smile on heavy days. It wasn’t Minho’s breath, mingling with yours like a shared secret, like a promise.

Chan leaned in closer.

He was going to kiss you.

You could feel it, his intent. It sat between you like static.

And maybe, in a different world, you would’ve let him.

But not in this one.

You turned your head quickly, stepping back just enough that his hand dropped from your face. You laughed, not a real one, but the kind that tried to play it off, to ease the sudden awkward tension.

“I’m… I’m tired. I should go to bed,” you said too lightly, avoiding his eyes.

His jaw flexed. Just barely. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have seen it. But you did.

He tongued the inside of his cheek, looking off to the side, hiding the flash of annoyance in his expression.

But it was there. And you knew what it meant.

He was angry.

Not at you, not really. At Minho.

Because even now, even in this moment where you were standing right in front of him, he still couldn’t have you. Not fully. Not the way he wanted. And it was Minho’s fault.

Minho, who hadn’t touched you in months.

Minho, who hadn’t said a word when he left.

Minho, who still lived somewhere in the soft ache of your heart where no one else could reach.

“Right,” Chan said after a beat, pasting on a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Get some rest.”

You nodded. “You too.”

He watched you go, that false smile still stretched across his lips like it might convince you to turn back. You didn’t.

You slipped out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs with a tired heaviness in your chest. Your fingers skimmed the railing, and you told yourself you just needed to breathe, to think, to sleep.

“Jesus—!”

You jumped, heart slamming into your ribs, as Gyuri materialized from the shadows in the hallway like a ghost.

“Sorry,” she whispered, not sorry at all. “I was trying to listen.”

You clutched your chest, eyes wide. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“I had to make sure you weren’t about to make a huge mistake.”

Your pulse was still racing. “You mean like kissing Chan?”

She gave you a look.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “We didn’t kiss.”

“Good,” she said without missing a beat. “Because that would’ve been tragic.”

You scoffed and leaned against the wall, trying to calm down. “I couldn’t. Not anymore.”

Gyuri’s expression softened, just slightly. “Because of Minho?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to.

She already knew.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when Chan stopped feeling like a second chance and started feeling like a barrier. Like every time you tried to move toward something new, your heart rebelled. Not because you hadn’t healed, but because part of you never stopped waiting. For what, you weren’t sure.

For Minho to come back? For closure? For proof that the kind of love you had wasn’t one-sided?

You let out a shaky breath.

“I thought if I stayed here long enough, something would shift,” you admitted. “That I’d stop thinking about him every time I passed his old room. That I’d stop wondering if I made the right choice.”

Gyuri gave you a knowing look. “But you didn’t make a choice. Not really. You just… stayed still.”

You looked at her.

She wasn’t judging you. She wasn’t pushing. She was just being honest.

“I know you care about Chan,” she said gently. “And maybe in some other life, you two could’ve worked. But not this one. Not when your heart’s still with someone else.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your fingers to your lips where Chan’s kiss never landed.

“I don’t know if Minho even wants to see me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I’d be fixing anything or just making it worse.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” Gyuri echoed her earlier words. “You can’t keep sitting in limbo hoping something happens. At some point, you have to be the one who moves.”

You looked down the hallway toward your room, waiting for a door to open that never would.

And then you looked the other way.

Toward the unknown.

Toward the choice.

“You think it’s too late?” you asked quietly.

“I think,” Gyuri said, touching your arm, “that when it’s real, it’s never really too late.”

The silence between you and Gyuri felt different now full, not heavy. There was no judgment in her gaze, no pressure. Just understanding. The kind that only comes from someone who’s been watching you quietly unravel, thread by thread, but loves you enough not to pull.

You stood there in the dim hallway light, eyes still a little glossy, breath still unsteady. The emotional whiplash of the last ten minutes hadn’t quite settled in yet. Chan’s almost-kiss. Gyuri’s unshakable honesty. And now this moment, this choice standing wide open in front of you.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her.

Tight.

Not the kind of hug you give someone before bed. Not casual. Not routine.

It was the kind of hug that said thank you, that said you know me, that said I’m scared but I’m going anyway.

Gyuri didn’t even hesitate. Her arms closed around you instantly, grounding you in the middle of your internal storm.

She didn’t pull away. Just held you for a second longer and then whispered against your shoulder, “You’re leaving, right?”

Your breath caught.

You hadn’t even said it yet.

But she knew.

Of course she did.

You nodded slowly, the smallest motion. “Yeah.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at you, her eyes soft but shining. And then she pulled you in again, tighter this time. Protective. Fierce.

“I knew it the second you said you couldn’t kiss him,” she whispered.

You let out a shaky laugh, one that blurred with the tears suddenly threatening to spill.

She kissed your temple gently and murmured, “I’m proud of you. You’re doing what’s right for you. That’s not easy.”

Your eyes stung harder at that. You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to will the tears back in.

“And,” she added, her tone suddenly playful to balance the moment, “the second this show wraps, I’m running to wherever you are so you can tell me everything. I want full breakdowns. How you found him, what he said, if he cried, how you cried, how hard you guys made out after—”

You let out an actual laugh, warm and bubbling, and shook your head. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your worst,” she said proudly.

“Yeah,” you breathed, smiling through the glassy edge of your vision. “You are.”

Gyuri reached up and brushed a thumb under your eye, catching the tears before they fell. “Now go get Minho already.”

You nodded again, firmer this time.

This wasn’t a maybe anymore.

This wasn’t an impulsive wish or a romanticized thought.

You were going.

You were going to find Minho. To tell him the truth, not just that you loved him, but that you were sorry. For everything. For the way things fell apart. For what he thought you felt. For what he didn’t know. For what Chan might’ve twisted to drive him away. For every second you let your pride or your fear hold you back.

You gave Gyuri one last squeeze and pulled back, heart thudding in your chest like a drum. “Don’t tell anyone I left yet.”

She raised her right hand. “Swear on my skincare routine.”

“That’s serious.”

“I know,” she grinned. “Now go pack before I cry.”

You rolled your eyes at her, playful now, the way you used to be before everything got so complicated. “Try to sleep.”

“If I’m not too worried about how you’re doing,” she teased.

“You’re impossible.”

She smirked. “And you’re in love. Now move.”

You turned and practically sprinted down the hall, your heart racing faster than your feet could carry you. The second you stepped into your room, you shut the door behind you quietly and leaned against it for a beat, taking one last breath.

Then you got to work.

Your hands moved fast, like muscle memory, like something inside you had been preparing for this all along. You yanked open drawers, swept your toiletries into your bag.

You didn’t bother folding anything neatly. You didn’t have time. Your hands trembled as you zipped your suitcase shut, not from nerves, but from adrenaline. From the sheer weight of finally.

Because you had waited. Too long.

You had hoped Minho would reach out. That he’d realize something on his own. But you hadn’t realized how much damage had been done, how much had gone unsaid until it was too late and his absence became louder than his presence ever was.

And now?

You didn’t care about the producers. You didn’t care about the contracts, the optics, the show’s arc, the audience’s reaction. You were done being a storyline. You were done being edited. You wanted your real life back.

You wanted him.

You’d warned the producers earlier that you were unhappy. You told them you were thinking about leaving. You might’ve said it calmly, like it was a small thing. But you hadn’t waited for their approval. You knew what the answer would be, Stay. We’ll fix it. There’s still a story here.

But they didn’t get it.

There was no story left without Minho.

There never really was.

As you fastened your suitcase, your mind was already with him.

You pictured the moment he left, the quiet way he walked out like he didn’t want anyone to notice. Like he didn’t want you to stop him.

You hadn’t.

Not because you didn’t care.

But because you didn’t know he was walking away for good.

And now… maybe you still didn’t know.

Maybe when you showed up, he’d close the door in your face. Maybe he’d tell you it was too late. That he’d moved on. That he didn’t care anymore.

But maybe, Maybe

He’d see you and know.

He’d know that you weren’t the one who gave up.

That you never stopped loving him.

That whatever Chan told him, whatever twisted version of your story he fed Minho to justify his own hope, none of it was true. You weren’t over Minho. You never would be.

And tonight, when Chan tried to kiss you, that truth finally came into sharp, undeniable focus.

You zipped the last compartment, wiped your face quickly, and grabbed your phone. You left a message for the production team, brief and blunt:

I’m done. I’m leaving. I’ve said what I needed to say.

Then you slid it into your pocket, grabbed your bag, and stood at the door.

For the first time in a long time, your heart didn’t feel like it was breaking.

It felt like it was waking up.

The taxi ride to the airport from the villa was silent, save for the low hum of tires against pavement and the occasional voice on the radio. You kept your head turned toward the window, but you weren’t really seeing anything. Just streaks of light. Your own reflection. The outline of your suitcase beside you.

It all felt like a blur. Like you were moving underwater.

When you reached the airport, it didn’t feel real. You moved on autopilot, check-in, security, gate. The noise of people swarming around you barely registered. You were there, but not really there. All you could think about was him, what he’d say, how he’d look, if he’d even let you get the words out.

On the flight, you sat stiff and still, hands curled tightly in your lap. A flight attendant asked if you wanted anything and you shook your head. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t drink. You just stared straight ahead, willing the plane to move faster.

Every time you closed your eyes, memories of him played like film reels: his laugh muffled into your neck, the way he used to nudge your shoulder with his when he wanted your attention, the quiet sound of his breathing while he slept.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding it all in until the flight landed in Seoul, and that gnawing pit in your stomach opened wider.

Because that’s when it hit you.

You had no idea how to find him.

Your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t know if he’d blocked you. You didn’t know where he lived now. You didn’t even know if he wanted to be found. But you weren’t ready to give up.

You took a cab to your own apartment first. Dropped your suitcase by the door. Splashed water on your face. Tried to breathe.

And then you went to the only place you could think of. The apartment you used to share.

You didn’t even know if he still lived there. Maybe it was rented out. Maybe it had been emptied, cleaned of every memory the two of you had built together. But you needed to try.

Because if you didn’t, the what if would haunt you forever.

It was almost dusk when you arrived.

You stepped out of the cab, your heart pounding against your ribcage like it wanted to burst free. The air was warm, humid with the fading heat of the day. The old familiarity of the neighborhood felt surreal. It hadn’t changed. Same narrow sidewalks. Same cafe on the corner. Same flower boxes in the windows.

But you had changed.

You walked slowly to the front steps, stopping just outside the door. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up at it. You could still remember the way Minho used to hold the door open for you, how the two of you would race up the stairs when it rained, laughing like fools.

It all hit you in a rush.

And just as you raised your hand to knock, the door swung open.

You froze.

His mother stood there.

She was dressed neatly, just as she always had been hair pulled back, a simple bag in one hand, keys in the other. Her face, for a split second, lit up in polite surprise when she saw someone on the doorstep.

And then her eyes focused.

On you.

The smile dropped from her face instantly.

Her expression hardened like ice forming over still water.

You opened your mouth, trying to find the right words. “Hello—”

But she cut you off with a sharp scoff.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she said coldly.

You stepped back slightly, your nerves unraveling. “I—I just… I needed to see Minho.”

Her eyes narrowed. “After everything? You have some nerve showing up like this.”

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, I—”

“You’ve already caused enough,” she snapped, her voice rising. “He was doing better until you showed up again on that ridiculous show. You couldn’t even leave him in peace.”

You looked down, throat burning.

You hadn’t expected warmth. But the hostility still stung like a slap. You were just about to stammer out an apology when a familiar voice called from inside.

“Mom?” Minho.

And then his footsteps. Quick. Urgent.

He appeared in the doorway beside her, towel around his neck like he’d just come from the shower, damp hair slightly tousled.

His eyes landed on you and he stopped.

Frozen.

Like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Like you were a hallucination brought on by old feelings he thought he buried.

“What…” he breathed, his voice low. “What are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth, but his mother beat you to it.

“She needs to go,” she snapped, turning to him. “You don’t owe her anything. Don’t let her do this to you again.”

Minho’s eyes never left yours. His jaw clenched.

“It’s fine, Mom,” he said, gently but firmly.

“Minho—”

“I said it’s fine.”

She looked at him, eyes tight with concern, but didn’t argue. She gave you one last scathing look, clutched her purse tighter, and stepped past you, heels clicking loudly against the ground as she left.

You turned back to Minho, your heart thudding violently.

“I didn’t mean to make things worse,” you said quietly.

He blinked, still trying to process the sight of you. “I… I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to.”

His lips parted, like he was about to respond, but then his brows knit together, and something deeper passed over his face, something pained.

You stepped forward, barely an inch, and then before you could overthink it, reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck.

It wasn’t forceful.

It wasn’t a plea.

It was just you, holding on like your life depended on it.

He stiffened, caught off guard. You felt his body go rigid for half a second.

But then hisarms came around you slowly. One at your waist. The other across your back.

And he pulled you in.

Not too tight at first. Almost cautiously. But then, as your head tucked against his shoulder and your fingers curled into his shirt, he exhaled and his grip tightened.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he’d missed this too.

You felt his heartbeat under your cheek, fast and real and steady.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I didn’t know what Chan told you, or what you believed, but I never stopped—”

“You should’ve stayed at the show,” he said quietly.

You tensed slightly. Pulled back just far enough to look at him.

He didn’t sound angry. Just… conflicted.

“I couldn’t,” you said. “Not after you left.”

His eyes searched yours. “So you followed me?”

You nodded. “I needed you to know the truth.”

A beat passed. Neither of you moved.

Then he swallowed hard. “And what’s the truth?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, the soft curve of his lips, the weariness in his eyes, the gentle slope of his brow. And you said the only thing that mattered.

“That I still love you.”

His breath caught. His hands flexed slightly against your back.

“That I’m sorry I didn’t say it when it mattered most. That I should’ve fought harder. That I should’ve held onto you the night everything fell apart.”

Minho didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t have to.

He pulled you into him again.

And this time, he didn’t let go.

Minho didn’t say a word as he pulled back from the hug. He just looked at you, really looked at you like he was still trying to decide if this moment was a dream. His hands hovered near your waist even after you stepped back, reluctant to let you go completely. The air between you was still charged, still delicate.

You had so much to say.

And for once, you weren’t afraid to say it.

“Can we talk?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Minho nodded, stepping aside, holding the door open as you walked in.

The apartment was almost exactly the same. Slightly neater, more minimal. But the bones were still there. The memories. The quiet. The absence.

He motioned for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your hands tightly in your lap as he took a seat on the armchair across from you, elbows on his knees, looking down like he wasn’t sure where to begin. You broke the silence first.

“I didn’t come here to fix everything in one night,” you said softly. “I came because I realized I couldn’t move on without trying.”

He looked up at that.

You swallowed hard. “I thought I was protecting you by shutting you out. I thought if I gave you space, you’d be able to forget how messy I was. How complicated everything got.”

“Is that really what you thought?” he asked gently.

You nodded. “It was after the doctor’s appointment. I came home and I was just… numb. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t know how to tell you, how to let myself feel anything in front of you without falling apart.”

“You should’ve let yourself fall apart,” he said. “I would've been there to catch you.”

Your eyes filled before you even felt the tears coming. That sentence the way he said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, cut you open. Because that was the part you’d gotten so wrong.

“I thought it would change how you saw me,” you admitted, voice shaking. “That I wouldn’t be enough anymore. That I’d never give you the future you deserved.”

Minho looked at you with something like heartbreak, and slowly stood up. He walked over, quietly, and sat next to you on the couch.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

But you felt his warmth beside you, steady, present.

“Do you think I stayed with you because I thought you’d give me children?” he asked, voice trembling now. “Do you honestly think that was the most important thing to me?”

You wiped your face quickly, shaking your head. “No. I don’t know. I just… I panicked.”

He exhaled slowly, like something inside him was finally loosening.

“I would’ve stayed,” he said, voice low and raw. “I would’ve held you through every hard moment, every fear, every breakdown. I didn’t need a perfect future. I just needed you.”

The tears came harder now.

“I’m sorry,” you said, choking on the words. “I was wrong. I handled everything so badly. If I could go back… if I could relive that day, I would’ve come straight home and told you everything. I would’ve crawled into bed beside you and cried until I couldn’t breathe, and let you see it all.”

He turned to you then, hand reaching up to gently wipe a tear from your cheek.

“I would’ve held you,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I wouldn’t have let go.”

The words broke something in both of you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just sat there, tears falling freely, side by side. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full of all the time you’d lost, and everything that still remained.

“I needed to hear that,” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes. “I thought I ruined everything.”

He shook his head slowly. “No. We were both scared. We just didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

You nodded, blinking against the tears still slipping down your face. “Why did you really leave the villa?”

His jaw tensed a little.

You waited, watching his expression shift like he was working through how honest he wanted to be.

“Was it something Chan said?” you asked softly. “What did he tell you?”

Minho looked away at that.

And that was your answer.

“Hasn’t he told you?” he asked, bitterness seeping into his voice for the first time. “You two were so close by the end. Thought maybe he’d have the decency to admit it.”

You stayed silent.

“I shouldn’t have listened,” he continued. “But I let it get in my head.”

“What did he say?” you asked, voice trembling.

Minho sighed. “He made it sound like you were over me. Like I was the obstacle in the way of whatever he thought you two could be. That if I really cared about you, I’d let you go so you could be happy with him.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not true.”

“I know that now,” he said. “But I didn’t back then.”

You looked down at your hands. “I wish you’d talked to me first.”

“I didn’t think I had the right anymore,” he said. “I was already halfway convinced you didn’t want me there.”

Your heart cracked all over again.

“I was so deep in my head,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I felt like I was dragging you down. You were smiling more around him. You seemed lighter. I thought maybe I was the one making it harder for you.”

You looked at him, fully now. “You weren’t. You weren’t at all.”

He gave a soft, sad smile. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” you insisted. “When you left, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to be there without you. I felt like I didn’t belong anymore, like I was stuck in a version of my life that didn’t fit. The only thing I wanted was you.”

Minho went quiet.

You could tell he was trying not to cry again. His hand was still resting near yours, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“I needed you,” you said. “And I’m sorry I never said that before. I should’ve. I thought I was being strong, but I was just being scared. And stupid.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself for what we didn’t know how to handle.”

You both sat in silence again. Not awkward. Just… resting in the truth.

Eventually, Minho spoke, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know what this means. For us. Or how we move forward.”

You nodded. “I don’t either. But I don’t want to leave without trying.”

He looked at you, really looked, eyes filled with something fragile and honest.

He reached out, took your hand.

Laced his fingers through yours like he’d done a thousand times before.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

And you nodded, holding on tight.

“We always do.”

His voice lingered in the stillness.

His fingers were still woven with yours warm, steady, real. You hadn’t let go. Neither had he.

You let out a shaky breath, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. Everything felt raw, your chest, your eyes, your mind, but it wasn’t heavy the way it used to be. It was just… real. Finally. Honest.

Minho sat back against the couch, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at the clock.

It was late.

But neither of you moved to get up.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you here again,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back,” you admitted.

He looked at you, that familiar softness behind his tired eyes. “What changed?”

You paused, searching for the words. “Everything started to feel wrong after you left. The villa felt colder. The people, the conversations, it all blurred together. Even Chan.”

He didn’t flinch at the name this time. He just waited.

You continued, “It wasn’t what I thought I wanted. Or needed. When you walked away, I didn’t feel free. I felt like someone had unplugged me from myself.”

You smiled sadly. “I missed you. So much it physically hurt.”

Minho leaned his head back on the couch, eyes closing for a moment. “I thought about you constantly. Wondered if you were doing okay. Wondered if you were happy without me.”

“I wasn’t.”

His eyes opened again.

You hesitated, your voice lower now. “Did you think about reaching out?”

He nodded slowly. “A hundred times. I’d open my phone, type your name into the search bar, hover over your contact. But I was a coward.”

“You’re not a coward.”

“I was,” he said softly. “I let fear decide for me. Fear that maybe you didn’t love me anymore. That maybe I’d only be reopening something that was better left closed.”

“It was never closed,” you said. “Not for me.”

The silence between you shifted softer now, full of the understanding you’d both been starving for.

“Can I ask you something?” you said.

He nodded.

“What were you thinking when you left the villa? Really.”

He inhaled deeply, like he’d been bracing for that question since you walked through the door.

“I packed my things while you were downstairs,” he said, looking down. “I was pacing. I kept looking over at the door. Hoping maybe you’d walk in. That maybe I’d have a reason to stop myself.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. “I would’ve if I knew.”

“I know,” he said. “But I didn’t give you the chance.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. All I could hear in my head was Chan’s voice, telling me I was ruining your shot at something real. That if I really loved you, I’d step back and let you be happy with someone who could give you everything I couldn’t.”

You flinched slightly. “He said that?”

Minho nodded. “More or less. It wasn’t direct. He’s not stupid. But he knew exactly what he was doing.”

You were quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t know.”

“I figured,” he said. “I thought you two would try to make it work. I didn’t blame you. Not really. But I think… I think it broke something in me anyway.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your hand to your chest.

“I wasn’t trying to replace you,” you whispered. “I was trying to forget you.”

Minho looked at you. “Did it work?”

You smiled through the ache. “Not even a little.”

He let out a soft exhale that almost resembled a laugh.

“I hated him,” he admitted. “I still do. I shouldn’t, I know that. It’s not fair. He’s not the reason everything fell apart.”

You looked over at him. “No. But he didn’t help.”

Minho nodded, finally letting the truth settle between you both.

You leaned back, exhausted from everything, emotionally, physically. But you weren’t ready to move. Not yet. The silence that stretched out now was gentler. Full of something warm. Unspoken forgiveness, maybe. Or something like hope.

Minho turned toward you, voice quieter now. “Do you want to stay the night?”

You looked at him.

Not in a flirtatious way. Not a hidden motive. Just… a question. A need to hold onto something a little longer.

“Not if it makes anything harder for you,” you said honestly.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

You gave a soft nod. “Then yeah. I do.”

He stood first, offering his hand. You took it, letting him pull you gently to your feet. He led you down the hallway familiar, but different. His steps were quiet. Your hand stayed loosely in his until he pushed open the door to the bedroom.

It still smelled like him.

Still looked like the space where you used to sleep, side by side, limbs tangled, dreams shared in whispers.

He grabbed a hoodie from the closet and tossed it to you. “You might be cold.”

You held it to your chest like it meant something more than fabric. And maybe it did.

He changed quietly in the corner while you slipped into the hoodie, folding your clothes neatly on the chair by the window. It was only when he turned and looked at you, really looked that you realized just how vulnerable this moment was.

You both crawled under the covers slowly, careful not to move too quickly, not to break whatever fragile peace had formed.

You laid on your back. He did too. Your shoulders touched under the sheets.

It was quiet.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said into the dark.

You turned your head toward him.

“I never stopped,” he repeated, voice trembling. “Even when I left. Even when I tried to move on. It was always you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “I never stopped either.”

His hand reached under the blanket, searching for yours.

And when he found it, you laced your fingers together without hesitation.

You fell asleep like that quiet, calm, wrapped in the kind of safety only he ever gave you. The past still existed. The pain, the mistakes, the loss. But now, for the first time, so did something else.

A beginning.

You weren’t entirely sure when Minho had become this clingy.

Maybe it started the second you came back. Or maybe it started long before that, somewhere buried in the months of longing you both refused to name. But now, a year later, it was just part of your rhythm. His hand always found yours when you crossed the street. His head found your shoulder if you were curled up on the couch. If you turned in bed and he wasn’t touching you in some way, he shifted instantly, arms wrapping around your waist as though confirming you were still there.

Today was no different.

You woke up with his leg tangled around yours, his arm snug around your stomach, his breath steady against the back of your neck. The sun was rising softly through the curtains, casting a golden wash across your bedroom. Soonie was curled at your feet, Doongie had taken over the window ledge, and Dori was purring faintly from the corner of the bed.

Minho groaned into your hair. “Don’t get up yet. Five more minutes.”

You smiled, turning slightly to see him, lips brushing his cheek. “We have a lot to do today.”

He blinked slowly, still half-asleep. “The premiere?”

You nodded. “And guests. Two very loud, opinionated guests.”

He smirked. “Ah, Gyuri and Jisung.”

You nodded, stretching. “We’ve got to clean a little. I want to bake something too. You’re doing the cooking, remember?”

Minho rolled onto his back dramatically. “You’re bossy.”

“You love it.”

“I really do,” he said, pulling you back in for a kiss before you could escape the bed.

By late morning, you were barefoot in the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, humming as you measured sugar. Minho was next to you, sautéing something in a pan while talking to Soonie, who had taken up permanent residency on a chair beside the stove.

The apartment you shared now wasn’t too different from the one you’d once called home together. You had moved back in after just a month of dating again at Minho’s insistence, of course. “The cats miss you,” he said. “I miss you. And the bed’s way too cold without you.”

You hadn’t fought it.

What surprised you most was how naturally everything fell back into place. The rhythm, the laughter, the quiet moments. It was like coming home. Minho’s mother, however, had taken longer.

Ten months, to be exact. Ten months of silence. Awkward avoidance. Careful distance during birthdays and holidays. She was polite, but not warm. And while she never yelled outright, her comments carried edge. Snide remarks about trust. Thinly veiled suggestions about people who run away from problems. It had worn on both of you.

Until Minho finally snapped gently, but firmly. He told you both to sit. That he was tired of playing translator between two people who mattered to him more than anything. That you needed to talk.

That conversation had been brutal.

You sat across from her on the couch, knees pulled into yourself, Minho standing nearby like he was ready to referee if needed. She started loud. Accusations, hurt, the old wounds she hadn’t dared voice until now.

“Do you know what it was like? Watching my son unravel after you left?” she said, eyes sharp with grief. “Do you know what you did to him?”

“I do,” you said, quiet, blinking back tears.

“Then why?” she demanded. “Why leave him like that? Why not say anything?”

And that was the moment you cracked.

Because all of it came pouring out.

The guilt you carried thinking you were taking away a future he might have dreamed of, one with a family. The way you shut down because you couldn’t imagine watching disappointment spread across his face.

She didn’t yell after that. She didn’t say much at all.

But she sat beside you. And when your shoulders trembled and you couldn’t speak anymore, she reached for you, pulling you gently against her shoulder like she used to in the early days. “You should’ve told me,” she whispered. “I would’ve understood.”

Minho had smiled then, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

“I told her the same thing,” he said.

You were pulling a tray of cupcakes from the oven when the doorbell rang.

“Got it,” Minho called, wiping his hands on a towel.

You barely had time to put the tray down before a squeal echoed through the apartment.

“YOU’RE BAKING? Oh my god, you haven’t changed!” Gyuri’s voice burst through the hallway like a storm, seconds before she appeared in the kitchen doorway.

You didn’t get a chance to answer before she had you in a full-body hug, arms tight, hair in your face.

You laughed. “You saw me literally three days ago.”

“I don’t care. You look different every time. Glowing or something. Must be the boyfriend.”

Minho appeared behind her, dramatically shaking his head. “She’s absolutely unbearable when she’s like this.”

Then came Jisung, slightly out of breath, carrying plastic bags from the convenience store. “She made me run from the car.”

“Hi, Sungie,” you grinned, pulling him into a hug.

He held on tight. “Missed you.”

You stood in the kitchen a moment later, four of you buzzing with that weird energy of long friendships and recent reunions. The kind of comfort that doesn’t fade even if time passes.

Gyuri took one look at the setup and clapped. “Okay. Premiere night. How’re we feeling?”

You shook your head. “Like throwing up.”

“Same,” Jisung mumbled.

Minho only smirked. “I feel fine.”

You shot him a look.

Gyuri grabbed a cupcake off the tray. “Let’s set up. We’re watching it all. No skipping.”

An hour later, the four of you were camped on the couch, a plate of food in each lap, cupcakes dangerously stacked on the coffee table, and the TV paused on the title screen of What Could’ve Been, the show that somehow changed everything.

“I hate that name,” Gyuri muttered dramatically. “Too on the nose.”

“Seriously,” you agreed. “It sounds like a breakup song.”

Jisung took a bite of his cupcake. “It is kind of a breakup show. Mostly.”

“Well, not for us,” Gyuri said, beaming at Jisung. He gave her a smug little look before stealing some frosting off her plate.

You shook your head and leaned against Minho’s side. “I’m nervous to watch this.”

Gyuri raised her brows. “Why?”

“Because it’s like opening an old diary you didn’t mean for the world to read.”

Minho pulled your legs over his lap. “We already lived it. Now we just get to laugh at it.”

Gyuri snapped her fingers. “Speaking of laughing, can we please talk about the aftermath?”

“Yes,” you said, sitting up. “Tell me everything again. Slowly.”

She grinned, taking a sip of wine before launching in. “Okay. So. After you left, everything changed. Chan was moody as hell. He moped around like someone stole his girl. Literally. Wouldn’t talk to anyone—not even Sana. And no, they didn’t leave together. That fizzled out faster than boiled ramen.”

Jisung nodded. “I think he realized too late that he messed everything up.”

You stared at the screen. “He did.”

Gyuri continued. “Anyway—Mina got with Changbin. Didn’t see that one coming, honestly. Sori and Jeongin ended up together, which… okay, good for them.”

“And Seungmin?” you asked.

Gyuri let out a dramatic sigh. “Ugh. He and Sori were this close to getting back together. Like, there were tears. Confessions. A whole speech. And then—on the last night—he kissed Rin.”

Your jaw dropped. “WHAT?”

“Oh yeah. Chaos,” Jisung confirmed.

“And Sophia?” you asked.

Gyuri rolled her eyes. “Tried to flirt with Chan. Got shot down immediately.”

You snorted. “Serves her right.”

Minho smirked. “I like this version of the reunion.”

Gyuri shrugged. “Oh, Yujin hooked up with Changbin before he got with Mina. And the rest left completely single.”

Jisung groaned. “That villa was a soap opera.”

You turned to Gyuri, grinning. “And you? What happened after I left?”

She softened a little. “You know most of it. But… after you left, I didn’t feel right either. I kept thinking about you. I called you the second filming ended. Ran into your arms like a movie. You remember.”

“I’ll never forget,” you smiled.

She looked at Jisung. “And he and I… we finally talked. Properly. We were the last two in the house. Literally closed the place down.”

“I cried,” Jisung admitted.

“You sobbed,” Gyuri corrected. “So did I. We said everything we should’ve said a year ago.”

“And now?” you asked softly.

Gyuri squeezed his hand. “We’re figuring it out. Slowly. I told him if we’re doing this again, I get to meet his kid. He said yes.”

You smiled at her. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you,” she said, poking your side. “You got the boy. The cats. And the cupcakes.”

“And I got you,” you added.

She leaned her head on your shoulder. “That’s the real win.”

When the episode finally began to play, the room went quiet. The screen filled with scenes from a different life, laughter, tears, awkward dates, and vulnerable confessions.

You saw yourself on screen tense, quiet, slowly unraveling.

Minho squeezed your hand.

But you weren’t sad. Not really. You felt… peace. The person on the screen was you, yes, but also someone you barely recognized. That person was lost. And now, here you were.

Minho leaned in, whispering against your ear. “What could’ve been?”

You smiled, eyes never leaving the screen.

“This,” you whispered. “This is what could’ve been.”

masterlist.

❌proofread

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon @geni-627 @enhacolor @jisuperboard @hyujim @alondra6011 lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..] not too sure if you wanted to just be added to the perm taglist or just this fic (-: Pls let me know! @partyinthebackroom @sunnysidesins @kaybeerrosa @eridanuswave @vixensss @havennz @lunaspov

#paused my show to read this #but ahhh this was so cute #i'm speechless though i don't think any words i have in my inventory are enough #but love it #love author nim with all my heart #love minho #love bang chan too not quite this ver of him but him in general #and mc is one of my fave mcs i've come across esp lately

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