#Parasocial Relationships

[texaschainsawmascara]

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[geekgirl750]

No bond is stronger than a girl and the YouTuber she formed a parasocial relationship with in 2015

[kyunghwannie]

"Midnight Static, Cherry Heart"

Minatozaki Sana x Male Reader

➤ Genre: Psychological Horror Story, Parasocial Love, Soft Obsession, False Stalking, Orchestration/Manipulation

➤Teaser: A voice through the static. A story through the night. A fan through the fear. In the silence between words, she heard you. In the stillness behind fame, you found her.

➤ Note: It's not necessarily a smut. But i just had this idea in my mind so i wrote it. You all should let me know if i should make a part 2. Sorry if the ending feels rushed a little. I was just scared of 1000 block limit

Your late-night radio show, "Whispers After One", is unlike anything else on air. You tell spine-chilling stories — true crime, ancient folklore, and listener-submitted paranormal tales — always with a subtle emotional angle that hits deeper than just scares. Your charm? You never show your face, but you always end your broadcasts with:

"Remember, not all ghosts haunt… some just wait to be heard."

Sana has been a fan for years. TWICE’s members often find her listening alone with earphones in the dark, smiling one moment and holding back tears the next. What no one knows? She’s written to your show before — using a private alias. You once read her story, “The Mirror Girl,” and your emotional insight helped her face a lingering trauma from trainee days. That moment? She fell harder than she should have.

=================================

The air outside was cold enough to bite through my coat, but Seoul at 1:47 a.m. had a strange kind of stillness that felt warmer than it should. Maybe that’s what happens when you spend every night talking to ghosts.

I adjusted my scarf, "Mic check, one, two." The static flickered softly in my headphones — the pre-show hum that always gave me chills. Not fear. Something more like... home.

I slid into the chair inside Studio B, a dimly lit booth tucked behind a noraebang that most people didn’t even know still operated. The light flickered above me once — like it always did when the stories got a little too real. I smiled to myself, "Another night, another whisper."

The red light blinked on. Live.

"Good evening, insomniacs, wanderers, and believers in things that go bump when no one’s watching," I spoke slowly, like the air around me listened. "You’re listening to Whispers After One. And tonight... let’s start with a mirror."

I reached for the first letter. The handwriting was neat, feminine. The envelope? Unlabeled, but I knew this script. Elegant, playful. Familiar.

Inside was a short story.

A girl alone in a hotel room in Fukuoka. A mirror facing her bed that she didn’t remember being there when she checked in. And the voice she heard through the radio — hers, but not quite.

I frowned, leaning in. "Our first story comes from someone who goes by... ‘S.’"

Something in my chest tightened. "Let's listen closely. There’s more than one reflection here tonight."

The paper felt oddly cold in my hand. Not the room. Just the letter. I held it under the dim studio lamp as if warming it would make the story feel less… alive.

I began reading. "February 13th, Room 908. I remember the sound of the hallway more than I remember the room."

The static behind my voice filled the space between her words, like it wanted to interrupt — or warn. "The air conditioner was broken. Not off, not on — broken. It made this sound. Like… breathing. But from the ceiling. Rhythmic. Too human to ignore. Not human enough to follow."

My breath hitched. I wasn’t the only one. Even in the soundproof booth, I swore I heard my producer shift uncomfortably in the adjacent room. "The mirror was across from the bed. I don't remember it when I walked in. But it was there when I woke up."

I paused. Read the sentence again silently.

The mirror appeared after she fell asleep? "I didn’t look at it for hours. Not because I was scared. But because I was convinced… it was looking at me first."

I cleared my throat. The studio was suddenly too quiet. "Some say a mirror at night is like an unanswered call. It reflects — but only what you expect to see," I said, letting my tone dip softer. "Others say… it’s a doorway. Especially if it’s not yours."

I tapped my notes — not because I needed to, but because my fingers were getting stiff. Tense. I continued reading. "At 3:12 a.m., the breathing from the ceiling stopped." The timestamp. Exact. Like a scar on the memory. "I looked at the mirror. My reflection blinked twice. Then didn’t."

I looked up, as if someone else were in the room with me. No one was. Just the hum of the equipment. The flicker of the ON AIR light.

I exhaled slowly. Deliberately. "There’s a psychological phenomenon," I murmured into the mic, more to myself than anyone, "called the Strange-Face Illusion. When you stare into a mirror in low light, your facial features begin to distort. Your brain, overwhelmed by sensory adaptation, starts to fill in the blanks. You begin to see something that isn't you. Something waiting behind you."

I tapped the envelope with my nail. "But in some stories… it’s not your brain."

A moment of silence. Then I finished her letter. "I left the hotel before sunrise. The front desk told me Room 908 hadn’t been booked in three years. They said the last guest broke the mirror with their bare hands and fled. I looked at my phone. I took a photo of the mirror before I left. There was a crack."

I stopped. Checked the back of the letter. One more line. "But I didn’t break it."

The air in the studio shifted. Not physically. Something colder. Internal. Like memory was a temperature. I leaned back and spoke low, as though she was still listening. "S," I whispered, "thank you for the story. Wherever you are now, I hope you're sleeping somewhere without reflections."

A beat of silence. Then the next track queued up — eerie piano in a minor key, soft static underneath. Background comfort. But it wasn’t comforting anymore.

I stared at the ON AIR sign, still red.

Still glowing. And in the glass window in front of me, I saw my reflection blink twice. Then didn’t. I let the silence stretch. Not the kind that’s empty. The kind that listens. I leaned in again, closer to the mic. Quieter now. Warmer. "If you’re still out there, S…"

I let her name rest in the air like a held breath. "It must’ve been terrifying. That moment you felt like something knew you better than you knew yourself. Not the mirror. Not the room. But the silence afterward."

I paused, voice softer. "Sometimes, we survive the strange things. But we don’t talk about them because we’re afraid they weren’t strange. We’re afraid they were us."

The red light above me glowed steady. "But I see you."

My voice faltered just for a second — not from fear. From sincerity. "You didn’t break the mirror. But maybe you wanted to. Maybe you wanted to break the version of you that stares back, quietly pretending to be okay."

I closed my eyes. "Whoever you are… I hope you’re not just surviving now. I hope someone’s voice is making you feel safe enough to sleep again."

I pulled away from the mic. Not a performance. Not a sendoff. Just a wish.

Somewhere, across the city.

In a quiet room with warm blankets and dim lights, Sana clutched her earbuds tighter.

Her knees curled to her chest. Her back pressed to the cool wall of her bedroom. The other girls had long since fallen asleep, but she stayed — like she always did — awake for him.

The voice she’d listened to for years. The only voice that somehow always seemed to know what her heart hadn’t said out loud. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. Not sobs. Not pain. Just the gentle kind of ache that comes from being understood too clearly. "You didn’t break the mirror," he’d said.

But she had. Not literally. But in every way that counted. Back then, in that room, on tour — after her ankle injury, after the comment sections got too loud, after she’d stared too long at herself wondering if she still belonged.

She had written that letter in the airport. Scrawled it with shaking hands. Never thinking he’d actually read it. And yet. "I see you." Her lips trembled. She whispered into the air, not caring if it reached anyone: "I see you too."

Her hand reached for her phone. She didn’t open any app. She just stared at the paused live stream. At the glowing icon. At the voice that somehow always found her — even when she didn’t know how to call for help.

And this time, with a heart full of something more than fear, she whispered again:

"Not all ghosts haunt…" A pause. A heartbeat. "Some wait to be heard."

The ON AIR light glowed again.

My voice returned. Lower. Measured. Not to scare — but to let the weight of quiet truths settle on the listeners' chests. "I got a lot of messages about last night."

I didn’t say thank you. Not because I wasn’t grateful. But because this part wasn’t gratitude. It was confession. "A lot of you wrote about ‘S.’ About the mirror. About the room. About how you couldn’t sleep after."

I let out a faint breath through my nose. "Some of you said it was the scariest story you’ve heard. Others said it reminded you of something. Something you couldn’t quite explain. And a few of you… said it made you cry."

I tapped the edge of the mic with my knuckle. Once. "Fear does that. The real kind. It doesn’t scream at you. It whispers. And then it waits. And then it watches how long you’ll pretend it’s not there."

I looked around my studio. Empty. But not lonely. "I’ve got a lot of stories. I’ve read thousands. But tonight, I want to tell you one of mine."

My throat felt dry. I reached for water. Didn’t drink. "When I was sixteen, I stopped sleeping for two weeks straight. No real reason. Nothing happened. At least — that’s what I kept telling people."

The music under my voice changed — subtle strings, no melody. Just enough to remind the listener that the world was still turning. "I started seeing someone in the corner of my room. A girl. She never moved. Never blinked. Just stood there, in the edge of my peripheral vision. Always after 3:00 a.m. Always at the exact moment I closed my eyes to fall asleep."

I paused. Long enough that listeners might think something went wrong with the signal. "You know what’s weird?"

I asked softly. "I wasn’t scared. Not at first. I thought I was lonely. I thought maybe… maybe she was too."

My lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "It got worse. She started standing closer. Every night, just a step more. I still didn’t look directly at her. Part of me thought that if I acknowledged her, she’d vanish. And I didn’t want to be alone again."

There it was — the line. The one between paranormal and personal. And I crossed it with the next words. "One night, I woke up to find my pillow damp. Not wet like sweat. Damp. Like someone had been crying on it."

The silence that followed felt brittle. "I finally turned my head. Looked right at the corner."

Another pause. My voice dropped barely above a whisper. "She wasn’t there."

I swallowed. "But my desk chair was turned toward me. And there was a strand of black hair caught on the cushion."

I let those words settle like dust on the listeners' skin. "I never saw her again. The hair disappeared the next morning. So did the sleeplessness. But something stayed."

I touched the back of my neck. "To this day, I still can’t fall asleep unless I leave my chair facing the wall."

I exhaled slowly. "I don’t know if she was a ghost. A dream. A hallucination. Or just some part of me I couldn’t carry anymore."

Then, quieter: "But maybe that’s the real horror. That sometimes, we create ghosts… just to have someone who stays."

The piano returned — faint, distorted like it was playing from a cassette that had been underwater. I leaned back. "Wherever you are tonight… whether you’re S, or someone like her, or someone like me… I hope the silence is softer now."

The music played gently underneath, carrying your voice like a lantern across the dark. The air in the studio felt a little thinner. I tapped the mic twice. Just habit. My voice came slow this time, almost reluctant. "I wasn't planning to share this one. But tonight feels like the right night."

Soft static curled under my voice like invisible fog. "I was nineteen. Staying in Daegu for a few weeks — trying to write, clear my head, play games. There's a place called Top PC — it was on the upper floor of a mall."

A short pause. A shift in tone. Memory clawing its way forward. "That day, I was distracted. Took the wrong elevator. Got off on a construction floor by mistake. Concrete everywhere. Rebar. The ceiling open to pipes. It wasn’t finished yet."

"Worse, the power cut right then. Elevators froze. So I had to find the stairwell."

A beat. My words slowed. "And that’s when I heard it. Footsteps. Not heavy, not loud. Just... wrong."

I remembered the sound clearly. Leather soles on raw concrete. Not rushed. Not careful. Like they belonged there. "I hid behind a cement pillar. Just in case. You don’t want to get caught trespassing on active construction."

"That’s when I saw them."

The room got quieter. Even the hum of my computer seemed to hush. "A man and a boy. The man wore this... long overcoat. Had a cape. Not a superhero cape — no, this was like a funeral coat. The boy looked about ten. Pale. Quiet. Both of them… out of place."

I exhaled — sharp and short. Like I needed to let the weight out before it sank me. "They were standing by the edge. No railing. Just open air. You could see the whole street below. They weren’t scared. They were holding hands."

The next words scraped through me. "And then… they jumped."

Even now, years later, it tasted like rust in my mouth. "I stood there. Frozen. My ears were ringing, and it wasn't just fear. It was the kind that rearranges your bones from the inside out."

"When I found the stairs, I ran. Two at a time, barely breathing. When I reached the ground floor, there was already a crowd. Murmurs. People pointing."

My voice cracked just slightly. "But I was the most horrified person there. You want to know why?"

Silence. Then: "Because on the pavement, there was only one body. The boy."

A long breath. "No sign of the man. No blood. No cape. No coat. The security footage? Mall said it just... glitched. That floor’s cameras were always faulty."

I let the silence sit. "I still don’t know what I saw. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he was something worse. Or maybe... maybe he was never there. Just a shadow that borrowed a shape. Maybe it wanted someone to follow."

The words hovered, then landed softly. "Some people think ghosts are the ones who haven’t moved on. But sometimes, the scariest ones are those who help others cross... and vanish after."

My voice shifted. A little warmer. But sad. "That day changed me. I never looked at rooftops the same way again. Not out of fear. Out of grief. Grief that maybe, even in death, some people are still trying to hold hands."

Soft, somber piano drifted in — slow chords stretched thin like foggy breath on glass. "So, to anyone listening tonight... if you feel like you’re standing on a ledge, even metaphorically... don’t hold a ghost’s hand."

"Hold someone real. Even if it's just a voice on the radio."

The music faded.

And far away, in a darkened, quiet dorm room… Sana blinked.

She was sitting on her bed, one knee drawn up to her chest, earbuds still nestled deep.

The rest of TWICE had long gone to sleep. Her phone screen was dark, but she didn’t press it again. She didn’t need to. The words were echoing in her chest. Her hand tightened around the edge of her duvet. She knew your name. Your real face. Not just the voice on the radio.

But this… this wasn’t parasocial, was it?

This felt different. Not admiration. Not even attraction. No, it was deeper than that. It was the way your stories mirrored things she never told anyone. Things she only felt. In the hollow parts. The spaces between comebacks and cameras and fan signs.

Your stories understood loneliness. Saw it for what it was. Not a weakness. But a shape. A presence. Something you could touch. Her lips moved silently, repeating your last line. "Hold someone real… even if it’s just a voice on the radio."

She let out a trembling breath, then tucked her phone under her pillow like a secret. Her heart beat faster, not with fear. But with a growing ache she didn’t have a name for. Yet.

Three days later.

The studio smelled like coffee, sweat, and soundproof foam — the holy trinity of late-night radio.

I leaned back in my chair, legs stretched out, sipping on a convenience store latte that had no right being called coffee. Beside me, Dokyeom sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop on his lap, balancing a slice of pizza on his knee like he was training for a culinary circus.

"You’ve got the emotional depth of a ghost marriage ceremony," he said around a mouthful of cheese, "and yet you still manage to sound hotter than 90% of idol rappers when you talk about death. I swear, your voice is wasted on sanity."

"Was that a compliment or a curse?" I asked.

"Both. Like ramen at 2 a.m." I snorted. This was normal. This was safe. Dokyeom clicked his tongue as he trimmed the last segment of last night’s episode. "Hey, the story of the suicide floor? Trending. Over 90k shares. People are comparing it to urban legends now. Some even claim they saw similar things in Daegu too. You’ve basically created a cult."

"That’s not comforting." "No, but it is brandable."

We both laughed — loud and easy. That kind of laugh that makes you forget for a moment that you speak to ghosts on air. Then he paused. Eyes on his screen. His mouth twisted like he bit into a lemon he didn’t expect.

"Uh... so." He set his laptop down and rubbed the back of his neck. "I was supposed to tell you this earlier, but I forgot. Because, you know, pizza." I gave him a look. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Technically." He flashed his usual innocent-grimace hybrid. "Okay, so... you got an offer."

I sat up straighter. "From who?"

He picked up his phone and flipped the screen toward me.

JYP Entertainment.

Subject: Collaboration Opportunity — Joint Radio Hosting Pilot with TWICE Member

I blinked. Then blinked again. "You’re kidding."

"Nope." Dokyeom grinned, doing little jazz hands. "Apparently, someone high up loved your voice. Said it’d pair well with one of their girls. Emotional contrast or something. They’re suggesting a co-hosted, biweekly late-night segment with a TWICE member."

I stared at the screen. Cold air crept in under my hoodie like a warning. "...Which member?"

"That’s the thing," he said. "They didn’t name her in the email. Just said she’s familiar with your work. Big fan. Requested you, specifically. That’s all."

I didn’t answer right away. My mind drifted — uninvited — to a dorm room late at night, a girl with earbuds in, lips repeating my words. "Do they know what kind of stories I tell?" I muttered. "I'm not exactly your average feel-good bedtime narrator."

"Yeah, but that’s the appeal." Dokyeom shrugged. "You don’t coddle fear. You hug it like an ex you still miss."

I gave him a deadpan look. "You need therapy."

"So do you." We laughed again, but this time it felt... softer. Offbeat.

A TWICE member. Requested me. Me. The faceless voice behind the mic. She already knew me. But I didn’t know which she. And somehow, that made it eerier than any ghost story I’d ever told. "So?" Dokyeom asked, stretching his legs. "You gonna accept?"

I didn’t respond right away. I just looked down at the email. My thumb hovered over the reply button. "Let’s meet in person," the draft line read. And under it, the signature of someone I hadn’t even seen yet — only felt. I scrolled through the email again, lips tightening. "They know a lot about me."

Dokyeom looked up, still chewing. "Like what?"

"Full name, real name. My Daegu years. Even my university major. They even mentioned the exact rooftop I broadcasted from during my early days. That was never public."

His chewing slowed. He tilted his head like a golden retriever hearing a flute for the first time. "That’s... specific."

"Yeah."

We exchanged a look. The fluorescent lights above flickered once. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was bad wiring. Maybe it wasn’t. "Creepy accurate, huh?" he muttered. "You think they pulled data from our archives?"

"That rooftop stream was analog. I didn't even archive the audio. Only a few dozen people heard it live. One of those bootleg setups, remember?"

Dokyeom rubbed his chin like a fake detective in a sitcom. "Well, JYPE is rich, bro. They probably have KCSI or something. Like, K-pop CIA."

I chuckled. "Right. And TWICE agents sneak through air vents to find hidden mixtapes."

"Don’t joke," he said, pointing a pizza crust at me like it was a holy relic. "Do you know how many people would kill to know who you are? You're basically Korea’s haunted pen pal. You say ‘goodnight’ and people cry. You sneeze and someone makes a fanedit."

I rolled my eyes but smiled. It was comforting how Dokyeom always tethered things back to reality. "Our station’s been careful, though," I said. "They never leaked my image, even internally. I trust them with that."

"Exactly." He leaned back on his elbows. "So if this got greenlit, it wasn’t from a leak. It was... chosen. Deliberately."

I looked back at the email. The words blurred for a second, like the screen was breathing. A part of me felt like I was being watched, not offered.

Dokyeom whistled low. "It’s like you got recruited into a movie or something. Mysterious late-night voice guy teams up with world-famous idol. What could go wrong?"

"That sentence alone should be illegal."

He cackled. "Oh, c’mon. You’ll be fine. You’ve danced with shadows and talked ghosts into therapy. What’s one idol with a fan crush?"

I paused. Thought of the last story I read. The girl who mailed her horror like a secret prayer. The way her pain bled through the paper. The way my voice cracked reading it. No. This wasn’t just a fan. There was something deeper.

"I’ll do it." I finally said, eyes still on the screen. "Atta boy." Dokyeom raised his slice like a champagne toast. "Let’s make romance horror again."

Interlude: Behind the Curtain

"You're sure about this?" the manager asked again, voice tight with concern as they held the tablet out, list of vetted radio personalities glowing on-screen. Sana didn’t even glance at it.

She sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a cold bottle of banana milk like she was lounging in a café—not making an unprecedented talent request to the higher-ups of JYP Entertainment. "Positive," she said with a disarming grin. The manager blinked. "But you haven't seen the shortlist—"

"I don’t need to." She tilted her head, letting her ponytail sway slightly. There was nothing unusual in her tone. Nothing demanding. Just lighthearted, playful… and absolute. "Just... him."

The manager gave a nervous chuckle, scratching behind their ear. "You’re usually the most bubbly during planning meetings. Joking, teasing, making faces… But this time—Sana-ssi, you’re being unusually quiet."

"Am I?" Sana turned to face them fully, resting her chin on her palm. She smiled. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The manager swallowed and nodded. "I'll talk to the board." She beamed, like a ray of sunlight. "Thank you." But the manager left the room with a strange cold creeping up their spine.

Late Evening – TWICE Dorm

The air smelled like grilled sweet potatoes and softener-drenched laundry. The kitchen was warm and softly lit, the hum of the fridge the only sound as Dahyun padded in to grab water. She stopped when she saw Sana, arms crossed on the counter, head down, a dreamy smile curling at her lips.

"Sana-unnie?" Dahyun asked, blinking. "You okay?"

Sana slowly turned her head, eyes shining like she’d just woken from a beautiful dream. "Mmm. Just thinking about his voice."

"Huh?" Dahyun opened the fridge.

"The radio host. You’ve listened too, right?"

"Yeah, a few episodes. Pretty popular these days." She took out a bottle of water. "Creepy but... poetic?"

Sana nodded slowly. "That’s what I like about him. He doesn’t try to scare you. He just... sees through things. People, pain, moments. It’s like he walks through the fog and comes back carrying the heart of it."

Dahyun froze with the fridge still open.

"He read that letter someone wrote," Sana went on softly, fingers gently tracing circles on the countertop. "The one about the girl and the thing in her room. The way he spoke—"

She closed her eyes. "It felt like he knew her better than she knew herself. Like he didn’t need to see her face, or body, or even hear her real name. He felt her. And that’s rare, Dahyunnie. You know how rare that is?"

There was a pause. "In our world..." she whispered, "we’re always seen—but never really known. People adore us, but not really us. It’s filtered affection. Edited worship. But he... he could fall in love with a ghost. Isn’t that beautiful?"

Dahyun took a small step back, closing the fridge door slowly. She smiled softly, careful not to let it show too much concern. "Sounds like you really respect him, unnie."

"Mmm." Sana's eyes didn’t move from the counter. "Or maybe... I just want to know how it feels. To be loved without being looked at. Not as TWICE's Sana. Just as... someone."

Dahyun sipped her water and gave a quiet nod. But something inside her twisted—like a gentle hand pressing just a bit too hard against her ribs. A creeping realization she couldn’t put into words. Not yet. Not when Sana’s smile looked so warm...And yet so frighteningly far away.

Dahyun’s Monologue: A Flicker Beneath the Smile

I’ve always loved being around Sana-unnie. She’s warmth wrapped in laughter, flirtation turned into an art form. When things are too heavy, she floats. When we’re too tired to smile, she makes faces until we do. She’s one of the hearts that keep TWICE beating. And I’m the younger one who leans on her…

But lately— I’ve been watching her lean into something else. It’s scary when the ones who make the light start finding comfort in the dark.

I used to think parasocial love was a one-way street. We walk it all the time, right? Fans fall for the image, not the person. They dream of us, not knowing who we are—just what we represent. We live with it. Smile through it. Learn to separate the screaming from sincerity. It's normal. Just part of the job.

But Sana-unnie…She’s walking that street now too. In reverse. The way she talks about him—the radio host. She doesn’t admire him. She knows him. Or wants to. She clings to his words like she’s been starved for them her whole life. Not because they’re scary. Because they see her.

And for the first time, I felt that weird glass wall—the one that usually separates us from them—It flipped. And now I’m on the other side, watching someone I care for…Turn into the kind of listener we protect each other from.

But what can I do? She’s still Sana-unnie. Still bubbly. Still playful. Still brings me my favorite drinks when I’m stressed. She still laughs loud. Still hugs tight. But I see it now. There’s something behind her eyes that doesn’t belong to any of us. Like she’s somewhere else.

I’m scared. Not of him. Not of her. I’m scared of the gap. That space between hearing and being heard. Between wanting and obsession. And what it does to people—even the ones with the brightest smiles.

Because even stars can fall. And I don’t know how to catch her...If I’m the one standing on the ground.

Dorm Hallway – Just Past Midnight

The soft hum of the fridge was the only sound left in the silence after their late snack.

Sana placed her cup in the sink, still smiling faintly—like her lips remembered an old joke but her eyes had long moved on. She turned to leave, slowly, her socked feet brushing against the floor.

"Unnie." Dahyun’s voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped her. Stilled her. Sana turned her head, only slightly, but didn’t speak.

"What are you feeling… really?" Dahyun asked gently. "About this show. About... him." A silence. Not the kind that suffocates. The kind that waits.

Sana finally turned fully, fingers fiddling with the hem of her hoodie. She looked down, almost like she wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming.

"I don’t know," she said softly, with a laugh that barely qualified as one. "It’s like... when he speaks, it’s not just stories. It’s like he’s reaching through the static and saying something only I understand. Like he’s whispering to the version of me even I forgot existed."

Dahyun took a step forward, cautious. The unease in her gut pulsed again. "Sana-unnie... you know we’ve all heard him. He’s great. Really. But—"

"It’s not about him, Dahyun." Sana’s voice trembled slightly, but not from fear. From clarity. "It’s about... finally hearing someone who doesn't ask me to be pretty. Or fun. Or Sana from TWICE.

It’s just someone who speaks, and for the first time, I don't have to perform to be seen." Her eyes glistened. But they weren’t teary. They were hungry. "I feel like… he already knows me. And if I met him, really met him… he'd know the parts even I locked away."

Dahyun's breath caught. "Unnie..."

Sana blinked, slow, like she was waking up from a trance—or stepping deeper into one. Then she smiled. Wide. Dreamy. "You know what it feels like when millions love you but not a single one actually knows you?"

"He does. Somehow, he does."

She turned and walked down the hallway. The air felt colder. Dahyun didn’t follow. She just stood there, in the hum of the kitchen light, goosebumps creeping up her arms, wondering—what if love, when unheard, doesn’t fade…but grows louder in silence?

=================================

[The next Night, Late Night Radio Show – 1:03 AM, Station 10.7]

The red light blinked softly. Live. My fingers hovered over the volume dial as I leaned toward the mic, my voice dipping low and even. “And we’re back. Tonight… we received another letter. From ‘S.’”

I paused. “This one’s not like the others.”

The printed pages on my desk were warm from the lights above, but the words felt cold. “It’s titled: The One I Never Got to Say Goodbye To.”

I began to read.

He was the kind of quiet that filled empty rooms, the kind of presence that made silence feel like company. He worked behind voices—made others sound better, heard everything and said little. He had a laugh like the world hadn’t quite broken him yet.

I used to walk by the station’s glass lobby at night. Lights on. Shadows moving. I’d watch him, even when I wasn’t supposed to. Not out of obsession. Not at first. It started as curiosity. How someone could look so alive... just talking into a void.

Sometimes, I think I loved him before I knew his name.

I wanted to tell him. That his stories healed something in me. That his voice made loneliness feel less fatal. But I never wrote in. I was too scared to be another voice in a sea of fans. Too scared to break the illusion.

Then the accident happened. Not to him. To me. A slip in my world that made it impossible to reach his. I disappeared. Like a radio losing signal. And he kept talking, never knowing I had gone quiet.

But lately, I’ve come back. Re-tuned. I listen again. From the same distance. But it’s different now.

Because I don’t want to just listen anymore. I want him to know— I was always there. Watching. Hearing. Waiting.

Not for the end of the story. But for the part where the story finally sees me.

I stopped. The booth was dead silent. My fingers trembled faintly on the armrest. “That… wasn’t horror,” I finally said. “But it might be the most chilling story we’ve ever received.”

There was a weight in my chest. Not fear. Not romance. Something stranger. A whisper behind the ears that you were never truly alone. I adjusted the mic, speaking softer now. More vulnerable.

“If you're out there, S… whoever you are…I hope you’re okay. I hope whatever accident tore you away didn’t take all of you.”

“And if it did—I’ll keep the light on.”

[Meanwhile – Sana’s POV – Dorm Room, 1:18 AM]

She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, the red glow of the radio station’s live stream light flickering faintly across her face. The others were asleep. Dahyun’s faint breathing from the other room barely audible.

Sana leaned in closer to the screen, lips parted slightly.

“He read it…” she whispered. “He really read it.”

A small smile. But her fingers didn’t move. Neither did her eyes. She wasn’t crying. But she should’ve been. Because something inside her was… breaking, slowly. Not from sadness. From aching purpose.

The kind that makes people wait in the dark for years. The kind that makes someone write and rewrite the same story—until the right person sees it. Until he sees her. Her reflection in the dark screen was almost unrecognizable. Not because she looked different. But because she was looking at herself through someone else’s eyes. And she liked it. Too much.

The red “LIVE” light dimmed. I raised my hand subtly toward the glass—two fingers in the air. Dokyeom caught the cue instantly. He slid his hand over the console and queued the soft instrumental: something ambient, gentle, like wind brushing over sand.

“We’ll be right back,” I murmured into the mic, then flicked it off. I stood up, heart thudding too fast for such a quiet booth, and pushed open the soundproof door. Dokyeom was leaned back on his chair, one headphone off, chewing on sour gummies like it was just another night in paradise.

I walked straight to him, tension stiff in my neck, and leaned on the side of his chair. “Tell me I’m not crazy,” I said.

“What?” he mumbled, mouth half-full. “That was a damn good letter, man. Gave me chills.”

“No—listen.” I lowered my voice. “That story...the guy she described. The way she talked about the booth, the voice, watching him from outside?”

I looked around instinctively, though no one else was there. “She’s talking about me, right?”

He stopped chewing. His brows rose slightly. “You think she’s really stalking you?”

“I don’t know!” I ran a hand through my hair. “I mean, at first it felt like one of those poetic ‘your-voice-saved-me’ kind of things. But tonight? She talked about an accident...a disappearance...coming back...like she never left but I never noticed.”

Dokyeom stared at me, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Bro. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” I snapped. “I’m just asking you if this feels...off. Weird. Personal. Like she’s talking to me. Only me.”

He looked at the mixing board for a second, as if the sliders could answer. Then, calmly, he replied. “Okay. Yeah. It's a little weird.”

I opened my mouth, but he raised a finger. “But, come on. We are a public show. Thousands tune in. It’s natural someone connects more than others. Besides, she didn’t say your name. Maybe it’s just really well-written projection.”

I exhaled slowly. The buzzing paranoia still clung to the back of my neck like static, but...his tone helped. I slumped onto the extra chair beside him, rubbing my eyes. “You ever feel like being seen too closely starts to feel like being watched?”

Dokyeom whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep. Put that in the next episode.”

I smirked despite myself. “I’m serious, man.”

He leaned back in his chair, tossing the empty gummy bag on the desk. “Look. If someone was stalking you, I’d be the first to notice. We track our mail-ins, our audio logs, station IPs. You know that. Nothing suspicious came through. No flagged user, no cross-location pings. The team would've told me.”

I nodded slowly, letting it sink in. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Course I am.” He nudged my arm. “You’re just tired. That story hit weird. Your vibe's been off since she started writing in.”

“…Since the second letter.” Dokyeom raised an eyebrow. “The one about the train platform?”

I nodded. “The way she described how she kept her eyes on the guy’s back, not his face. That line—‘the back was enough. Because once you love someone enough, the front is too much to bear’.”

I looked down at my own hands, voice quieter. “That line didn’t feel made up.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Dokyeom sighed and looked at the screen showing the song timer ticking down. “We’ve got forty-three seconds till we’re back live.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. He looked at me sideways. “You okay?”

“…Not sure.” “Wanna skip the next mail-in?”

“No.” I sat up straighter, voice firm again. “If she’s watching… I want her to know I see her, too.”

The light turned red again.

[Three Weeks Later – JYPE Headquarters, 10:31 AM]

The elevator hummed quietly as I stood inside, hands in my coat pockets, eyes scanning the digital floor numbers rise with a soft ding. 10…11…12… Even now, I still wasn't sure what this whole thing was.

A talk show collaboration? Sure. But with an idol? An actual TWICE member? That part never stopped sounding strange.

The invitation was legit. The contracts came stamped, the clauses surprisingly flexible. Even Dokyeom had triple-checked the authenticity—JYPE’s media team themselves had reached out to our station.

But what still clung to my mind like fog was that no one told me which member wanted this. Not the producers. Not the writers. Not even Dokyeom. I had signed on blind.

The doors opened with a soft ding to the media floor. Glass walls, sunlight through beige blinds, quiet buzz of assistants pacing in heels or sneakers, coffee cups, and papers. I exhaled slowly.

"Morning, Mr. L/N." A young assistant in a sleek black outfit walked up, bowing slightly. She gestured politely toward a meeting room to the left. “The producer is waiting for you inside. The artist will join later.”

“Still keeping it a secret, huh?” I half-smiled. She returned a polite, neutral grin. “You'll understand soon, sir.”

Of course I will. I walked into the meeting room—clean, white, minimalist. One side was entirely glass, the other lined with posters of TWICE’s past eras. Some familiar. Some deeply nostalgic. Some… recent. Too recent.

"Ah, Y/N!" A warm voice pulled my thoughts. JYPE’s talk show producer stepped in—a middle-aged man in round glasses and a scarf that looked like it hadn’t left his neck since 2007. "We've been excited for this."

“You say that like I haven’t been dreading the mystery,” I muttered, settling in. He laughed. “That’s part of the charm. This is her idea, after all.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Right. ‘Her’. Still not giving me a name?”

“It’s… sensitive. Let’s just say, she was very specific.” “About… me?”

He paused. Adjusted his glasses. “About everything.”

I leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Strange choice, though. An idol voluntarily choosing a psychological horror show host? Doesn’t exactly scream brand synergy.”

The man smiled faintly, but didn’t answer. I looked around the room again, eyes pausing on a framed photo of the “Feel Special” era. Nine girls, bright smiles, dreamy filters.

Which one was watching my show? Which one was listening in the dark?

[JYPE Media Room – Same Day, 10:42 AM]

The producer's voice echoed faintly as he flipped through a printed schedule. “She should be arriving any—”

The door clicked. I turned casually toward it, expecting perhaps a staffer, a stylist, or another assistant with iced coffee and paperwork.

But when the door opened—My breath caught.

She walked in.

Soft brown hair fell in delicate sheets over her shoulders, parted gently to one side, glowing faintly under the fluorescent light. Her ash-toned waves framed a gentle jawline and rested softly over the wide pointed collar of her blouse. The blouse itself—white, vintage, flared at the sleeves—peeked elegantly from underneath a sleeveless, beige A-line midi dress, tailored and subtle in its detail.

The overall palette was almost ethereal—soft pastels, neutral warmth. She looked like someone who had wandered out of a late spring romance film and simply strolled into this world. Cream ankle-strap heels clicked delicately with each step, dainty but confident.

“…Sana?” It slipped out of me before I realized I said her name aloud.

She smiled. And it wasn’t just a polite smile, or one meant for an audience. It was a quiet, knowing smile—one that pressed into her cheeks and warmed her gaze. Her eyes met mine and didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Like she had been waiting.

"Annyeonghaseyo." Her voice was soft but held the clarity of someone not used to hesitating. "I'm the one who requested this show with you."

I stood, half-awkwardly smoothing my coat as if it could clean up how stunned I must have looked. The producer gave a soft chuckle from the side and excused himself with an obvious smile, mumbling something about giving us a moment.

As the door clicked shut again, the room fell silent. It was just me and her.

"Wow… I didn’t expect you," I managed, gesturing for her to sit, voice lightly cracking from the back of my throat. "I mean… I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into horror content. Especially psychological stuff."

She sat gracefully, smoothing the hem of her dress with a natural elegance that made even that simple action look cinematic. “I know,” she said, tilting her head a little, smile still playing gently at her lips. “Most people think I get scared easily.”

"Don’t you?" I blinked. She laughed softly. It was breathy, like flower petals tumbling in spring wind. “I do. I still get chills from my own shadow sometimes.”

We both laughed lightly. And yet… she was here. Voluntarily. “So why my show, then?” I asked, voice finally settling into something casual.

She folded her hands on her lap, elbows relaxed on the table. Her posture was poised, refined—but not stiff. There was an unspoken ease between us already. “Because it makes me think,” she said.

That caught me off guard. “About what?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where soft sunlight slipped through half-drawn blinds and painted slow lines across the floor. “…About things that we’re not usually allowed to say out loud,” she replied eventually. “Things that feel wrong to admit, but somehow… the stories on your show made them feel safe to imagine.”

That silenced me. I’d had fans before. Listeners who messaged in, who cried during episodes, who swore we helped them sleep at night, or not sleep. But this… this was different.

This was Sana. A memvber from one of the biggest girl groups in the world.

Famous for her bright laugh, her bubbly warmth, her charm that melted camera lenses—and here she was, sitting across from me in a retro-collared blouse, talking about the comfort she found in my strange little world of haunted whispers and emotional shadows.

“Didn’t expect to be the reason someone like you liked horror,” I admitted, letting a smile tug at my lips. “Most guests come to debate, not compliment.”

She tilted her head again, amused. “I’m not like most guests.”

We shared a brief silence. Not awkward. Just… weighted. There was no flirtation in her eyes. Not yet. Just warmth. Sincere appreciation. But behind her calm demeanor, something still lingered. Not darkness. Not danger. But something. Purpose.

[JYPE Talk Show Conference Room – Rehearsal Space]

The rehearsal room was warm with low lights, a hum of muted conversation buzzing in the corners as sound staff prepped mics and the camera crew adjusted the test angles for tomorrow’s shoot.

I sat across from her again—Sana, now barefoot with her heels neatly set aside beside her chair, the hem of her beige dress brushing the floor as she shifted comfortably in her seat. She wasn’t wearing the full stage-ready face of makeup now. Just soft tones, the natural flush of her cheeks, lips tinted like a fading memory.

“So,” I started, flipping open the concept notebook Dokyeom handed me earlier. “You said you had a topic in mind for this collab, right?”

She nodded, fingers gently playing with the rim of a paper coffee cup that had long gone cold. “It’s called The Echo Room,” she said, voice light but focused.

“Sounds psychological already.” I smiled faintly, tapping my pen on the page. “What’s the idea behind it?”

She looked up at me—directly. The kind of eye contact that doesn’t just meet yours, but searches. Not assertive. Not flirty. Just… sincere. And strangely unreadable. “It’s a story about… someone who leaves messages.”

“Like, voicemail-style?”

“More like anonymous radio broadcasts,” she said. “But they never reveal who they’re for. Just memories. Or confessions. Things they could never say face-to-face. The kind of things you only say when no one can answer back.”

That was… very on-brand for this show. And eerily poetic.

“The twist,” she continued, voice dipping slightly, “is that one day… someone starts replying. But not through calls. Just… things start happening in real life. Subtle things. As if someone heard the broadcast and wanted to speak back. But not through words.”

I blinked. Scribbled something down. “Creepy in a quiet way.”

“Exactly.” Her lips curved just slightly—not quite a smile, but the soft acknowledgment of being understood. But it was more than the concept. As she explained it further—layer by layer, about how the character (a woman) slowly begins to believe her messages are reaching the person she lost, and how her need to be heard becomes an obsession—I noticed it.

That shift. Subtle. When she was addressing the crew, joking with Dokyeom, giggling at something the PD said—she was the Sana everyone knew. Bubbly. Bright. Effortlessly warm. But when she turned back to me…

It changed. Her posture relaxed, her voice dropped just slightly, more melodic. Her gaze lingered longer—never invasive, never inappropriate—but present. As if she wasn’t just looking at me. She was studying me. And her words? They always circled back in a strange, unintentional loop. To me.

“I think the girl in the story… she’s not just lonely,” Sana murmured, almost absentmindedly. “She’s always been around people. Always adored. But she feels closest to the one person who never reached back.”

I hesitated. “…Is it about heartbreak?”

“Maybe.” A beat. Then her eyes locked onto mine again. “Or maybe it’s about needing to be known by someone who sees past the surface. Someone who listens—not just hears.” I felt it then. That slow tug in the air. Like the quiet tension in the moments before rain.

Her words weren’t threatening. Not even intense. But there was something in them… something deeper than fan-level admiration. A tenderness. A familiarity she was weaving without consent or clarity. A bond that existed entirely in her space—but made you feel like you were being drawn into it without resisting.

Parasocial? Maybe. But unlike what I’d studied in theory or seen in fans—hers wasn’t manic. It was soft. Velvety. Beautiful, even. And that’s what made it harder to detect.

“You’ve clearly thought about this character a lot,” I said, flipping a page, trying to stay professional despite the odd flutter in my chest.

“I lived her once,” she said softly.

I looked up. “…What?”

She gave a light laugh—almost as if she didn’t mean to say it aloud. “I mean,” she corrected, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve imagined being her. You know. Leaving something out there and wondering if the person it was meant for ever felt it.”

My throat tightened for a moment. There was nothing accusatory in her tone. No implication. But again—that shift. Like the ghost of a feeling dancing in the corners of her words.

Sana leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand, elbow on the table. Her eyes sparkled—not with flirtation, but something far more disarming. “Have you ever felt like someone’s watching your work a little too closely?”

I smiled, deflecting. “That’s the point of a radio show, isn’t it? Hoping someone’s out there?”

She chuckled. “No, not hoping.” Her voice softened. “Knowing.”

That answer sat between us like the fog that rolls in slow. I didn’t feel unsafe. I didn’t feel alarmed. But I felt seen in a way that wasn’t quite normal.

She was still Sana. Still charming. Still graceful. But something behind that smile had gravity. Something that pulled the room ever so gently in her direction—one breath at a time. And yet…I didn’t mind. I didn’t even want to move.

[Whispers After One — Special Episode: Echo Room]

The red ON AIR light blinked to life. Soft instrumental hums floated beneath it—barely there, like whispers clinging to the edges of the night. The scent of paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee filled the cool air of the soundproof studio.

This was my sanctuary. Until tonight, my face had been a mystery even to my most loyal listeners. Only my voice existed out there—a drifting, nameless presence after 1 AM. "Whispers After One" was never meant to show. It was meant to haunt.

But now, there were cameras tucked into the corners. Their red recording lights burned small holes into the darkness. A quiet staffer approached me with a black satin mask—sleek, simple, covering half my face from just beneath my eyes down to my chin.

I accepted it without hesitation. Better this than surrendering the last fragile boundary I had left. Adjusting the mask over my nose, I took my seat behind the microphone. Across from me, in a matching soft pool of light, sat her.

Minatozaki Sana.

No heels now. Her pale shoes tucked neatly under her seat. That dreamy, oatmeal-colored dress catching the light like mist. Soft brown hair framing her face, falling naturally past her shoulders with a lazy side part. Her expression was... calm. Open. But that glint in her eyes—That same glint from the rehearsal, as if some secret rhythm only she could hear was playing in the background—It was still there. And somehow, it was directed only at me.

The cue light flashed.

3…2…1…

I leaned into the mic, voice dropping into the familiar, soothing register I always used when the world was sleeping. "Welcome back, lnsomniacs. This is Whispers After One… and tonight is special."

The theme music faded in—an eerie piano melody, light as fog, stitched with low ambient echoes. Perfect for the concept we built. "You know this show as the place where we explore the unseen, the unheard... the stories that brush past you in the dark."

My gloved fingers tapped lightly against my notes. "But tonight, we're not whispering alone."

I smiled under the mask, glancing across to her. Sana's lips tilted in a soft smile, almost shy. "Joining me is none other than Minatozaki Sana of TWICE," I said, voice steady but warm. "An artist you know for her light, her charm... and tonight, a very different side you'll hear."

Sana leaned into her own mic. "Annyeonghaseyo~..." she said, her voice as delicate and careful as if she were afraid to break the spell we’d woven in the room.

She glanced once, sideways, at me—not the audience, not the staff. Just me. "I'm Sana," she continued, "and… I'm really honored to be here, especially on a show I’ve secretly loved for a long time."

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible emphasis on secretly. The camera panned softly between us, slow and cinematic, bathing the scene in candlelight tones. I caught it then—listeners would hear the sweetness in her voice. They wouldn’t hear the tiny note of awe, almost reverence, buried underneath it when she spoke to me.

But sitting across from her now? I could feel it. "Tonight's theme," I said, sliding naturally into the next beat, "is something Sana herself proposed… The Echo Room." A soft chime sound marked the transition. "We'll tell a story," I explained, "about leaving memories in the void... and what happens when the void starts whispering back."

Sana inhaled softly, like the concept itself stirred something real inside her. She began: "Imagine… it starts simple. A girl sits by her radio every night, speaking into the silence." Her voice was slow, wrapped in velvet. Designed not just to tell—but pull you in. "She talks about her day. About her memories. About the things she regrets never saying when she had the chance."

Soft ambient echoes bloomed in the background, like faint footsteps down a hallway. I found myself leaning in a little too naturally, matching her tone. "At first, there’s no answer," I murmured. "Just the empty static of being unheard."

Sana’s eyes lifted slightly—catching mine for half a second, as if savoring that line. "But then," she whispered, "the things she talks about… start changing around her. A song she mentions plays in a store the next day. A childhood photo reappears where it was lost. A dream she shares… comes true."

The room seemed to lean closer with us. No one else spoke. Even the staff held their breath, watching the slow, eerie performance unfold.

Sana’s hands, resting lightly on the table, curled slightly. Her next words floated out like fog. "It’s not a ghost. Not magic. It's just… someone, somewhere, listening too closely."

I kept my voice steady. "And maybe," I said lowly, "someone who never intended to stay invisible forever." For a moment, it wasn’t acting. It wasn’t just a show. It felt real—a strange tether tying us, pulling her soft, mysterious aura closer across the table.

She smiled—barely. The kind of smile you'd give if you heard a secret only you were supposed to know. We let the music swell lightly, giving the audience space to breathe—or shiver—before easing into light conversation about loneliness, connection, unseen bonds.

Sana answered thoughtfully—always thoughtful—but whenever she directed a response to me, her voice softened even further. Her glances flickered a bit longer. Her smile tilted slightly more intimate. No one else would catch it. The cameras wouldn’t catch it.

But sitting there behind the mask, the air between us humming with unseen frequencies—I felt it. And for some reason…I didn’t mind at all.

The cameras whirred almost inaudibly. The background music faded down to near silence, leaving only the natural softness of breathing, the quiet clicks of shifting in chairs. We were deep into the middle portion of the show now—the part where the tone always sank a little heavier, a little deeper. The Echo Room was alive in the minds of the listeners now.

Sana tilted her head slightly, the smooth fall of her hair brushing her cheek. She rested her chin lightly on her palm, elbow on the table. Her posture seemed casual at first. But when she spoke next, there was something unfathomably tender in her voice, something that barely fluttered across the air like the wings of a moth.

"Sometimes..." she began, almost as if she were reminiscing instead of answering the latest question, "the scariest thing isn't the ghost itself. It's realizing you've been watched... and cared for... without ever knowing it." A small smile played at her lips—not mischievous, not playful. Soft. Almost… longing.

I nodded slightly, unaware of the undercurrent beneath her words. "Because," I replied thoughtfully, my mind on the story’s framework, "attention unseen is both a comfort and a horror, depending on the day."

"Mm," Sana murmured, low and gentle. "Depending on who’s watching." Her eyes flicked briefly to me again—not dramatic, not lingering. Just long enough that if anyone else had truly been looking... They might have wondered if that line was meant for the microphone at all. Or just for the man behind the mask.

I shifted slightly, adjusting my notes, brushing off the subtle tickle of awareness that something unspoken had passed between us. Probably just the atmosphere of the show. Probably just her talent for acting dreamy. The moment dissolved almost instantly as she leaned back, laughing softly at my next quip about radios "whispering back" too much and scaring people away from technology.

But there it was. A tiny drop of something left behind in the air. Invisible. Undetectable. Undeniably there. Recording continued. Unnoticed by me. But maybe not so unnoticed by Sana.

[Segment: Listener Q&A - Final Portion]

"And we're back," I spoke into the mic, smiling beneath my mask, "to the final portion of tonight’s Echo Room... featuring none other than Minatozaki Sana."

The small studio lights dimmed a little more for mood. The screen behind us flickered with soft visuals—moving mist, phantom lights, silhouettes that swayed without sound.

Sana turned slightly toward the camera, flashing a soft, shy smile that instantly melted the atmosphere. It was like watching sunlight fight its way through a heavy fog. "I’m excited," she said brightly, clasping her hands together on the table. "Listener questions are always the most fun!"

I chuckled. "You say that now... wait until you hear some of the ones our audience dared to send in." Dokyeom gave a small laugh from the control booth, muffled but still heard, like an inside joke shared behind the scenes. I shuffled the cards in front of me and pulled one randomly.

Question 1: "If you were haunted by a spirit, what kind of ghost would you want it to be?"

I leaned toward the mic a little dramatically. "Starting off easy," I teased. "Alright, Sana-ssi. Friendly Casper ghost? Romantic old-school spirit? Demonic possession? Pick your fighter."

Sana giggled, her laughter bubbling like soda but her fingers tapped lightly against the table—nervous energy? Excitement? It was hard to tell. "Mm..." she said, pretending to think seriously. "If I had to choose... I'd want it to be a gentle one. Someone who doesn't scare me... someone who's just... always there. Even when I don't see them."

Her voice dipped softer at the end. The audience probably heard it as cute. I just smiled and nodded. Unaware of how her gaze barely lifted from me—not the camera.

Question 2: "What scares you more — being alone, or being watched?"

I grinned beneath the mask. "Now we’re getting serious."

Sana bit her bottom lip lightly, thoughtful. "Being watched," she said immediately. Then, she blinked as if realizing she should elaborate. "I think... if you're alone, you can prepare yourself. Be strong. But if someone's watching you without you knowing, you can’t protect yourself. You’re... vulnerable. You can't hide."

Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.She wasn’t acting cute anymore. There was something achingly sincere behind her eyes.

I nodded slowly."There’s a strange kind of helplessness in it," I said, keeping the professional tone. "To be seen fully without your consent."

Sana smiled. A small, knowing smile. Almost grateful.

Question 3: "Have you ever had a feeling that someone cared about you... even without seeing them?"

I blinked at the phrasing. It was a little poetic for a listener submission. "Interesting question," I said aloud. "Kind of sweet too, in a creepy way."

Sana took a slow breath, and her voice dropped just a fraction lower. "Yes," she said simply. There was a silence—not heavy, but hanging, like a silk scarf caught on a branch. She tilted her head, looking down for a second, then lifting her gaze slightly—not to the camera, not to the script. Straight at me.

"Sometimes...you just know," she said. "When someone’s out there. Listening. Understanding you... even when they shouldn't be able to." Her smile didn’t falter. It just grew... softer. Almost sad.

I adjusted the mic settings casually, brushing off the odd pulse that tightened in my chest. Probably just the heavy nature of the show tonight. Probably.

Final Listener Submission: "If you could say one thing to someone who has always quietly supported you... without revealing who they are... what would you say?"

The card trembled slightly between my gloved fingers. Not from fear. Just... a sudden, creeping awareness of how delicate this atmosphere had become.

I looked at Sana expectantly. She smiled—a smile like slow, melting candle wax. Lovely. Strange. She didn’t even hesitate. She leaned closer to the mic, close enough that her breath was almost audible through the audio system. "I would say..." she whispered, "You’ve never been invisible to me. Even if you think you are. I’ve seen you all along."

The studio seemed to still. Even Dokyeom, busy behind the screens, paused briefly before resuming his work. Sana pulled back, her smile folding into a sweet little laugh. "Was that too dramatic?" she teased lightly, playful again. "I'm just getting into the theme!"

I laughed with her, nodding. "That’s what the Echo Room is for."

"To let all the unsaid things... finally be heard."

And with that, the final music cue rose gently from the speakers—soft, haunting, like the last ripple of a stone dropped into a dark, endless lake.

The cameras slowly powered down. The soft applause of the production staff filled the room. Not loud. Just a polite ripple. I removed my headset, stretching slightly, feeling the tightness in my shoulders from staying still so long.

Sana rose from her chair, her movements fluid and graceful. She smoothed her dress lightly, then looked toward me with a small, private smile.

"Thank you," she said, her voice meant just for me, not the room. "For letting me talk about things... I usually can't."

I nodded warmly, still not thinking too much of it. Just a beautiful, kind idol being grateful for a platform. Nothing more. Right?

[Post-Recording Lounge: "A Gentle Kind of Watching"]

The small studio gradually emptied after the last camera light clicked off. Producers laughed among themselves, wrapping cables, sharing inside jokes.

Dokyeom passed by, patting me on the shoulder. "Bro, you killed it," he said with a grin. "She killed it too. Good luck topping that one next week." I gave a humble nod, still seated, the studio warmth slowly cooling as the energy faded.

Across from me, Sana removed the small clip mic from her collar, her movements delicate. She stayed in her seat longer than expected, not in a hurry to leave.

A staff member brought in two steaming cups of herbal tea, leaving them on the low lounge table between us. "You can relax now," I joked lightly, pushing one cup toward her.

She chuckled, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic "It wasn’t stressful," she said honestly.."Your show... it makes people feel like they can say anything. Even scary things don’t feel so scary when you’re the one listening."

I blinked behind my mask, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Thanks," I said awkwardly. "That's kinda the goal... I guess."

The lounge lighting was softer here — low, amber, almost like candlelight. Outside the soundproof glass, the hallway buzzed with distant life, but in here it was quiet. Safe.

Yet there was something...something that stayed perched invisibly on my shoulder since the recording ended. A prickle between my shoulder blades.

Sana sipped her tea. She looked down at the swirling steam, then back at me — warm, unhurried. We sat there for a moment, not talking, just... existing. Until I broke the silence.

"Actually," I started, voice a little scratchy from hours of talking. "Since you mentioned feeling like someone’s always listening..." Sana's eyes lifted, alert but still casual. "...I got a weird story letter the other day."

She tilted her head slightly, the way a cat might when curious. "Weird?" she asked, voice dipped in curiosity.

I leaned back in my chair, balancing the tea on my knee. "Yeah. Listener submission. No return address. Just signed with an initial."

Sana set her cup down lightly, folding her hands on her lap. Listening. Really listening.

"The initial was ‘S’." Her lips curved slightly upward — not surprised, just vaguely entertained. "Mysterious," she said airily.

I gave a short laugh. "Yeah. Honestly, it started off delicate. Soft. Almost beautiful in a way." I tapped my fingers against the side of the cup unconsciously. "It talked about loneliness, watching late at night... finding comfort in just hearing someone else’s voice. Made me think it was just someone struggling emotionally, you know?"

Sana nodded, perfectly sympathetic. No cracks. No flickers. If anything, she leaned in just slightly, as if urging me to continue. And I did.

"But then..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "The second half changed. It wasn’t about loneliness anymore. It got...eerie."

Her eyes widened a little — just enough. A picture-perfect actress playing a curious friend. "How?" she whispered.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the words slip out before I could second-guess them. "It started describing the room I usually record in. Like... in detail. The way the lights look when they’re dimmed. The way my voice sounds when I'm tired but trying to hide it."

I chuckled dryly. "At first, I thought maybe a staff member wrote it as a prank. But it was... specific."

Sana’s hand brushed the edge of the table, fingertips gliding slowly like tracing invisible patterns. Still calm. Still impossibly soft in her demeanor. "And the ending?" she asked.

I swallowed, the tea now lukewarm in my hand. "The ending said..." I paused, half-laughing at how crazy it sounded aloud, "something like, 'Don’t worry if you ever feel unseen. I'm always there. I know the way the light falls over your shoulders when you think you're alone. I watch.' "

The words hung in the lounge like thin smoke. Sana blinked slowly.Once. Twice. No horror. No visible shiver. Just a soft smile curling at the edge of her lips. "Creepy," she agreed gently. "But... maybe it’s not meant to scare you."

I gave a skeptical grunt. "I dunno. When I read it, it felt...directed at me. Like whoever wrote it actually watches me. Not just as a fan. Like... more."

I didn’t even notice how tightly I gripped the cup until my knuckles whitened.vm Sana noticed, though. Her fingers brushed her own wrist as if feeling a phantom sensation there. "Maybe..." she said, her voice a feather, "they just don’t know how else to show affection."

The room felt a few degrees colder despite the tea steam. I smiled thinly beneath the mask. "Hope they find a healthier way soon."

Sana laughed softly — a sound so musical and so delicate that it almost seemed to cleanse the air. Almost. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the clock. "You should keep the letter," she said, a little mischievously. "One day... it might mean something different."

I tilted my head, amused. "You think so?"

"Mmh," she nodded seriously. "Sometimes things that scare us now... become precious memories later."

Her eyes met mine then, steady and shining with something —something I couldn’t name. Tenderness? Amusement? Pity?

I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that sitting there, in the softened light, facing this dreamlike girl in her soft vintage dress and glowing skin, I suddenly felt—watched. Not the way a stalker watches. Not the way an audience watches. Something... closer. Softer. And infinitely harder to run from.

We finished our tea quietly after that. Small talk resumed, light and simple — favorite horror movies, the best seasonal foods, upcoming TWICE schedules. She laughed. I laughed. The uneasiness folded itself into the edges of my mind, tucked away.

When Sana finally stood to leave, she turned at the door, offering a small wave. "Thanks again," she said brightly, her usual on-camera smile blooming.

But her eyes, for just a split second before she turned away—held something else. Something that wasn’t meant for the cameras. Something that wasn’t meant for the world. Somethi1ng that was only meant for me. And I, oblivious to the gravity of it, simply waved back.

[Goodbye: "A Gentle Invitation"]

Sana adjusted her light cardigan over her shoulders, her delicate figure silhouetted briefly against the frosted glass door. The moment felt suspended —Not awkward, not rushed, but... charged with something unseen.

She shifted her weight onto one foot, tapping her knuckles lightly against her palm in a rhythm that didn’t match any song. Almost like she was... deciding.

Finally, she spoke. "Y/N-Oppa," she said, her voice lower, more intimate than earlier. Not the chirpy brightness she used for audiences. Something closer. Softer. Private.

I glanced up from where I was gathering my things, surprised she hadn't just left with the others. "Yeah?" I answered, trying — and probably failing — to sound casual.

Sana stepped closer. Not into my personal space, but close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her floral perfume, delicate like wild jasmine after rain. Her eyes gleamed with something playful — but not teasing. Not exactly.

"Would it be weird," she asked lightly, her thumb tracing a small invisible circle on the strap of her bag, "if we... exchanged contacts?"

The words fell into the space between us so gently that they almost didn't feel real at first. As if it were the most natural thing in the world — and yet, something no one else had dared ask.

For a heartbeat, I just blinked, registering it. Sana smiled — a smile that wasn’t the bright spotlight smile she showed the world. This one was slower. Sweeter. The corners of her mouth curved up almost shyly, her lashes dropping for a beat before lifting again to meet my gaze.

Goddamn, I thought helplessly. She must destroy men without even meaning to. Heat rose unbidden to my cheeks, and before I could clamp down on the reaction, I let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "Uh... yeah, sure," I said, rubbing the back of my neck like some awkward high schooler. "No problem."

Sana’s smile widened just slightly, pleased but still understated, like a cat who got the cream without knocking over the bowl. I pulled out my phone quickly, trying not to look flustered, and handed it to her unlocked.

She accepted it without hesitation, thumbs moving deftly across the screen. Her contact name, when she handed it back, was simple: Sana-chan💞 with a small heart emoji tucked discreetly at the end. Not over-the-top. Not flashy. Just enough to make the memory of it burn softly in my chest.

"Text me later if you want," she said lightly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Then, just before stepping away, she paused — looking over her shoulder at me with a smile so gentle it felt like it wrapped itself around my ribs. "Or..." she added, voice dropping ever so slightly, "just when you feel... watched again."

A beat. A shiver. I chuckled under my breath again, half laughing at the way my heart knocked against my ribs without permission. "I'll keep that in mind," I said, pretending not to feel like a teenager all over again.

Sana gave a small bow — graceful, polite — and then disappeared through the door in a flutter of soft footsteps and fragrant air. Left alone, I stared at my phone for a second longer than necessary.

Then at the door she had vanished through. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought stirred —the memory of the letter from "S," the eerie words about watching, about knowing the way light touched me when I thought I was alone.

But I shook it off with another small laugh. There was no way it was related.

The success after the Sana special episode was almost absurd.

Whispers After One exploded into trending charts, my inbox filled with interview requests, sponsorships, and curious fans demanding more collaborations.

But as the dust settled, the familiar quiet of the studio at night returned — just me, Dokyeom working behind the glass, the red ON AIR sign humming softly above.

Tonight was another normal recording...or so I thought.

The new pile of listener letters sat on my desk, neatly stacked and awaiting their turn. I skimmed through most of them easily, smiling at fan dedications, life stories, even silly horror stories that felt like they were written on the bus ride home.

But then my hand paused — brushing against an envelope. Cream-colored. No sticker. A faint scent of lavender. It was unmistakable.

"Another one from 'S'." I muttered under my breath, just loud enough that Dokyeom, adjusting the levels, flicked a curious glance up through the glass.

I placed it carefully on the desk, eyeing it warily for a second before flipping the mic switch back on.

"Welcome back to Whispers After One,"

my voice warmed the night air through every lonely apartment, every sleepy commuter's radio. "Tonight, we have another letter...from someone who's becoming quite a familiar whisper in our community — our mysterious storyteller, 'S'."

I tried to make my tone light, teasing — but a part of me already felt the temperature of the room dip. Something about the way this envelope felt...Something different from before. I broke the seal. Unfolded the soft paper.

And began to read:

Dear Whisperer, Have you ever seen a beautiful garden and thought it would last forever? A sanctuary you stumbled into by accident... A place you weren't supposed to find... Yet you stayed because the air was sweeter there than anywhere else But the longer you stayed... The more you realized you weren't just admiring the garden. You were part of it. The roots grew beneath you. They twined around your ankles. They held you there. You are the garden now. And the one who tended it smiles because you have no idea. Until next time, S

I finished reading.

The microphone crackled softly as I leaned back in my chair, staring at the letter. It was...beautiful. Elegant, almost poetic. But underneath the beauty was something deeply unsettling.

The imagery was sticky — roots, trapping, belonging without realizing it. I blinked a few times, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest.

Shaking it off, I reached for the mic again. "Well," I laughed gently, forcing a little levity into the show,

"S, you really have a way with words. I don't know if I should be honored...or a little nervous." I gave a soft chuckle, then leaned closer to the mic, speaking to all the listeners — but mostly, if I was honest, to S themselves.

"To our dear gardener — wherever you are listening —"

"Thank you for your words. But don't worry. I like gardens. Even if they hold onto me a little too tightly."

I smiled after I said it. It sounded charming enough, soothing enough for a late night crowd. But inside...my gut twisted a little. Was I...comforting someone I should be wary of?

The rest of the recording moved along like clockwork. A few lighter letters. Some fan theories about ghost sightings. I kept my energy calm, measured, like always.

Finally, when the ON AIR light dimmed and the outro music faded into silence, I exhaled and leaned back in my chair. The door to the recording booth clicked open and Dokyeom stepped in, stretching.

"Good one, man," he said casually, plopping down in the producer's chair with a yawn. "Numbers are gonna spike again after that. Everyone loves that 'S' stuff."

I hesitated. My hand was still lightly resting on the letter, tracing the bottom of the paper absentmindedly. I looked up at him.

My voice was lower now. Tightened. "Hey, Dokyeom," I said, trying to sound normal, "Can I...ask you something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, shoot."

I held up the letter slightly, waving it between us. "Am I the only one who thinks this is...weird?" I said carefully. "Like...not just storytelling. I mean—"

I swallowed. "It almost feels like they're watching me."

Dokyeom laughed lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Dude, you're just spooking yourself out. You host a horror-themed show. People are gonna lean into that vibe, you know?"

I frowned. "Yeah...maybe."

But I wasn't convinced.bThe way the letter described finding a place you weren't supposed to, being trapped there... The way it felt oddly personal. Like I was the visitor. I was the one tangled in someone's roots.

Dokyeom must have seen the lingering tension on my face because he softened. "Look," he said, leaning forward on his knees, "If it gets too weird, we can report it. We got enough eyes on this show now that management'll take it seriously. Okay?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Thanks, man."

"No sweat," he said easily, standing and stretching his arms again. "C'mon, let's go grab coffee before you psych yourself into a horror story of your own."

I laughed a little — a genuine one this time — and shoved the letter into my jacket pocket.

But as I followed him out into the cool night air, I couldn't shake the feeling: Someone was smiling somewhere. Someone was glad I was tangled in the roots. And I had no idea who they really were.

[The Day After — At My Apartment]

It was still early — sunlight barely filtering through the half-closed blinds of my apartment — when the doorbell rang.

Not a normal knock. It was frantic, hurried, like whoever was on the other side needed to be let in now.

I frowned, setting my half-eaten toast down, wiping my hands on a napkin as I shuffled to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw a familiar, slightly disheveled mop of hair.

Dokyeom.

I unlocked it quickly. "Dude, what are you—?"

He didn’t wait for a greeting.He shoved his way inside, clutching a bundle of papers in one hand, his backpack slung half off one shoulder. His eyes were wide — bloodshot like he hadn’t slept. There was sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill outside. "You need to see this," he blurted, voice low, almost hoarse.

I blinked. "What are you talking about? What's going on?"

He threw the papers onto my coffee table with a heavy slap. They spread across the surface — a messy fan of familiar creamy letters, each one bearing that same faint lavender scent.

"S."

I slowly sat down on the edge of the couch, my fingers hesitant as I picked one up. My heart was already hammering against my ribs before I even started reading.

The first letter:

Whisperer, I saw you today. The way you laughed at the coffee shop when no one else was around. You should be careful smiling like that. Someone might think it’s just for them. I would have waved. But you looked too peaceful. Next time, maybe I’ll sit closer. Maybe you’ll notice me. Love, S

I blinked slowly, skin crawling. I hadn’t gone to a coffee shop yesterday...had I?

Then it hit me — two days ago — after recording night. I had grabbed a quick coffee near the studio, wearing my cap low and hoodie up. There was no way someone could have recognized me that easily. Unless...Unless they knew exactly where I was.

I set the letter down with trembling fingers. Dokyeom was pacing now, raking his hand through his hair over and over. "There's more," he said, almost in a whisper. I reached for another.

Second letter:

Dearest Whisperer, The halls you walk through aren’t as empty as you think. The echoes aren't just yours. Some of us follow quietly. Breathing in the spaces you leave behind. Every sound you make... Every sigh, every hum... It stays with us. We are so close. Love, S

I shuddered. The language wasn’t overtly threatening.

But there was something sickly sweet about it — like a cat toying with its prey, smiling while it tore. "Dokyeom," I said slowly, voice tight, "where the hell did you get these?"

He slumped onto the armchair across from me, hands dangling between his knees. "Management sent them to me this morning," he muttered. "Apparently...they’ve been holding back showing you some of the weirder stuff because they thought it was just a weird superfan thing. They didn’t want to 'stress you out' while the show's popularity was booming."

I stared at him. My mouth opened. Closed. I didn’t even know where to start. "And now?" I croaked.

He exhaled sharply. "Now they're scared too. Security at the building caught someone on cameras last week — twice. Hanging around the studio exit, then again near the parking lot. Same figure. Baggy clothes, hat down low, face hidden. Both times they were moving like they were looking for someone. Asking questions to random interns too."

He rubbed his palms into his eyes, voice cracking a little. "Man, they're trying to cover it up because the show’s hot right now, but...they know it’s bad."

I felt my entire body stiffen, my mind flashing back to the weird feeling I'd had last Thursday — like eyes on the back of my neck when I'd left late, the hairs standing up along my arms for no reason. I thought I was just tired. Paranoid. But it was real. Someone had been there.

I raked my hands through my hair, standing up, pacing now myself. "Okay. Okay, so what do we do? File a report? Get security to—"

"Already done," Dokyeom interrupted, lifting a hand weakly. "They're bumping your security up quietly. Only the top level of the building knows. They're trying not to cause a scene."

I scoffed bitterly. "Right. Because God forbid my safety messes up the profit margins."

He gave a humorless chuckle. Silence fell for a moment — heavy, thick.

I looked down at the letters again. The handwriting was so elegant. Almost fragile. Not the shaky scrawl you'd expect from someone this...obsessed. It was beautiful. It was deliberate. I picked up one more letter, the newest one. And this one...this one wasn’t even poetic.

Third letter:

Whisperer, It’s not fair that others get to have you when you were meant for us. They can't protect you like I can. They can't see you like I do. When the garden is full bloom, you won't remember them. You’ll only remember me. And by then, it’ll be too late to leave. Love Always, S

I dropped the letter like it burned me.

Dokyeom stood up too, the two of us just staring at the pile of letters like it might start moving on its own. The garden metaphor again. Always the garden. Only now...it was starting to sound less like a sanctuary. And more like a prison.

I broke the silence finally, my voice quieter, almost childishly hopeful: "Maybe...it's still just stories. Maybe it's all for the show. You know how some fans get carried away roleplaying..."

Dokyeom didn’t even bother answering. The look in his eyes said it all. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story anymore. It was real. And whoever "S" was...they were closer than I ever wanted to believe.

want:

[Scene: A Day Indoors — First Real Contact with Sana]

I stayed home that day.

The radio team had put out a public notice early that morning — "Today is a Healing Day," they said, inviting listeners to take time to reflect on the unfolding stories in my show, to imagine what paths tomorrow’s tale might take. Officially, it was framed as an artistic pause. Unofficially... It was because I wasn’t ready to face another letter. Not yet.

I sat on the couch for hours, absently flicking through the stack of strange, unsettling letters Dokyeom had brought over.

They weren't just growing weirder — they were growing darker.

One letter had spiraling phrases — sentences that looped in on themselves, almost hypnotic in repetition:

"You belong to the garden. You belong to the garden. You belong to me."

Another had a dried flower taped to it — the petals wilted and bruised, like it had been carried around for days before being attached. There was no writing on that one. Just the flower. And the faintest stain where it had pressed against the paper.

The psychological pressure was mounting. Thick and sour, like the air before a thunderstorm.

I needed a distraction. Something to pull me out of my own mind.

I picked up my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, half-expecting to find nothing worth seeing.

But then, a reel caught my eye.

Sana.

Laughing with the TWICE members in matching pink outfits — filming behind-the-scenes clips for their "Talk That Talk" promotions, somewhere inside their "TIME to TWICE" episode. She spun around playfully, her hair flipping over her shoulder, her smile bright under the stage lights.

It felt almost surreal. Like watching a completely different world. One where people laughed freely, touched shoulders without fear, moved through crowds without second-guessing every gaze.

And then I remembered.

The night of our collab.

Right before she left the studio, she'd lingered — just a second longer than the others — as we exchanged numbers:

"Text me if you wanf. Or... if you ever feel watched. - Sana"

At the time, it felt playful. Maybe even a little teasing.

But now... Now it felt different. Almost prophetic.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over her contact.

It was stupid. It was probably crossing a line.

But loneliness does strange things to people.

And fear... Fear makes you reach for any hand that looks steady enough to hold.

Without thinking much more, I typed out a short message.

Me:

"Hey. It's me. From the show. I... know it’s random but... thanks for giving your number. Might be needing that now."

Less than ten seconds later, my screen lit up.

Sana:

"Hi!!! I was hoping you'd text someday." "Is everything okay? You sounded serious."

Her fast response made my chest tighten strangely — like something inside me uncoiled just a little. Someone was there. Someone heard me.

Before I could even think of a proper reply, my phone buzzed again.

Incoming call: Sana.

I hesitated only a second before answering.

"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I intended.

There was a soft laugh on the other end — not her public laugh. No squealing, no showy giggles. Just a small, quiet exhale of relief.

"Hey you," she said warmly. "I'm glad you picked up."

I slumped back against the couch, the tension in my shoulders finally starting to loosen, if only slightly.

Her tone was different from how she'd been during filming. Less bright, more...grounded. Thoughtful pauses between words. Soft, almost musical chuckles when I said something awkward.

It wasn't the bubbly idol voice.

It was something real.

We talked casually at first. A little small talk about promotions, her exhaustion, her love-hate relationship with the "Talk That Talk" choreography. She teased me lightly about being "Mister Mysterious" for not texting sooner.

But eventually, she circled back — gentle, but direct.

"You sounded...like something’s wrong," she said quietly. "What happened?"

For a moment, I hesitated.

It felt stupid. It felt needy. Like dragging someone into a storm they had no reason to stand in.

But the words spilled out anyway.

Piece by piece, I told her about the letters. The garden references. The figure near the studio. The creeping sensation that whoever "S" was...they weren't just watching from afar anymore.

I expected her to react like most people would. Laugh nervously. Tell me it was probably nothing. Change the subject.

But she didn’t.

She listened.

Really listened.

Silent for long stretches except for the soft hum of acknowledgment every few sentences — the occasional murmur of sympathy that kept me talking when I wanted to clam up.

When I finally fell silent, there was a long pause.

And then her voice, softer than ever:

"I'm sorry you're going through this."

Another beat.

"You're not crazy for feeling scared."

Another pause.

"You're not alone either, okay?"

Something behind my ribcage cracked a little at that.

Not alone.

Sana's tone grew a little more firm — not harsh, but steady.

"Tell me about your radio show. Your team. The building security. How you get in and out. I want to know everything."

I chuckled weakly.

"Why? Gonna become my personal bodyguard?"

She laughed too — but there was a seriousness underneath it.

"I might not be able to fight but..." "My management can push some things." "We can make some quiet calls. Put some pressure on security. Maybe even sneak in a few extra guards without it looking suspicious."

I immediately shook my head, even though she couldn’t see it.

"No, no. You don’t have to get involved. I don't want you stressing over—"

"I'm already involved," she interrupted gently. "You reached out to me. That means you trust me. That means you don’t have to carry this alone."

Her voice dipped even lower — nearly a whisper:

"Let me help."

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the simple human need to be seen.

But I caved.

I told her everything — the time slots I worked, the usually empty corridors, the neglected side exits. How easy it would be for someone determined enough to slip inside.

She listened in that same quiet, unwavering way.

When I finally stopped, drained and embarrassed, she simply said:

"Okay. I'll take care of it from here. You just focus on staying safe for me."

I almost laughed at how natural it sounded — for me.

As if we were already standing on the same side of the line.

As if somehow, in the span of one strange afternoon, I'd found an unexpected shield in someone I barely knew beyond a few hours in a dim recording studio.

We stayed on the call longer than either of us probably intended.

Talking about nothing and everything.

Letting the silence stretch out sometimes — not awkwardly, but comfortably.

I could almost forget, for a little while, about the letters.

About the garden.

About the shadows moving in the corners of my life.

Almost.

But when Sana finally hung up — promising to text me updates — I stared at the phone in my hand for a long, long time.

Something had shifted today. Subtle, but irreversible.

And whether it was a good thing or a dangerous thing... I didn’t know yet.

After the call ended, I lay back against the couch, my fingers mindlessly scrolling across YouTube. Without even thinking, I typed her name into the search bar. Sana TWICE moments.

One by one, the algorithm fed me a buffet of her clips — everything from downright suggestive stages where her every glance could melt concrete, to chaotic, adorable show appearances where she laughed until she couldn't breathe. I just let it autoplay, sinking into it all. The contrast was insane. How could the same woman who was doing that hip roll on stage just hours later be the same one who talked to me tonight so gently, so... thoughtfully?

Talking to her made me feel... lighter. As cheesy as it sounded, it felt like a bit of the weight that had been pressing on me for days finally floated up and away.

I smiled to myself, shifting the pillow behind my back. Maybe... Maybe this was how my listeners felt, too. When they called into the show with their horror stories, trembling voices and hearts still stuck in the moments they lived — and I listened. When I spoke back, tried to ease their nerves, and offered them some kind of shelter from the dark — maybe this was what they felt. A strange kind of peace. A quiet knowing that even if the world was insane, even if shadows crept close, someone else was there. Someone heard them.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, Sana's soft laughter from one of the clips playing faintly through the speakers. It sure feels nice.

Maybe too nice.

The next few days passed like an unraveling thread, pulling tighter and tighter around my chest.

At first, it was just the same — unreadable letters from "S" sliding into the show's inbox, their language growing steadily more desperate, more fixated. There were no overt threats... just descriptions. Descriptions of me. Of how I moved when I wasn’t on camera. Of the little habits I had that no ordinary fan would ever know.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Stress hallucinations, maybe. But then it started. Real glimpses.

At the corner of my eyes — while waiting at the crosswalk, while locking my car, while jogging late night — I caught flashes of a figure. Not directly coming at me like a typical stalker... no, that would’ve been easier. It was worse. Always in the periphery. Always vanishing when I turned fully.

Security around the building was tightened. Dokyeom was practically living in a constant panic, double-checking the CCTV files every hour. But we couldn't catch anything tangible yet.

Even so... Even so, I found myself still texting Sana almost every night.

Our conversations were strangely grounding. After the voice call that night, it had become a quiet ritual — I would text her little updates, and she would reply with simple, warm check-ins. No fake cheeriness. No excessive worrying. Just realness.

"Eat something good today?" "Don’t read the letters alone at night." "I’m proud of you for holding strong."

It was odd. Sometimes, it felt like she knew exactly what to say before I could even type it out.

Tonight, though... Tonight was different.

It was past 1:30 a.m. I had just wrapped reading another eerie letter sent by "S," the paper oddly scented like flowers this time. I was sitting in the main lounge of my penthouse, half a bottle of water untouched beside me, lights dimmed low out of habit. There was a weight in the air. A heavy, wet kind of silence, like the city itself was holding its breath.

My phone buzzed beside me.

It was Sana.

"If you feel off, don't hesitate to call. Even just for a second."

I smiled faintly, thumbs poised over the keyboard.

"I'm okay. Just tired. Letters getting a bit heavier. Thanks for always replying to me. I’m glad I can talk to you."

Seconds after I sent it, the little 'typing' bubble popped up. She replied instantly.

"Always. You're not alone."

I leaned back against the couch, letting my eyes drift shut for just a moment. The comforting ring of her words curled around me, pushing the cold fear aside, even if only barely.

Then—

THUD.

A sudden, low sound, coming from the front door. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I sat up straight, pulse spiking.

Maybe just the wind, I tried to rationalize. Maybe—

CRACK.

The sound of the lock snapping echoed through the apartment.

I bolted upright, cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. The front door creaked inward slowly, almost mockingly, and I saw it—

A silhouette.

Lean. Perfectly still in the doorway.

The only light in the apartment now came from the glowing TV screen and my phone. The figure stood between me and the faint city lights pouring in from the high windows.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My phone buzzed again on the coffee table. Sana's name lit up the screen.

"Did you hear something?"

I didn’t even have time to answer.

The silhouette stepped inside.

For a frozen heartbeat, neither of us moved.

The silhouette stood like a shadow carved into the air — wrong and still. Not overly tall. Not thick-built either. A thought crossed my mind in the sliver of silence: Is it a woman...?

The shape was slender, compact. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t brute strength — but precision. Like a blade.

My hand, slick with sweat, slid towards my phone still lit up from Sana’s last text. Carefully. Slowly. I swiped up and fumbled to call Dokyeom.

The line barely rang once.

"Bro, listen, don't freak out—someone broke—"

But the slight hiss of my voice was enough.

The figure’s head snapped up. Her body jerked like a wound spring finally released.

In an instant, she lunged. Fast. Too fast.

A glint of white — a mask over her lower face — was all I could register before she closed the distance.

Instinct took over. I swung the doorframe between us hard like a shield, the heavy wood slamming against her shoulder and throwing off her angle.

"SHIT!" I barked, diving sideways into the corridor outside my main living room.

My penthouse wasn't cramped — it was practically a maze. Open floor designs twisting into sharp halls, lounging areas, a half-visible studio space. Plenty of space to move. But also plenty of blind corners.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind me — no longer cautious, no longer sneaky. She was full predator now.

I sprinted, ducking through the first archway into the guest lounge. Breath ripping in and out of my lungs, I slammed the door shut and locked it — Just in time for her to slam against it from the other side.

The whole frame shuddered.

My hands flew over my phone.

"Dokyeom, call the cops! She's in! She's INSIDE!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

The line was crackling, chaotic on his end.

"I'M ON IT! Bro — BRO — are you okay?! Stay somewhere tight — hide — don't fight her alone!"

From the other side of the door, I heard it — Not yelling. Not banging. But a giggle.

A sick, childlike giggle muffled behind the door and her mask. High-pitched. Almost... gleeful.

A new kind of terror slid into my bones. She wasn’t just trying to scare me. She was enjoying this.

I backed away from the door, scanning the room.

Windows? Not an option — too high. Emergency staircase? Across the penthouse — no good from here.

The lock gave a warning groan. She was forcing it.

I took a breath that burned my throat and pivoted, dashing towards the hall again. If I could loop around the apartment’s back corridors, maybe I could get out through the service entrance.

I didn’t look back.

My bare feet slapped against the marble as I raced into the back hallway — a place usually reserved for delivery routes and cleaning staff.

Behind me, the door crashed open.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" A voice sang out — distorted and almost giddy from behind the mask.

It was definitely a woman’s voice. Young. Sweet. Horribly out of place.

I didn’t answer. Just ran harder.

She chased after me, her footsteps light, too light, like she knew this terrain better than I did.

A framed photo on the wall shattered near my head — thrown. I ducked instinctively, heart pounding, eyes blurring with fear and sweat.

I barreled down another turn — closer to the kitchen now, closer to the back exit — when my phone buzzed again.

A text popped up from Sana at the worst possible time:

"What's happening? Tell me!"

Shit.

I had no time to answer.

I heard her laugh again, closer this time.

And then — At the far end of the hall, silhouetted against the faint lights of the kitchen — there she stood again.

Waiting. Arms spread, like she wanted me to run into her.

The only option was sideways — a narrow door leading to the wine cellar. I crashed into it without thinking, slammed it shut behind me, breathing in short, stabbing bursts.

It was pitch dark. Only my phone’s dying glow gave me any view.

I pressed my back against the thick wood door, muscles locked tight.

No sound.

Not even footsteps now.

Had she... stopped?

I dared to glance down at my phone again. Sana was still texting frantically.

Another buzz.

"If you can, lock yourself. Hide. Help is coming."

And then, chillingly:

"Don't let her find you before they arrive."

I tightened my grip on the door handle, locking it from inside with a heavy twist.

But even in the dark, I could feel it. The overwhelming, suffocating sensation.

She was still close.

Maybe even listening at the door.

My body stiffened — every nerve alight.

A slow, deliberate tap... tap... tap began against the wood.

The tapping continued. Gentle at first. Then harder. Almost... playfully testing the wood.

I crouched down lower in the darkness, heart smashing against my ribs, clutching my phone like a lifeline.

How the hell did Sana know? I hadn’t messaged anything after I ran.

Then my screen lit again — the old voice recorder app, blinking red.

A sudden realization made my gut twist. Somewhere during the panic earlier... I must have accidentally pressed the voice record button. It sent her a partial audio clip — fragments of me running, gasping, the crash of something shattering, and my half-whispered curses.

She must’ve heard enough. Pieced it together.

Smart girl...

A shudder ran through me. But no time to think deeper.

Suddenly — creak The window above the wine racks on the far side of the cellar cracked open.

The sharp night air whooshed in, carrying the city’s distant noise.

I bolted my gaze to it.

No. Not her. It was too small for a human to fit through without extreme effort.

Still — another weak point.

My phone buzzed again.

Dokyeom.

I yanked it to my ear, voice low but shaking.

"Bro, bro! Where the hell are the cops, man?!"

He was panting, too — like he’d been running.

"They’re coming! Five minutes out!"

"I don't have five minutes!" I hissed, cutting my voice low when another soft creak came from the door.

"Tell me quick — are the outside maintenance pipelines still intact along the building?" I demanded, swallowing panic.

There was a tiny chance — tiny — the old metal maintenance lines running down the side of the tower could bear some weight.

Dokyeom didn't even hesitate.

"Yeah! Yeah, the security never got rid of ‘em yet, especially on your floor! They're thick — old-school steel shit."

I sucked in a breath, eyes flicking from the door to the half-open window.

"I'm going down the pipes."

"WHAT?! BRO, NO —"

"I'M NOT WAITING TO BE SLAUGHTERED, DOKYEOM!" I barked.

I could almost hear him pulling at his own hair over the call.

"FUCK — be careful, PLEASE, man! I’m racing there too! I swear!"

I didn’t answer — already scrambling toward the narrow window.

Another tap-tap-tap echoed behind me — faster now, desperate.

The door handle twitched.

I squeezed myself through the tiny window opening, my shoulders scraping against the cold stone. One foot out, then the next.

The wind whipped at my shirt. The city lights stretched below me like a sea of fireflies.

I clutched the old maintenance pipe with both hands.

It rattled slightly under my grip.

Hold. Hold... please hold.

I slid my body flat against the side of the building, gripping the rusted metal tighter than I’d ever held anything in my life.

Below me? At least a dozen stories.

Death in one bad slip.

Behind me, a horrible slam rattled the wine cellar door. She was breaking through.

Without another thought, I started shimmying down.

Hand over hand. Legs tight around the pipe.

The old metal bit into my palms, scraping skin. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the sting.

Three floors down. Four.

The lights of the penthouse were getting smaller above me.

The window I’d crawled out of shone faintly — And then I saw it.

The figure.

She leaned out. Mask still on. Watching me.

I could feel her gaze burning into my back.

No shout. No threat.

Just watching.

My chest tightened painfully. I forced myself not to look back again.

Another floor down. Another.

The shouts of security guards started echoing from below — faint but growing.

Sirens wailed distantly — getting closer.

My hands, numb and raw, finally found the ledge of the emergency balcony on the service floor.

With a desperate grunt, I swung myself onto it, collapsing to my knees, gasping.

The guards burst into the service floor hallway a second later, weapons drawn, yelling.

I stumbled up, waving both hands.

"I’m friendly! I'm the tenant! She's upstairs!"

They surrounded me instantly, some guiding me behind them, others radioing furiously.

Through the chaos, I glanced up one last time.

The penthouse window.

Empty.

She was gone.

Like she was never there.

The guards hustled me through the service hall. Sirens were wailing closer now. Somewhere below, more security teams flooded in.

I could barely stand straight, the adrenaline crash hitting me like a truck. The call with Dokyeom was still echoing faintly in my ear — "I'm almost there! Hold on!"

And then — the sharp screech of tires outside. A black van pulling up violently at the emergency lot.

The doors flung open before it even fully stopped.

And there she was.

Sana. Bursting out of the van. Running toward me like the world was ending.

I blinked, stunned, barely processing the guards parting instinctively around her.

She wasn't in some armored jacket or casual airport fit. No. She looked like she had just dropped everything and came exactly as she was.

Sana was in a black satin slip dress, delicate lace tracing the neckline, thin straps barely clinging to her soft shoulders. Over it, she had thrown an oversized pastel pink cardigan, its huge, plush fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

Her hair was a soft mess of loose waves, half-up, half-down, with gentle brown and reddish hues catching in the emergency lights.

A few strands clung to her damp cheeks where — My heart squeezed painfully — where tears were already spilling.

Tears. For me.

Minatozaki Sana, the goddess of a million fantasies, was crying over me.

She ran without hesitation, the hem of her dress swishing against her thighs, cardigan sleeves slipping down her arms.

When she reached me, she didn’t say a word. She just crashed into me.

Her arms wrapped tight around my ribs. Face burying against my chest.

The scent of soft rose shampoo and skin-warm silk hit me all at once.

"You’re safe — you’re safe — you’re safe —" she whispered, half-sobbing against me.

I stood frozen, my battered hands hovering uselessly in the air, mind spinning.

Was this real? Was this actually happening?

Her body was warm, trembling slightly against mine. The silk of her dress brushed against my jeans, the pastel cardigan brushing my arms.

I finally — shakily — wrapped my arms around her back.

Held her.

God, she felt fragile. And beautiful.

Dokyeom's voice broke through the daze, rushing over behind her.

"Y/N! Bro, you're — Sana?!"

He stumbled to a halt, clearly thrown by the scene.

Sana didn't even look at him. She just squeezed me tighter, her small hands fisting into the back of my shirt.

"I was so scared... I thought I'd hear..." Her voice cracked, raw and trembling.

I found myself speaking before I even thought.

"I’m here. I’m okay. You saved me again, Sana."

At those words, she finally pulled back just a little. Looked up.

Her eyes — usually sparkling mischief or teasing charm — were glassy, wide, full of so much relief it hurt to look at.

Under the harsh security lights, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Her fingers brushed my jawline lightly, as if checking if I was truly solid.

"I should’ve come faster... I should’ve..."

I shook my head, voice thick.

"No. You were perfect. You always are."

She gave a soft, watery laugh — almost disbelieving. The most heartbreakingly beautiful sound.

For a moment — just one suspended breath in time — we stood there. Surrounded by chaos, guards, shouting, sirens.

But all I saw was her.

The city didn't exist. Only Sana in her slip dress and cardigan, holding me like I was something worth crying for.

How... How did it come to this? I asked the universe silently as I stood there, feeling Sana's heartbeat faintly against my side.

When had she gotten this close to me?

We had only texted for a few days. Shared a few voice calls. A handful of conversations at most.

Yet somehow, in those late-night talks, in those quiet, vulnerable exchanges... Sana had slipped past every wall I'd built.

I wasn't someone who attached easily. I wasn't some naive dreamer waiting to be swept away by kindness. I was the host of one of the most famous shows in the country — the man who dealt with psychological horror, who listened to stories of fear, despair, loneliness... and taught others how to find comfort after it.

I was supposed to be the safe space. The listener. The one unshaken.

And yet, Sana — Minatozaki Sana — with her soft chuckles, her introspective silences, her oddly thoughtful questions — had disarmed me so easily after that one night.

Without realizing it, I'd begun looking forward to her name lighting up my phone. To her voice notes that made the long nights less heavy. To the way she seemed to understand — not as an idol, not as a fan — but as someone who had seen shadows too and still chose light.

I wondered if that was what made the difference. If that was why she felt less like a sudden miracle and more like something inevitable.

The flashing lights from the police cars snapped me out of my thoughts. Reality hit like a cold slap.

"Sir, we need your statement." A stern officer approached, not unkindly.

I nodded, stepping slightly forward — but immediately felt Sana tug on my sleeve. Her small hand curled around my wrist stubbornly.

I looked down at her. She wasn’t letting go. Not even for this.

Her cardigan slipped slightly, exposing her bare shoulder for a second before she hiked it up. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her gaze was fierce, almost daring anyone to say something.

Let them take pictures, she seemed to say. Let them make headlines. She didn’t care.

I gave her a small, tired smile and let her stay pressed against me as I spoke to the officers.

"There was an intruder. Female. About my height, maybe shorter. Slim build. Masked." I recounted everything carefully — the silhouette, the attack, the pipelines, the narrow escape.

Dokyeom occasionally chimed in, adding what he had seen, backing me up.

Sana just stayed there. Head occasionally leaning lightly against my arm. Breathing slow, steady — as if anchoring herself to me.

The staff from my show arrived too, their faces pale and worried. They rushed to my side but paused when they saw Sana clinging to me like a lifeline.

Whispers broke out. Cameras clicked in the distance.

I should've cared. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve thought about consequences.

But... I didn't.

Instead, I gently tightened my arm around her shoulder.

Because the truth was — as much as she needed me right now, I needed her too.

[One Week Later]

Time moved strangely after that night. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was just her.

That day — the day Sana came running, the day she clung to me under the flashing sirens without a second thought — she offered me something I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Her presence. Not words. Not promises. Just... her. Her warmth, her stubborn loyalty, her very existence beside me.

I wasn’t someone who ever let my mind wander into ridiculous daydreams. I didn’t believe in miracles or "what ifs" when it came to people like her.

Even during our collab, when we laughed between recordings, when she made those bright jokes only she could deliver, I'd chalked it up to chemistry — professionalism — a dreamlike, fleeting moment in a life full of passing strangers.

But now... Now I could see it clearly. Minatozaki Sana cared. More than a colleague. More than a fan. More than just polite concern.

She cared like someone who felt something real — and wanted me to feel it too.

And for once, I let myself want it. Want her.

The investigation moved fast.

Turned out — The intruder wasn’t a random criminal or a twisted anti-fan. No, it was a fan of mine. A girl, barely past twenty, who'd built up an entire world inside her head — a world where I belonged only to her, a world where anyone near me was the enemy. Including Sana.

She had been stalking from afar for months, building fantasies from my shows, from my voice. And when I started hinting about growing close to someone, even unknowingly, something in her snapped.

Thankfully, Sana had pushed for management intervention the night we first talked seriously. Her instincts had been dead-on.

Because of her, security tightened around me without me even knowing. Because of her, the girl was caught before anything worse happened.

The police later announced she was being transferred to a mental rehabilitation program after the court deemed her psychologically unstable.

It should have been the end of it. A clean break. A return to normal.

But something had shifted. Something between us.

During that week, Sana made time for me in ways that were almost reckless for an idol.

Between rehearsals, she sent voice notes. Late at night, when the city slept, she called — soft-spoken, careful, asking nothing except if I was okay. On her rare free afternoons, she showed up, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, takeaway coffee in hand, grinning like she had every right to be there.

No cameras. No management breathing down her neck. Just Sana. Just... us.

And every time she appeared, the invisible gap between us shrank a little more.

Small moments grew roots:

The way she'd swing her legs lightly while sitting on my couch, hair tied messily. The way she'd lean closer when I spoke, as if my words were some fragile secret she didn't want to miss. The way she'd smile sometimes — not the big, dazzling Sana-smile the world knew — but a quieter one, softer, just for me.

Things between us... Grew.

Maybe too fast. Maybe too recklessly. But at that point — I didn't care.

(Another week later)

The kitchen hummed with the low whirr of the blender as Sana scooped handfuls of ice into the machine. The pastel pink of her cardigan sleeves were rolled up, and her dark hair was tied back loosely, tendrils falling around her face, giving her that effortlessly lovely look she always carried without knowing.

She was humming. A soft, sweet melody, barely recognizable unless one listened closely — the same tune I'd once played on the outro of my most famous radio episode. The same tune she'd clung to on sleepless nights. The same voice that had comforted her... even before we ever met properly.

And now, two days after we officially started dating, she was mine. No — I was hers. Sana smiled to herself, stirring her slushie in the tall glass, thinking how surreal it was — the voice that helped her breathe during hard nights was now the man whose arms could be wrapped around her if she so wished.

The universe had folded itself neatly into her hands.

The dorm door clicked open quietly. Footsteps padded in.

Sana glanced over her shoulder, still smiling faintly as she sipped her slushie.

It was Dahyun.

The younger girl looked a little restless, fidgety even. Something was on her mind.

Sana didn’t say anything first. She waited, stirring the icy drink slowly, letting Dahyun find her words.

"Unnie," Dahyun said after a beat, voice tentative. "Can we talk?"

Sana nodded, inviting her closer with a gentle glance. Of course, she would always have time for Dahyun.

Dahyun came up beside her, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the pink-tinged slushie as if it could give her answers.

"I know about you and... Oppa," Dahyun said finally, a small smile twitching her lips. "I'm really happy for you. You deserve it."

Sana smiled too, soft and genuine. "Thank you, Dahyunnie."

But the younger girl didn't leave it at that.

Her fingers drummed lightly on the counter, a subtle tension stiffening her posture.

"But…" Dahyun hesitated, looking at Sana closely now. "Unnie, that night... when the whole stalker thing happened… I couldn't shake this weird feeling."

Sana said nothing, only continued sipping her slushie with an unreadable expression.

Dahyun licked her lips nervously.

"You were too calm," Dahyun said slowly, choosing her words with care. "Too prepared. And when I remembered… the 'S' in the signed letters… it didn't sit right. It felt like someone trying too hard to fake being someone else."

Sana swirled her straw through the ice, the sound crackling sharp against the glass. For a moment, it was just the hum of the kitchen appliances and the slight buzz of city life outside their windows.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Sana spoke.

"You're smart, Dahyun."

Her voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it, something so heavy and knowing that Dahyun shivered despite herself.

Still, Dahyun pushed forward.

"Unnie… tell me the truth."

Sana turned fully now, setting her slushie down carefully.

She studied Dahyun's face with a fondness — almost like a big sister patiently watching a little sister trying to piece together a difficult puzzle.

"There was no random stalker," Sana said calmly.

Dahyun blinked, frozen.

"It was me," Sana said, voice steady, almost eerily calm. "I orchestrated everything."

The words dropped like stones into a still lake.

Dahyun gaped at her, mouth parting, eyes wide.

Sana tilted her head slightly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"The letters? I wrote them. The woman who entered Oppa's place? I hired her to just scare him, not hurt him. She vanished right after, as instructed. The supposed 'arrest'? Faked. I made sure everyone thought she was taken to rehab, to tie the story off neatly."

Dahyun backed up a step without realizing it.

"W-Why?" she stammered. "Unnie, why would you…?"

Sana smiled, soft, sad, infinitely tender.

"Because I fell in love with him," she whispered. "Long before we properly met. When I listened to his show, when his voice was the only thing that felt real during my loneliest nights. He wasn’t just a host to me. He became my anchor."

Dahyun shook her head slightly, disbelief warring with understanding. This wasn’t the Sana she knew — the bubbly, playful, slightly airheaded unnie.

This was something deeper. Something far more intense and haunting.

"You manipulated him into trusting you," Dahyun whispered.

Sana shrugged lightly.

"I guided him," she corrected. "I gave him someone to turn to when he needed comfort. And he did. He chose me when he needed safety."

Dahyun stared at her, struggling to form coherent thoughts.

"That’s not love," Dahyun said, a little harsher than she intended. "That’s... parasocial. That’s obsession, unnie."

Sana’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened.

"Parasocial?" she echoed, almost amused. She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Dahyun’s shoulder.

"If I wanted to possess him, if I wanted to destroy him, that would be obsession. But I wanted to love him. I wanted to give him something he didn’t even know he was missing."

Dahyun swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

"Unnie… do you even realize what you did?"

Sana smiled again — that same ethereal, bittersweet smile.

"I do," she said. "And I don’t regret it."

She picked up her slushie again, sipping it quietly, as if the confession she just delivered wasn’t earth-shattering.

"I love him," Sana said simply. "And now, he loves me. Naturally. Not because I forced him, but because I was the one who was there when it mattered most."

Dahyun felt like she was underwater, trying to surface.

"Are you… planning to tell him?"

Sana tilted her head again, playful, almost childlike.

"No," she said lightly. "And neither will you."

Dahyun opened her mouth to protest but Sana was already stepping forward, wrapping her arms around Dahyun tightly.

Her embrace was warm — sickeningly warm — and Dahyun could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

"Because you love me too, right?" Sana whispered into her ear. "You're my precious little sister. I know you won’t hurt me."

Dahyun stood there, paralyzed, as Sana pulled back with a dazzling smile.

For a moment, Dahyun almost believed it too.

Almost.

Later that night, when Sana was back in her room and Dahyun sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the TV that wasn’t even turned on, a heavy silence wrapped itself around the dorm.

The world outside buzzed as usual — cars, neon signs, the endless hum of the city.

But inside, everything had changed.

And somewhere, far from the knowing, I sat oblivious — smiling at my phone, reading Sana’s latest text:

"I miss you already, Oppa. Sleep well, my love."

======================================

How far would you go for love? Where does devotion end and obsession begin? Is it wrong to create opportunities… if in the end, the feeling becomes real? Is a love born from lies still love… if it brings happiness?

In the end — Is it better to never know the truth?

Or is ignorance... the cruelest kindness of all?

[theunholyvirginemilyprentiss]

You think you can hurt me? I have unhealthy parasocial relationships with THEM:

You cannot hurt me more than I have already hurt myself.

[shitswiftiessay]

swifties are angry at joe alwyn for posting about gaza on taylor’s birthday, calling him “pathetic,” “manipulative,” and “evil.”

I wish I could tell you that this was all a joke, that these are all parody accounts, but they’re dead serious. and of course we get the conspiracy theory about HIS TEAM trying to make him look good, because anyone who comes online and says anything critical about taylor MUST be a member of joe alwyn’s PR team. 🙄

but yeah, swifties are convinced that joe was trying to SHADE taylor by posting about gaza on her birthday, because s hasn’t said or done shit regarding this issue. also, they literally cannot fathom that there is anything happening in the world that is MORE IMPORTANT than a billionaire’s birthday.

and these swifties really need to ask themselves: WHY does joe alwyn posting about gaza make them SO ANGRY? is it because they’re reminded that taylor has not done or said JACK SHIT about palestine because she’s too afraid to lose money by being too “controversial?”

“not to mention it’s a screenshot and it’s not even a donation link like…”

it’s a LINK TO AN ARTICLE and it’s still more than TAYLOR has ever posted?? y’all think he was trying to “shade” taylor on her birthday (even if he was, so what? she + her team + her stupid friends have been shading him SINCE APRIL) by bringing to attention her lack of care about palestine or really any issue that doesn’t directly affect her (or her “home state.”). and the fact is, taylor could VERY QUICKLY AND EASILY shut up the critics who say she hasn’t said or done enough regarding palestine, but she won’t. miss americana, the goth punk billionaire, who spent a whole documentary crying about how she wasn’t allowed to speak up on important issues, has suddenly become ALLERGIC to saying anything remotely political or controversial. and at some point you’re gonna have to ask yourself why.

[la-vie-est-une-fleur29]

Guys. This is insane behavior. I get making jokes and memes or whatever but THIS is wildly unacceptable.

Pedro would be disappointed. The weird parasocial relationships we have with celebrities has gone too far yet again. He is a person, Julie is a person. We don’t know them, we don’t see what they are inspired by or want to say with these outfits. Also, it’s fucking clothes get a grip.

Do better.

[importantkidspyfarm]

The evil that y'all is speaking about Aaron Pierre and Teyana Taylor possibly being together is so wild.

A few weeks ago, y'all was in a tizzy over the possibility of him being a snowbunny chaser. Now he's with an actual honest to god Black woman, and y'all still showing ya ass.

Make it make sense.

He's still not gonna fuck you. And he definitely wouldn't if he found out you were being a parasocial asshole towards his girlfriend.

You don't know him. He's a real person. Not your internet boyfriend.

Mad because she allegedly approached him. Be fucking forreal. She got him because she's not afraid to make the first move. Learn from her.

What was is Jun Ni said in Hair Show? Look it up.

Then to see comparisons of what happened to Keke Palmer because she approached her bady daddy. Y'all is sick!!!!!!!!!

Seek help! I mean that shit. Call a therapist, make an appointment.

It's giving Swifties. Fix it.

[netscapenavigator-official]

I think the reason that social media has become as toxic as it is, is because a lot of people view accounts as the person, and not just some journal where the person occasionally jots down an incomplete thought.

Like, not every post is an eternal, declarative manifesto. Some of us are just thinking out loud, Mary.

Just because you have a window into my soul doesn't mean you know the entire floor plan.

[plasmalink]

the thing about parasocial relationships is that if you jump on them their wings fall off and they just become social relationships

[citruswriter]

Billie Eilish x Reader

Warnings: Lemon, afab reader, fem reader, pet names pussydrunk Billie, oral, overstimulation, squirting.

Dom!Billie who loves walking up before you so she can pepper your pretty face with kisses as she rubs your sides.

Dom!Billie who loves waking you up with breakfast in bed because her princess deserves nothing but the best.

Dom!Billie who takes you out with her all the time to spoil you and get you your favorite fast food.

Dom!Billie who lays on your lap as she comes up with song ideas, bouncing ideas off you and saying things like "oh that's a good one, pretty girl" or "my girl is so smart" everytime you come up with a good idea.

Dom!Billie who'll eat you out for hours, completely pussydrunk off your taste even after you've orgasmed multiple times because you just taste so fucking good sweet girl.

Dom!Billie who keeps her hands firm on your quivering thighs, praising you through another orgasm even as you cry and tell her it's too much.

- "I can't... I can't Bills. S'too much! Too much! Ah!" You sob out, tears rolling down your pretty cheeks while she keeps her grip on your thighs firm, forcing your legs apart as she swirls her tongue expertly around your clit. "Just one more, sweet girl. Come on, please? Wanna taste you again, pretty." She all put purrs out, pleading with you to cum again.

Dom!Billie who all but moans when you squirt in her mouth, greedily lapping up your sweet nectar, even as you blush in embarrassment.

- "So fucking messy." She purrs out after she lapped up all your juices, causing you to blush more. "Shut up..." You all but grumble out and she can only laugh that sweet laugh that rumbles her chest as she kisses your inner thighs. "Sorry baby. You know I can't help myself."

Casually tagging @naturesapphic to see my first Billie fic........ fooooooooor no particular reason. 👀👀👀

[heretherebedork]

These poor sad babies who are so heartbroken and so desperate to reform this group and being forced to give up on love because they don't have another future and because it's terrifying to face fans who will ruin their lives just for loving each other.

Parasocial relationship with idols are toxic and terrifying.

They ruin lives and relationships and people.

And the audience cheered for his broken heart because they loved the idea of him more than the actual him and all his friends are with him and they understand in a way that none of the fans will even if the fans believe they do.

(the worst part is that all the fans think like Fern did, they truly think that him loving another person is enough to ruin their love of the group and him and they claim to love him all the same but that's not love.)

[theweeklydiscourse]

Anytime you try to draw parallels between Chappell Roan’s current plight and past female stars who struggled and suffered because of the pressures of fame and scrutiny from the media, people practically fall over themselves to invalidate those comparisons. They’ll argue that “XYZ had it worse!” and mock Chappel for being “dramatic” and ungrateful while praising other female musicians/celebrities who, ironically, have also written extensively about the insane expectations placed on them by parasocial stans and the media.

It just goes to show that people learned NOTHING from Brittany Spears, Sinéad O’Connor, The Chicks and every other female star who’s been “failed” by the culture. These people will say ANYTHING to deny the fact that their behaviour is repeating the same history that people look back on and make a dozen documentaries about. It genuinely makes me seethe to think about how people will only reflect on the harassment and mockery Chappell experienced once the damage has been done.

[shitswiftiessay]

What a bunch of fucking word salad, just to justify why your fave’s new album is getting dragged.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Parasocial Relationship

Parasocial Interaction (PSI) - semblance of interpersonal exchange whereby members of an audience come to feel that they personally know a performer they have encountered in mass media.

Parasocial Relationship (PSR) - generally defined as a relationship in which one member of the relationship isn’t aware of the other—e.g., a fan loves a celebrity, but the celebrity doesn’t know they exist. Not restricted to celebrities, PSRs also exist between people and fictional characters, whether portrayed by an actor or not.

PSRs tend to occur because of our natural tendency to link to others.

PSIs are thought to have a psychological effect similar to that of face-to-face communication.

Over time, PSIs with a performer may lead audience members to develop a parasocial relationship—a one-sided sense of connection with the performer.

The first examinations of parasocial relationships came in the 1950s, when psychologists tried to understand how television viewers reacted to the hosts, MCs, and TV personalities speaking to them directly out of the screen—a novel concept at the time.

It caused concern that viewers at home wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the relationships they had with a television personality and ones they had with “real” people— “victim[s] of the 'magic mirror'” as Richard Horton and Donald Wohl described in the 1956 paper.

The term parasocial interaction first appeared in the writings of American sociologists Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl in the 1956 article “Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction: Observations on Intimacy at a Distance.” The article describes how PSIs may gradually lead to the formation of a parasocial relationship.

Most theoretical work attempting to define and differentiate PSIs and parasocial relationships was published in the latter half of the 20th century.

Generally, modern sociologists and media theorists agree that the concepts are distinct but deeply related.

The Parasocial Interaction Scale, devised in the 1980s in order to better quantify PSIs and parasocial relationships, asks subjects to answer questions about both phenomena.

PSIs occur when audience members feel that they are actively interacting with a mass media personality.

Human brains appear to process PSIs in much the same way as real-life interpersonal interactions because of the novelty of technologically mediated encounters.

While people do recognize the artificiality of the media apparatus, their perception of PSIs causes a real psychological reaction.

PSIs are strongest when a media personality cultivates the illusion of interpersonal intimacy.

Certain genres, programs, and celebrities have purposely fostered such a sense of intimacy in their tone and setting.

For example, TV talk shows have their hosts directly address the camera as if in conversation with each viewer, creating the illusion of face-to-face closeness.

Situation comedies manufacture familial settings that viewers grow more and more accustomed to.

Certain podcasts and radio shows—especially those crafted around one or more hosts—adopt an informal tone resembling that of a gathering of friends.

As PSIs become increasingly frequent, many audience members enter into a parasocial relationship built on comfort, satisfaction, and commitment.

In contrast, Horton and Wohl posited, people whose encounters with mass media figures are infrequent may feel detached and even cynical when they do encounter those figures.

Indeed, the researchers suggested, audience members must tune in regularly and of their own volition for the relationship to become parasocial.

Such relationships bridge genre and style. In one key study, researchers found that commitment levels (measured on a scale used for interpersonal relationships) for viewers of both fictional and nonfictional television programs were predicted by how invested the viewers were.

Consequently, when a program went off the air, committed viewers experienced higher levels of distress, dubbed a “parasocial breakup,” than uncommitted viewers.

Audience members often have a parasocial relationship with the same celebrity without feeling jealous of one another; in fact, in many cases, sharing their dedication to a mass media persona brings people closer together.

While parasocial relationships can enrich your life, these one-sided affairs can also hurt you.

They won't love you back. "They're like fake food. They taste good, but they have no nutritional content and won't meet your needs. You need to love and be loved in return to thrive," social scientist and professor Arthur C. Brooks says.

They might contribute to loneliness and isolation if you rely on them too much. Loneliness and isolation are linked to increased risks of many chronic health problems such as depression, anxiety, dementia, and heart disease, and even premature death.

They might have a negative influence on you. Are you picking up unhealthy ideas from the people you follow? Brooks says this should be a special concern for parents whose kids have parasocial relationships: The messages kids glean might be at odds with your values — perhaps because they are controversial political or adult themes.

Two red alerts:

Ask yourself if you're too attached. For example, are you skipping dinner with friends because you prefer watching a TV show with a character you care about and want to connect with?

Be wary. "If someone is trying to brainwash you, saying, 'I'm your friend, you can trust me,' that person is using a personal social bond to get you to do something — like vote a certain way," Brooks says. He points out that social media stars try to establish parasocial relationships with followers to get more clicks and make money. "That's what the new economy is all about — monetizing parasocial relationships on a mass scale," Brooks says.

A PSR that starts with healthy boundaries, can turn sour when a mob mentality forms, resulting in harassment.

PSRs are natural and not inherently unhealthy.

But, as Stever says, “Anything that can be true about a regular social relationship can be true about a parasocial relationship. Are they positive? Can they be good for us? Absolutely. Can they be negative? Can they be toxic for us? We all know examples of that.”

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[solitary-confinement-bee]

Normalize kids having weird interests.

This is coming from someone who was obsessed with Van Gogh at like 6. I still like him though.