imhalfplastic - Tumblr blog

imhalfplastic · 4 days ago

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thank you so much for reading and for the feedback! i guess some things just have to go the hard way to show that they’re worth it ❤️

the wrong kind of right

⊹ overview - pairing: seungcheol x f!reader genre: messy love · bittersweet · introspective drama · mild angst themes: quiet yearning, moral ambiguity, situationship, guilt and desire. cw: sexual content (MDNI), infidelity, emotional cheating, alcohol, suggestive situations, pet names, unprotected sex.

minors do not interact!

summary: you don’t belong to him and he doesn’t belong to you. tet through whispered conversations, soft touches, and the way he looks at you when it’s just the two of you, he’s the secret you keep tucked away.

from kai: i was listening to the weekend by sza and… well. this happened. kind of.

it was supposed to be dinner. nothing fancy. just a place you liked, a reservation made two weeks ago, and a text that arrived half an hour too late.

babe, the guys just dropped by unexpectedly. can we move dinner to sunday?

you read it once. then again. no sorry this time. just logistics. like you were another appointment.

your wine was already poured by then. the waitress had just lit the candle at your table when the message came through.

you sat there a little longer than you needed to, staring at the plate of pasta in front of you like it might blink first.

you didn’t cry. didn’t throw your phone across the table or curse his name under your breath. you just asked for the check, signed it without looking, and stepped out into the street like you weren’t sure where else to go.

the bar next door wasn’t unfamiliar. warm lighting, quiet music, a vaguely vintage smell of oak and orange peel. a safe place to disappear for a bit.

somewhere you used to come before things felt like routines.

you sit at the bar and order something stronger than wine. pretend to scroll through your phone while you decide if it’s sadder to go home early or stay and look like you’re waiting for someone.

you’re not even supposed to be talking to anyone. that was the deal you made with yourself the second you sat down at the bar. no rebound flirting, no trying to “salvage the night.” just one drink and then home.

except now there’s this guy two stools over, arguing with the bartender about the jazz playlist like he owns the place.

“you seriously changed it?” he says, mock offended. “after everything we’ve been through?”

the bartender laughs. “you only show up when you get dumped.”

“i was not dumped. it was mutual ghosting.”

“uh-huh. tell that to your sad playlist.”

you try not to stare. try not to smile. but it’s already tugging at the corner of your mouth when he catches your eye.

“don’t judge me,” he says, raising his glass like a toast. “i’m having a deeply personal moment with chet baker.”

you raise your own glass in response. “chet’s been through worse.”

his grin widens. “you know jazz?”

“i know heartbreak.”

“same thing, really.” he shifts one seat closer. doesn’t ask permission.

“he canceled on you?”

you turned toward the voice.

he didn’t smile. just sipped and looked at you like he already knew the answer.

you raised an eyebrow. “what makes you think that?”

“your glass is too full, and you keep looking at the door like you’re giving someone five more minutes.”

you looked down. your hand was resting near your phone.

“he postponed. technically.”

“ah. even worse.” he nodded. “delayed disappointment. classic.”

you tried not to let it affect you.

“you always this nosy with strangers?”

“only the ones who walk in like they’re trying not to be seen.”

“what does that mean?”

he shrugged. “you have the look.”

“what look?”

“like you needed a quiet place to be mad.”

you huffed. not quite a laugh, but not denial either. he leaned slightly closer, just enough for you to smell the whiskey on his breath.

“don’t worry,” he said. “i’m not here to flirt.”

“good.” you replied. “because that would be a waste of time.”

he chuckled. “noted.”

“what’s your name?” he asks.

you hesitate. you shouldn’t. you really shouldn’t. but you tell him.

he nods. repeats it under his breath, like he’s trying it on for size.

“pretty...” he says. “but not soft. just like you.”

you narrow your eyes. “you don’t know anything about me.”

“well, i know that you’re here. alone. wearing a ring.”

your fingers curl slightly on instinct, brushing over the thin gold band. not a wedding ring. just a simple promise.

you wait for the question. the judgement. something. it doesn’t come.

“i’m not married.” you say.

“didn’t say you were.”

“you implied it.”

“to be honest, i’m just curious...” he says, voice low. “he must be a very secure man to leave you alone in a place like this.”

you should be annoyed. but there’s something in his tone... not pushy, not smug. just... present. you let the silence stretch between you. then, like it’s nothing:

“seungcheol.”

he offers it like a passing thought, not something he expects you to keep. you nod once. don’t repeat it.

“you’re still not flirting?” you ask.

he smiles again, slower this time. “if i were, you'd be laughing by now.”

you roll your eyes. but your lips curve with it. he doesn’t try to close the distance. doesn’t ask where your boyfriend is. doesn’t mention the ring again.

instead, he traces the rim of his glass with one finger, thoughtful. then looks at you again.

“you look like you’re about to leave.”

“maybe.”

“shame.”

“why?”

“conversation was just getting interesting.”

you finish your drink in one swallow. stand up. he doesn’t stop you. just watches as you slip your coat back on.

you turn once before walking out and that’s when he moves. reaches for a napkin, scribbles something quickly, and offers it to you with two fingers.

“in case you feel like being seen, next time.”

you glance at the numbers. no name.

“that’s bold.” you say.

“i won’t hold my breath.” he replies, finishing his drink. “but thursdays can be unpredictable.”

you leave the bar lighter than when you walked in and you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. you don’t text him that week. or the one after.

but you think about it. more than once.

the days pass. your boyfriend keeps canceling. dinners, movies, weekends. things you used to look forward a little too much to. things that now feel like maybe they were never really for you.

at first, he has good reasons. work’s been hectic. he’s exhausted. something urgent came up. his brother’s in town. he needs a night with the guys. you say okay. every time. you want to be understanding. you really do.

but the excuses start piling.

and the effort? that doesn’t.

he forgets small things. the book you told him you were reading. your big meeting last week. your sister’s birthday dinner. he kisses you without looking up from his phone. asks “what’s wrong?” like he hasn’t already ignored your last three texts.

you try bringing it up. gently. once.

he sighs. tells you you’re being dramatic. says “you know how much i care about you” and somehow it sounds like “can we not do this right now?”

so you stop.

you stop asking when he’ll be free. stop reminding him of your plans. you stop expecting anything at all. you just shrink around it.

you still see him, sometimes. but even when you’re in the same room, you feel like background noise. a fixture in the apartment. a maybe. a later. a rain check with legs.

the silence between you gets heavier. and you keep thinking that maybe it’s just a phase. maybe everyone gets like this eventually.

but then thursday rolls around again. you’re already home this time. a takeout bag still warm on the counter. candles lit in your bedroom like you were trying to make it feel like something. like it meant something. you didn’t even tell him to come over. you just hoped he might.

your phone buzzes.

they want to grab a drink. it’s been months. you understand, right?

nothing more. no i’ll make it up to you. just assumption. expectation. like of course you’ll understand.

you don’t reply. you just sit there for a moment, still. like maybe if you stay still enough, you won’t feel the ache settling in your chest. like maybe it’s your fault for hoping. for waiting.

you blow out the candles. walk to the kitchen. and open the drawer where you keep old receipts, forgotten pens, and a napkin you were absolutely not supposed to keep.

your fingers find it too easily. your thumbs hover over your phone for a long time.

you type. delete. type again.

and then:

you guess you were right about thursdays

the response comes quicker than you expect.

seungcheol didn’t think i’d hear from you but i was hoping

you bite your lip. heart a little too loud.

you i wasn’t gonna text you

seungcheol and yet

a pause.

seungcheol where are you?

your breath catches. your fingers tighten around the phone.

you home. alone.

one minute. then two.

seungcheol do you want company?

you don’t answer right away. you reread the last message. and the one before that. and suddenly the silence of your apartment feels unbearable.

so you type slowly.

you maybe just a drink

seungcheol sure just a drink

you don’t believe him. and maybe that’s why you get up to change.

it’s the same bar. same lights, same low music. same seat at the corner that feels like it’s been holding its breath.

he’s already there when you walk in. same shirt. same chain. same look in his eyes when he sees you. amused, unreadable, like he saw this coming before you did.

you slide onto the stool beside him. he doesn’t say anything at first. just slides a glass in your direction, like it’s habit.

you glance at it, then at him.

“don’t assume i drink the same thing every time.” you say.

he shrugs. “didn’t seem like the night to experiment.”

you take the glass anyway. the first sip burns. he watches you like it doesn’t.

he lifts his drink. “to whatever brought you in.”

you clink, barely. no toast in return.

you talk, eventually. but it stays on the surface. music, cities, random half-stories that make you both smile. he doesn’t ask about your boyfriend. doesn’t say “so, what changed?”

he doesn’t need to.

his knee bumps yours once, then doesn’t move.

his eyes flick to your mouth more than once, and every time they do, your breath feels a little less steady. his thumb runs absently along the rim of his glass, and all you can think about is how it would feel against your skin.

you set your drink down and ask: “why are you so confident? so sure of things?”

his smile is lazy. “it’s not confidence if i’m right.”

you roll your eyes, but the heat in your chest doesn’t fade. you stare at him for a second too long. and maybe it’s the drink. or the week you had. or the way he looks at you like he already knows what you taste like.

but when you say it, your voice doesn’t shake.

“wanna come over?”

he doesn’t blink. doesn’t hesitate.

“just one more drink?” he says, like it’s a joke. like he’d already said yes the second you walked in.

your place is dim. a little messy. the kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound louder than it should.

you open a bottle of wine and pour into mismatched glasses, the only ones clean.

he follows without asking. just steps inside like he’s done it before, like he belongs there. doesn’t sit. just stands in the middle of your living room and watches you take a sip, fingers wrapped tight around the glass.

you try not to look nervous. fail completely.

“so…” you start. but don’t finish. because he’s already walking toward you. slow. certain. and suddenly there’s no space left to pretend this is casual.

he takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter without looking. then, like he’s asking something simple:

“come here.”

you don’t think. you just move.

his hands are on your waist before you reach him. his mouth on yours before your next breath. the kiss is slow, not soft. there’s a difference. he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t fumble.

he kisses you like he’s been imagining it in pieces, and now he’s putting them together one by one. his hands slide down your hips, anchoring you. fingers splayed, certain. he pulls back just enough to look at you.

his voice is low, near your jaw:

“you want this or you’re just lonely?”

you meet his eyes.

“does it matter?”

he smiles. dark. “not to me.”

you nod. he doesn’t ask again.

he lifts you easily, like it’s instinct. and starts walking you backward, lips brushing your neck, knuckles grazing skin. your back hits the bed before you realize how far you’ve made it.

he undresses you slowly. not teasing, not showy. just… deliberate. like this part matters. like every layer is something he earned.

he doesn’t ask for permission with every touch. just watches your face, waits for the way your breath catches like that’s all the yes he needs.

when he looks at you bare, he exhales sharp. something between reverence and hunger.

“fuck...” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

his fingers trail lower. measuring. learning. and when his mouth follows, slow at first and then not, you gasp. too hard, too loud.

you reach for his hair. he doesn’t stop. just holds you down, steady, until your thighs are trembling and your breath comes in broken pieces.

when he finally kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips.

his fingers slide between your thighs again, slick and sensitive. you flinch. he hums against your mouth.

“not used to this, huh?”

you try to speak. fail. you can’t even lie. he slides in slow. one long thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

your mouth falls open. no sound. just pressure. full and overwhelming.

he fucks you deep and steady, one hand gripping your waist, the other braced beside your head.

he doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s a low string of things you weren’t ready to hear.

“look at me, pretty.”

“is this what you needed?”

you nod, gasping, fingers digging into his arms. he kisses you like he’s claiming you. fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else.

and by the time you come again, you’re half-sure he’s already succeeded.

after, he stays. not awkward. not obligated. just… stays. like it never crossed his mind to leave.

you’re half-draped across his chest, legs tangled. neither of you says anything for a long time. his hand moves slow down your back, tracing nothing in particular.

you wonder if this is where the guilt is supposed to kick in. but all you feel is warm. and his breath, steady against your neck.

you close your eyes.

just for a second.

you wake before him. his arm is heavy across your waist. your sheets smell like wine, sweat, and something deeper. something not yours alone anymore.

you don’t move.

when he stirs, you let your breath even out. pretend. he says your name once, then again. softer the second time. you keep still.

you feel the mattress shift as he gets up, the quiet sounds of him dressing. zipper, keys, the door unlatching.

then silence.

you stare at the ceiling, trying to find the feeling you’re supposed to be having.

guilt. shame. regret.

nothing comes.

only the memory of his voice, rough and close: look at me, pretty. you close your eyes again. you don’t want to forget it.

after that, you don’t text him. not that day. not the next. you go back to your life. the one with morning coffee, dry kisses, and half-finished grocery lists.

your boyfriend doesn’t notice anything. he’s busy. distracted. work, gym, group chats, meetings. he falls asleep on the couch half the week.

when he kisses you, it’s soft. detached. like muscle memory. you match the energy. nod at the right times. laugh on cue. you smile when you’re supposed to. and it should feel wrong.

but it doesn’t.

and that’s what starts to eat at you. not the sex. not the lie. just the absence of guilt. the weightless way it all fits together.

you think about seungcheol more than you mean to.

the way he looked at you like you were real. like you were seen. you remember the weight of his body. the voice. the calm kind of control that made your pulse spike.

you don’t delete the messages but you stop replying. and he doesn’t push.

a few texts come in:

seungcheol i know you’re busy just checking in

seungcheol did thursday get boring without me?

then nothing.

you try to feel relieved. you don’t.

the knock on your door comes a week later. friday night. your boyfriend’s out, drinks with coworkers. you expect delivery but when you open the door, it’s him. black hoodie, wind in his hair, one hand in his pocket like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

you freeze.

“what the fuck?”

“hi, pretty.”

your heart stutters.

“what are you doing here?”

he shrugs. “returning the favor. figured we owed each other a drink.”

you glance behind you, pulse climbing.

“you can’t just show up like this.”

he lifts a brow. “why not? i already know the way.”

“my boyfriend could’ve been here.”

his mouth twitches. “but he’s not.”

you want to slam the door. you don’t.

you step back and he walks in like the place still remembers him. he doesn’t hesitate. just turns to you, hands in his pockets.

“you ghosted me.”

you cross your arms. “i had to. it wasn’t... sustainable.”

he scoffs. “funny. felt pretty natural to me.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re being an asshole.”

“am i?” he takes a step closer. “or am i the only one telling the truth?”

you hate how steady he is. how your body reacts before your brain decides.

“why are you really here?” you ask, quieter now.

he’s close. not touching you but close enough that your skin feels aware of it.

“i haven’t stopped thinking about you” he says. his hand brushes your arm. “your mouth. your voice. how you sound when you come apart. fuck…” his voice falters, almost like he hates hearing himself say it. “you’re in my head all the time, pretty.”

you should push him away. but instead, you tilt your chin and say,

“you don’t get to call me that.”

he smiles, slow. “you didn’t mind it before.”

you don’t deny it. you don’t say anything at all.

his thumb skims your bottom lip. “want me to leave?” he asks, soft now.

dangerous.

you don’t answer but he knows.

he kisses you like he’s angry at how long it’s been. like restraint was never really on the table. your back hits the wall and his hands are everywhere. under your shirt, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

you gasp when he lifts you. legs wrap around his waist without hesitation.

“missed this...” he breathes against your skin. “missed you.”

you’re already breathless.

“you shouldn’t be here.” you whisper.

he laughs. low, amused, a sound that hums against your neck. “but you want me here.” a kiss under your jaw. “don’t you?”

you close your eyes. “fuck.”

he carries you to the couch. lays you down with urgency, like the moment might slip away if he’s not careful.

this time, he’s faster. pulls your shirt off like it doesn't matters how it comes off. you squirm under his gaze.

“don’t look at me like that.” you say.

“like what?”

“like you care.”

he leans in, kisses your sternum. then lower. then lower still.

“maybe i do.” he murmurs. his voice is rough now. “would that be so bad?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

his hands slide under your waistband. he takes his time. when he kisses your thigh, you say his name once, barely a breath. and he exhales like it undid something in him.

then his mouth is on you. again. he eats you like he’s starving. not for release, for you. like the taste is proof you’re real. your hips jerk and he presses you down, firm.

“stay still.” he murmurs.

“let me.”

you come too fast, too hard. and before you can catch your breath, he’s on you again. mouth, hands, heat, everything.

his belt clinks. your thoughts scatter. he fucks you slow this time. but still deep. sure. like he wants you to remember every second of it tomorrow. you clutch at him. his back, his shoulder, anything.

you don’t say his name again. but you think it. over and over. like a secret. like a prayer.

when he speaks, it’s low. honest. unguarded.

“i can’t stop thinking about you.”

“he doesn’t get to have you like this.”

and then, right before you fall apart again, voice barely a whisper:

“say you’re mine. just for now. say it.”

and you do. because in that moment, you are.

after, you lay on the couch, tangled and silent. his hand is on your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. you try not to think about what this means. you try not to look at the time. you try not to imagine your boyfriend walking in.

but none of that happens.

the world is quiet. and seungcheol is warm beside you.

“you okay?” he asks, finally.

you nod. “yeah.” then, after a beat:

“you can’t keep showing up like this.”

he doesn’t flinch. “then don’t make me miss you.”

you laugh. tired. frustrated. “it’s not that simple.”

“it is for me.” he says. “i want you. that’s it.”

you turn away, suddenly overwhelmed. he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“i’ll go.” he murmurs. “just... tell me if you’re gonna shut me out again.”

you don’t promise anything. but when he gets up to leave, you don’t stop him. you just lie there. quiet. and when the door clicks shut behind him, you already miss him.

it becomes routine faster than you expect. thursdays, mostly. sometimes mondays. you don’t talk about it. you don’t have to. he texts. you show up. sometimes you stay for an hour. sometimes all night.

always at his place now. a quiet apartment on the edge of the city with clean sheets and soft lighting and music that never stops playing.

he never asks questions. never pushes. but he always opens the door like he’s been waiting. and you like that. you like how he looks at you like you’re not cheating.

he still calls you pretty. sometimes in bed. sometimes when you’re just sitting there, drinking his whiskey in one of his hoodies, legs tucked under you like you belong there. you hate how right it feels.

your boyfriend starts to notice. at first, it’s nothing. a passing comment:

“you seem happier lately.”

“you look really good this week.”

and then it builds.

“wanna do something friday? just us?”

“i miss this. you and me.”

you nod. you smile. you let him hold your hand across the dinner table. but your mind is still stuck on the way seungcheol holds your hips when you ride him. the way he says your name with his mouth full of need.

and it gets harder to juggle. you start making excuses.

"i'm working late."

"i told a friend i'd help her move."

"my mom's been calling a lot lately."

and your boyfriend buys it. until he doesn’t.

it happens on a tuesday. you’re in the shower, phone on the bathroom counter, music playing. he walks in, says something about ordering dinner. you shout back, "anything's fine!"

he says okay. you don’t notice the pause. don’t hear the phone buzz under the steam and music. when you walk out, towel wrapped around you, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

yours.

your heart stops. you freeze in the doorway.

he looks up, eyes unreadable.

“who’s seungcheol?” he asks. it’s not loud. not angry. just quiet. and you feel the floor shift under you.

your mouth opens. closes.

“what?”

he shows you the screen. a single notification:

seungcheol you left your sweater, pretty.

just that. nothing else. but it’s enough.

you step forward, towel clutched tighter.

“he’s just...it’s not like that.”

“so what is it like?” his voice still calm. too calm.

“he’s just a coworker. he calls everyone that. it's... it's just his thing.”

he stares at you. like he’s trying to see through you. you smile, shaky.

“you know i’d never do anything.”

he nods. too fast.

“right.” he says. then stands. “i’ll order something.”

he walks out of the room. doesn’t say another word. and you stand there, dripping, heart racing, stomach twisted, wondering if this was it.

if it’s already falling apart. if you’ve gone too far to come back.

you wipe the steam from the mirror. look at your reflection.

you look good. a little flushed. a little wild. like someone in love.

and that’s the problem.

you shouldn’t have gone to his place that night. but you did.

the city was too loud. your boyfriend too quiet. and the ache in your chest too familiar.

you texted two words:

you you home?

and he replied in under a minute.

seungcheol always for you, pretty

you didn’t even say hi when you walked in. you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him like you were trying to shut yourself up. he let you. hands on your waist. mouth on your throat.

you pulled off his shirt. he pressed you to the wall. clothes hit the floor without ceremony. he fucks you hard this time.

not unkind but intense. like he’s trying to burn his name into your spine. your nails leave red trails on his shoulders. you moan too loud. you don’t care.

when it’s over, you lie there in the dark, chest still heaving. he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checking something. you sit up.

“cheol...”

he looks over.

you swallow. “you need to stop texting me first.”

he blinks.

“…what?”

“i mean it. don’t reach out unless i text you first. it’s... risky.”

he sits up slowly. you feel the shift in the air.

“risky.” he repeats. “but what we’re doing isn’t?”

“it’s different.”

“it’s not.” he says. then quieter, “but sure. whatever makes you feel better.”

you can feel the weight in his words. you know he’s hurt. you see it in the way he doesn’t look at you as he grabs his shirt. you pretend not to notice. because acknowledging it would make it real.

you stay the night, anyway.

things start to press down on you after that. not like guilt. more like gravity.

being with two people is exhausting. two versions of yourself, two stories to tell, two worlds you’re keeping from colliding.

you’re good at it but you’re tired. and then it gets worse.

you’re out with your boyfriend, some rooftop bar he found online. warm lights, clinking glasses, music low enough for conversation.

he’s holding your hand again. touching your waist like he remembered how.

“i missed this” he says.

you smile. you nod. you lie. you turn your head to avoid the weight of it and that’s when you see him.

two tables away. black shirt. same chain. drink in hand. and a girl beside him.

she’s laughing. touching his arm like she’s done it before. and he’s letting her.

your stomach twists before you can stop it. your pulse stutters. your jaw tightens. jealousy blooms in your throat like something rotten. ugly and hot and sudden. and you have no right to feel it.

you watch them too long.

your boyfriend says something beside you but it’s muffled, far away. like you’re underwater.

you stand before you even think to. legs moving without permission. you walk over like it’s casual, like it’s nothing, like your entire body isn’t vibrating.

“hey” you say, too cheerful.

seungcheol looks up slowly. blinks.

“hi.” he says. voice unreadable.

you gesture vaguely over your shoulder. “my boyfriend’s here. just thought i’d say hi.”

there’s a pause. too long.

you glance at the girl. “and this is…?”

she smiles before he can speak. “i’m jihye, nice to meet you.” she says, light and easy.

seungcheol lifts his glass. “she’s my friend.” he says, dry.

you meet his eyes. there’s something bitter there. but neither of your dates seem to notice.

you turn just in time as your boyfriend joins you.

“babe, this is seungcheol.” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. “the friend i told you about.”

friend. you could choke on it.

your boyfriend nods, polite. they shake hands. the girl stays quiet. just keeps watching you.

you smile too wide. “well. don’t let us interrupt. looks like a great date.”

seungcheol raises an eyebrow. but he says nothing.

you turn around. walk away before your mouth does something reckless.

you don’t look back.

you show up at his door an hour later. no text. no warning. he opens it, surprised. his shirt is off. he looks tired. annoyed.

“what are you doing here?”

“where is she?”

he raises an eyebrow. “she left. why?”

you push past him, walk into his apartment like you live there. he shuts the door behind you, slow.

“you okay?”

you turn, arms crossed.

“were you gonna sleep with her?”

he laughs. dry. “are you serious?”

“answer me.”

“why do you care?” his voice is sharper now. “you’re the one who keeps leaving. you’re the one who goes home to someone else.”

“that’s not the point.”

“then what is?” he steps closer. “you don’t get to be jealous, pretty. not when the only place we exist is this apartment.”

your mouth goes dry. “you were the one who said you didn’t care” you whisper.

he laughs again, but it doesn’t sound like humor. “yeah, well. i lied.”

the silence stretches. you feel it like a bruise. your throat tight. your heart worse.

“so what now?” you ask.

“you tell me...” he says. “you’re the one juggling hearts like glassware.”

you stare at him. and for the first time, you’re not sure which one you’re more afraid of losing.

after that night everything changed between you and seungcheol. the easy back-and-forth, the electric pull that used to crackle in the air whenever you touched. it all shifted.

his messages became sparse, his words clipped, and the warmth you used to find in his eyes was replaced by a quiet distance that made your chest ache.

it was like you were holding onto a ghost, reaching out through the silence but feeling nothing but cold air.

you tried to tell yourself he just needed space, that maybe he was sorting through his own mess. but the silence grew heavier every day. your phone would buzz and you’d hope it was him, but often it wasn’t.

and when you did hear from him, it was just a word, a sentence. never the late-night confessions or teasing you craved.

the gap between you widened, and with every unanswered text, the weight in your chest tightened.

the loneliness started to claw at you, and one night you couldn’t hold it back anymore. you sent the simplest message you could think of:

you can you come over?

seungcheol on my way

when he arrived, the air between you was thick, heavy with things neither of you said. his eyes searched yours, like he was trying to read all the words left unsaid.

you sat close but felt miles apart, the quiet stretching until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“seungcheol, how am i supposed to leave him...” you whispered, voice shaking, “when i don’t even know you? when what we have feels like just this... something physical, something temporary?”

his jaw tightened, and for a moment he said nothing. then, quietly, he said, “you never gave me a chance to be more.”

those words hit you harder than you expected, a sudden crack in your carefully guarded walls. you swallowed, the ache growing deeper.

“you think i wanted it to be like this?” you say, quiet but firm. “living my life like you’re not part of it? but it’s not that simple.”

he stood up, slowly, like your words had pushed him back. “then maybe you shouldn’t have started something you weren’t ready for.”

your breath caught. “i didn’t mean to...”

“but you did.” his voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean. “we don’t need to have this conversation. not if you’re still choosing someone else.”

you flinched. “i’m not choosing him.”

“you know what? that’s true...” he said, bitter now. “it feels like you’re not choosing anything. not him. not me. just whatever hurts less in the moment.”

you stared at him, suddenly cold. “so what, you’re done?”

he exhaled, eyes fixed on the floor. “i’m not a detour. and i’m not going to keep waiting for you to decide if i’m worth it.”

you didn’t stop him when he walked to the door. you didn’t ask him to stay. you watched the door close.

and this time, the silence answered for you.

you don’t go back to seungcheol. not that night. not the one after.

you don’t text. you don’t call. you just sit with it. the weight of everything, the way your heart aches in places you didn’t even know existed.

you think about the way he looked at you that night. how quiet he went when you said the wrong thing. how badly he wanted to be more, and how little you let him.

it’s around 3 a.m. when it hits you. curled into the far end of the couch, silent, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t feel like warmth anymore.

you’ve been shrinking. pulling yourself in at the seams, little by little. and maybe that’s what this was always about.

not him. just you.

you ask your boyfriend to come over. he says yes, too quickly. like he’s relieved. like maybe he’s been waiting for this to feel normal again.

he brings wine. you don’t drink it. you sit on opposite ends of the couch, the distance screaming louder than either of you.

you take a deep breath. start slow.

“we need to talk.”

his eyes flick to yours. guarded. calm. you expect confusion. anger. something. but all he does is nod. like he’s already bracing for the hit.

“i’m ending this.” you say. “we’re not working. we haven’t been. and i’ve been lying to you.”

his mouth twitches. not a smile. something smaller.

“you think i didn’t know?”

you blink.

“you think i don’t smell his cologne on your clothes?” his voice doesn’t raise. it sharpens. “you think i don’t see the marks on your body? the ones i didn’t leave?”

your breath catches. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“you think i don’t notice when you shower twice before bed? or when you smile at your phone like it’s holding something sacred?”

you stare at him.

“you’re just confused,” he says, like that explains it all. “it’s okay. i’ve been there. i had a thing, once. a girl i couldn’t stop thinking about. but it passed.” he shrugs.

“it always passes. you realize it’s just a phase, a distraction. some affair to escape real life for a while.”

you clench your fists. “this isn’t about him.”

“no.” he says, with a strange, soft certainty. “it’s about us. it’s always been about us. this is us. and deep down, you know that.”

you shake your head. something dark stirs in your chest.

“no, it’s about you being a selfish, inattentive, emotionally lazy piece of shit who didn’t notice i was slipping away until it was convenient to care.” his face shifts, just slightly.

“you want to know the truth?” you whisper. “i didn’t feel guilty. not once. not even the first time.”

he goes still.

“and it wasn’t because i stopped loving you.” you continue, “it’s because somewhere along the way, you stopped deserving to be loved.”

his jaw tightens.

“this was never about him. not really. he was just the first person in a long time who saw me. who wanted me. who listened when i spoke. who looked at me like i was still alive.” you exhale. “so no... i’m not confused. i’m just done.”

silence.

you watch him absorb that. watch him break without breaking. he nods. once. stands up. doesn’t say a word. he walks to the door.

pauses.

“you’ll regret this.” he says, not looking back.

“maybe,” you reply. “but at least i’ll regret it for myself.”

and then he’s gone. you sit there for a long time. longer than you mean to.

you breathe in.

breathe out.

and for the first time in weeks, you feel light. not healed. not free. but closer.

but after that night, you don’t go after seungcheol. not because you don’t miss him. not because you don’t replay his voice in your head when everything goes quiet.

you never gave me a chance to be more.

he was right and that’s exactly why you don’t call. because if you went now, after everything, it would feel like he was what’s left.

and he doesn’t deserve to be what’s left. he deserves to be a choice. and you’re not ready to choose anything yet, not even yourself.

the days that follow move slow, like the world is giving you room to breathe.

you spend the first week in silence. not the heavy, guilty kind, just the kind that wraps around your apartment like a fog. you sleep better.

you leave your phone on do not disturb and stop checking it like it holds your pulse. for the first time in months, you feel still.

you go for long walks without a destination. buy fresh flowers. drink your coffee without company and realize how much better it tastes that way.

you say yes to your friends again. not because you’re running away from the quiet, but because you finally have room to enjoy it.

some nights are harder than others. some nights you lie awake and wonder what it would’ve felt like to fall asleep next to seungcheol without consequence. not hiding. not rushing. not lying.

but you don’t text. you don’t open old messages. you let the thought pass through you like wind. and you don’t chase it.

you stop waiting. for him, for anyone. you stop hoping for closure or answers or a version of this story that hurts less.

and somewhere in the middle of that, you start living. your laugh gets louder. your hair gets longer. your presence, bigger. not for someone else, just for you.

and still, sometimes... in a song, in the shape of someone’s shoulders on the street, in the space beside you at a dinner table, he appears.

just for a second. just long enough to make you wonder what could’ve been. and that’s okay.

it's another thursday. not a poetic one. not a repeat. just a thursday where the air feels nice and you don’t want to go home just yet.

you end up at the bar again. not because you need distraction, just because you like it. you like the dim light. the soft hum of conversation. the way no one asks anything of you here.

you order a drink. sit in your usual spot. cross your legs and let your shoulders relax. it’s quiet.

you’re not waiting for anything. and then you see him.

not right away, just out of the corner of your eye. a shift in movement. the sound of a voice that lands like something familiar in your chest.

you look. and there he is.

seungcheol.

same bar. same broad frame. same profile you used to trace with your eyes when you thought he couldn’t feel you watching.

a few seats away, facing slightly away from you, elbow on the bar, fingers drumming absently against a glass that looks mostly untouched.

he’s wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled, hair a little longer than before, eyes a little tired. the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from carrying something too long.

you take him in quietly. he hasn’t seen you yet.

and you don’t look away.

you watch the way he shifts his weight, how his jaw tightens when the bartender asks if he wants another.

he just nods, runs a hand through his hair and exhales. like he’s trying to breathe something out of him.

and then, you move. slowly. like gravity is pulling you toward him.

you sit one stool over. not quite close. not quite far. just enough to be undeniable. he glances at you, casual, instinctive. then does a double take.

you meet his eyes with a soft smile. lift your drink slightly.

“she canceled on you?”

his expression barely changes, but you catch the flicker in his gaze. surprise. then something warmer.

“what makes you think that?” he says. his voice still has that rough edge you remember.

“your glass is too full, and you keep looking at the door like you’re giving someone five more minutes.” you say.

he lets out a quiet laugh, barely a breath. “you always open with that line?”

“only when it works.”

there’s a pause. his eyes flicker down, like he’s trying to process something and you know the moment he notices.

your left hand, resting against the base of your glass. bare. no ring. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t need to. the acknowledgment sits there between you like a breath held and released.

“what’s your name?” you ask, mirroring that first conversation, letting the words stretch into something gentler now.

he tilts his head slightly, amused. “we’re doing this again?”

“i just like the idea of meeting you properly this time.”

he holds your gaze. “seungcheol.”

you repeat it. like it’s new.

“and you?” he teases, softly.

“still me.”

he hums, eyes crinkling a little at the corners. you set your drink down and shift toward him slightly. your knee almost touches his.

“can i ask you something?” you say.

he nods.

“where did you go to school?”

he looks caught off guard. blinks. “what?”

“like. where did you study? what do you do? what’s your thing, seungcheol?”

he watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the punchline. but it doesn’t come.

“i studied music.” he says eventually. “switched to sound engineering halfway through. now i do studio work. production, some mixing. freelance stuff.”

you smile. “that sounds like the coolest job i’ve ever heard.”

he shrugs, eyes flicking down to his glass. “pays the bills.”

“do you like it?”

“i do,” he says after a second. “especially when no one’s breathing down my neck about deadlines.”

you nod. and then, before you lose your nerve, you say,

“i want to know you.”

his eyes lift again. sharp. steady.

“for real this time.” you add.

his mouth parts. just slightly. and then he laughs, a real one. full and breathy and stunned.

“what are you doing?” he asks, not defensive, just curious.

“i don’t know...” you say, grinning now. “trying again. starting over. meeting you without the mess.”

his shoulders relax a little. “that’s a new one,” he says. “meeting someone you’ve already—”

“don’t say it.”

he laughs again, quiet and warm.

the conversation moves easily from there. small things, light things.

you talk about terrible dates and strange pets, favorite takeout orders and the music that makes you cry when you least expect it. at one point, he asks if you still sleep with socks on. and you roll your eyes, say you’re reformed now.

he calls you a liar.

it feels easy. not rushed. not performative. just two people in a bar. trying. softly.

the night gets late, but you don’t check the time. the air smells like citrus and leather. the noise around you fades into a low blur. and then he leans slightly closer, elbow brushing yours.

“so...” he murmurs. “you’re not gonna ask me back to your place for a drink?”

you blink at him. not shocked. just careful.

“no.”

his expression stills. not hurt, not angry. just… unreadable. a quiet breath held in his chest.

you wait a second. then say,

“but i was gonna ask if you’re free tomorrow.”

he looks at you. eyes softening.

“i was thinking something stupid. like a picnic or whatever. somewhere public. full daylight. no bedroom in sight.”

he tilts his head. “trying to prove something?”

“trying to... unlearn something.” you say.

he smiles. and it’s a real smile now. slow and easy, like he’s letting it happen without thinking too hard.

“i’d like that.” he says.

“me too.”

the words sit gently between you and he doesn’t say anything for a moment. just looks at you like maybe for the first time, you’re really seeing him. not through the blur of want or the ache of something forbidden, but just… him.

here. now. choosing him, simply because you want to.

you finish your drinks slowly.

there’s no silence to fill. just a kind of quiet you both settle into, like it belongs to you.

he helps you with your jacket before you even think to reach for it. you laugh when his hand brushes your shoulder.

you walk out together. the air outside is cooler now, clean on your skin. the kind of night that hums low, full of things waiting to happen.

he doesn’t reach for your hand. you don’t reach for his.

because this time, there’s no need to rush toward the next thing. no need to blur the lines to feel close. this time, you’re both choosing to build something slowly.

openly. no shadows. no secrets. no scripts to follow.

just the quiet unfolding of something new. something soft, and good, and real.

and as you walk beside him, shoulders barely touching, you feel it settle in your chest:

you don’t know exactly where this is going.

but for the first time, that doesn’t scare you. because it doesn’t feel like an ending. it feels like the part right before everything begins.

just you, him and a sky wide open with possibility.

#kai_reblogs

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imhalfplastic · 20 days ago