#pompidou and wooyoung the main character

[vcutparis]

FIRST OF ALL, HAPPY BIRTHDAY OMG YAYY!!!! 🫂🫂🫂❤️‍🩹☹️‼️ (congratulations on that fabulous date you had on your bday eve (?) lmfao WE LOVE WHEN YEARNERS GET THEEE ITALICISED OH MOMENT)

He’s like one of those girls you’d befriend in highschool who’d show up on the hallways suddenly judging your entire soul on a random Wednesday, and I don’t like it. okay listen let them cook. because yes.

What does the unrecognizable dude have to do with Hongjoong and his unreadable behavior? Nothing.

SIRENS BLAZING LOUDLY. NEW INFO ABOUT THE LORE DROPPED GASP? SO LIKE THAT GUY FROM THE SECOND CHAPTER MIGHT NOT BE HONGJOONG?? OR MAYBE READER LOST THE MEMORY? THE HEADACHES!!!! dude....my multiverse theory looking more and more truthful at this point. but whatever ive been always wrong when it comes to guessing shit. live commentary always stewpid if its me MEH

THE TIME IS EXACTLY THE SAME HELP????? 2: 37AM WHAT WITCHCRAFT ARE YOU DOING???? TEACH THIS NUGU WITCH SOME OF YOUR WAYS

pompidou my beloved baobei. i know you're gonna help us conquest this journey well.

“Maybe I was the one who left him in an alternate reality, and this is the price I have to pay for it,” you joke, but it only feels like a pathetic attempt to make yourself feel better. idk i prolly leaning too much into the alternate reality theory too much maybe its just a slow burn fic....but nvm im probably gonna make a fool of myself. let me jus believe that pompidou is the main character BYE.

slipping through my fingers....HONGJOONG TALKED ABOUT HIS DREAMS SLIPPING THROUGH HIS FINGERS. HOLYYYYY SHITTTTTT wait a moment oh my reader being vocal about their thoughts to a kitty...oh boy do i feel uncomfy but at the same time so so so seen?

la vie en rose makes an appearance again (boy jupiter on your playlist is playing, can i cry even louder?) THE REPEATED MOTIFS ARE THE SOUL OF YOUR WRITING!!!!!!!!!! (i type in caps so much im sorry i lose my demureness in winter months EUGH)

Then, Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “You’re lying to yourself. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Hongjoong. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

cue a big loud gasp. honestly i dont even who i am crying for lmfao, its just that i am crying. "never seen you like this" and its your mfing best friend saying that GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD YOU HAMSTER BOY! WE LOVE YOU WOOYOUNG FOR SMACKING SOME SENSE OF REALITY INTO LUVRBOY!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU (HIGH FIVES) id still like to be the little devil on his shoulder tho.

what the hell...actually happened oh my god. middle school girl? faceless guy?? from middle school?? name changed? both of them having opposite fears but also kind of same but somehow same situation in the same timeline. 😭😭😭? bruh now i know for a fact they aint talking abt each other.

boy my brain mushy from the theories and emotional stuff, i feel muc much more connected to joong now holy shit (pats head in comfort)

crying like how i used to cry reading those wattpad stories under my blanket...oh hello real angst slow burn.

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Eleven: You Wonder why I’m Bitter

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8.2k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ Alone and aching for the connection that once felt so natural, you reluctantly turn to an unlikely companion: Pompidou, who listens to you pour out all the longing you’ve fought so hard to bury. While you grapple with the emptiness left by Hongjoong’s sudden withdrawal, he, too, finds himself lost, wrestling with the very feelings he’s tried to deny. Haunted by memories and choices he can’t quite reconcile, Hongjoong is caught between the familiarity of the past and the confusing reality of the present.

a/n: was supposed to upload this on the 27th cause that’s my birthday but i just can’t wait any longer 😅 keep an eye out for the littlest of details because nothing is as it seems in this chapter :P lmk what you guys think!

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

First of all, I hate myself. Second of all, I hate myself. Oh, and did I already mention that I hate myself? I just don’t know what to do anymore! It feels like it’s been a whole decade ever since I last picked up a pen to scribble on this godforsaken journal… I wish I could just go back to the time I was writing the page behind the one I’m writing on right now and just cancel my flight to Paris. This is all so frustrating, you know? Fashion Week is nearing, and I am not prepared at all—no, not even a little. I’m supposed to be spending my hours inside the studio practicing runway walks and testing out facial expressions, but no! I’m way too afraid of crossing paths with Hongjoong to even think about the consequences of not taking my preparations seriously! And speaking of Hongjoong…

He’s driving me to the edge of my sanity. I don’t know what’s going on with him—okay, scratch that, I definitely do. I just don’t get why he’s acting so avoidant all of a sudden… I mean, like, okay, I would understand his unprovoked need for distance between us if we actually kissed that night, but we didn’t. The farthest step we were able to take was just him holding onto the sides of my face and me looking at his lips like I’m a starved dog looking at its first meal of the day before Wooyoung fortunately interrupted us—so why is he acting up?

He’s like one of those girls you’d befriend in highschool who’d show up on the hallways suddenly judging your entire soul on a random Wednesday, and I don’t like it. Seriously, what’s his problem? He made me accustomed to his usual sweet and caring persona, and all of a sudden, he wants to act like this? What have I done wrong? Wasn’t it literally him who initiated the��� whatever I’m supposed to call what happened that night?

I’m just concerned, you know. It’s been two weeks, and yet he’s still avoiding me like I’m the plague. I haven’t been receiving any messages from him at all lately, either. Even Madame Dupont is asking me why she no longer sees the “small young handsome boy” waiting for me outside the apartment building while leaning against his car. Wooyoung’s been trying to persuade me into confirming his theory that Hongjoong and I are going through a lovers’ quarrel for three days now, too. And guess who’s the most troubled of them all? Seonghwa. He’s been doing his best to put us back into speaking terms for a while now, and I don’t know why—I swear I didn’t ask him to do that.

Everyone is worried. Everyone but him.

You know, this brings me back to that unrecognizable faceless guy I see in some of my blurry flashbacks. I remember him asking me how long I’ve been bottling up my emotions, and when I told him I’ve been doing so for pretty much my entire life, he told me to consider writing in a journal.

What does the unrecognizable dude have to do with Hongjoong and his unreadable behavior? Nothing.

I just noticed that it’s been a while since I last wrote a journal entry, and… it’s been a while since I last let my emotions unravel. I remember the words that came out of his mouth that day.

“When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You know what, in a way, I think he and Hongjoong actually have something in common. I know I can’t say much because I only have one memory of this guy, but he spoke with as much wisdom as Hongjoong does. Also… “let yourself get lost in your own world.” That’s honestly the most Hongjoong-ish advice someone could ever give, given how he himself gets lost in his own world of artistry, too.

I just wish he’d stop ignoring me. I can’t help but feel like this is all somehow my fault… Am I just hurting myself by expecting things to suddenly go back to the way they used to be?

As you closed your journal with a weary sigh, your eyes drifted to the dim glow of your bedside clock reading 2:37 a.m. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of distant traffic, yet you felt far from at peace. It was a night for sleep, yet your mind wouldn’t quiet; thoughts of Hongjoong twisted and turned within you, refusing to settle.

“Why does it feel like this?” you murmured, pressing your palms into your face, as if that could somehow soothe the ache in your chest. You longed for comfort, for answers, even for a brief respite from the confusion that had become your constant companion. “If only that faceless guy could telepathically whisper some words of wisdom to me right now…”

Two weeks had passed since you last shared any words with Hongjoong—two weeks where every glance, every passing moment, felt laced with an unspoken tension that only deepened the rift between you. It was all becoming painfully real, the shift so clear to everyone around you. But no one knew the truth—the moment you almost kissed, the silent proximity that had left you dizzy and wondering. Even Seonghwa, in his genuine concern, couldn’t know the pang of vulnerability that had filled that night, the fear and excitement mingling as you’d come closer than ever before.

Your mind flashed back to the other day when the ache of his absence had been sharpest. You passed by him in a hallway, hoping for a flicker of his usual warmth, his soft gaze that once reassured you of your place in his world. But he’d brushed past with such indifference—not even nodding to acknowledge your presence, a chill in his demeanor that left you hollow. And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with a rising sense of loss.

Without thinking, you picked up your phone and opened your gallery. Photos of Hongjoong filled your screen, and your eyes drift over candid snapshots—some of you and Hongjoong working late in the studio, others of him laughing or looking thoughtful, moments caught by your camera that now feel like glimpses into another lifetime. There’s a picture of him outside your apartment building, waving you goodbye one evening. Another shot of him hunched over his desk in concentration, unaware that you’d snapped the photo from across the room. Then, there’s a particularly precious one of the two of you, taken in his office—which was likely Wooyoung’s doing.

As you scroll, an ache blossoms within you, spreading in slow, insistent waves that make your chest feel tight. You can feel the sting of tears welling up in your eyes, and it catches you off guard. Why now? Why does he, of all people, have this power over you? You swipe at the tears, frustrated by the sudden swell of emotion. It’s not supposed to be like this, you tell yourself. Hongjoong is supposed to be your friend, your mentor, the one person in Paris who helped you find your footing when everything felt foreign. But as the images blur beneath the glisten of unshed tears, you can’t help but wonder if that’s all he’ll ever be—someone whose warmth once felt like home, and whose absence now feels like a loss you’re not ready to face.

The soft scratching at your window pulls you abruptly from your thoughts. For a moment, you freeze, glancing back at the phone you’d just placed on your desk. Carefully, you grab your journal—a flimsy defense, maybe, but it’s better than nothing. Heart pounding just slightly, you step forward, inching closer to the window.

When you peek over, you’re met with a familiar sight: Pompidou, the resident stray cat who had made the apartment building his kingdom, sits with one paw pressed to the glass, his usual unamused expression aimed your way.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, feeling the tension drain from your shoulders as you let out a soft laugh. Setting your journal on the bed, you reach over to open the window, letting him slip inside with practiced ease. He slinks past you with the air of someone who owns the place and makes himself right at home, hopping onto your bed and circling until he’s claimed his spot in the center.

You sit beside him, running a gentle hand over his soft fur. It’s strange how much you missed him. For the past few weeks, your room felt emptier without his occasional visits—without that extra little creature who just… understood you, in a way. And now, with Hongjoong’s absence haunting you, Pompidou couldn’t have come at a better time.

The thought hits you harder than you expect: here you are, at your lowest, relying on a cat for comfort simply because the one person you’re used to confiding in has become distant, almost like a stranger. The ache in your chest intensifies, and before you know it, you’re lying down next to him, resting your head on the bed and gazing at his calm, indifferent eyes. It feels silly, pathetic even, to be speaking your heart to a cat, but in this silence, with no one else to turn to, you let yourself unravel.

“Pompidou,” you whisper, voice barely holding steady, “I… I don’t know what I did wrong. Everything was fine, wasn’t it?” Your fingers tremble as they thread through his fur, a warmth grounding you in the midst of your unraveling. “I don’t know how we ended up here. He’s always been there for me, and now… it’s like he’s vanished. And I’m trying, I really am, but every time I reach out, it’s like he’s miles away.”

A sharp breath catches in your throat, and you look up at the ceiling, fighting against the tears stinging your eyes. “It’s probably all my fault,” you confess in a whisper that breaks. “Maybe I was too much, or maybe I should have… I don’t know, said something differently, done something better. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him to eat dinner that night so that…” A bitter chuckle slips out as you squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s funny, you know. All my life, I’ve been terrified of being alone, of people walking out… and now here I am, trying to be okay with him pulling away like it’s nothing.”

Pompidou shifts slightly, his warm body pressing into your side, a small reminder that he’s there, and he’s not leaving. You let your hand drop to your chest, feeling the dull ache that’s settled there. “I just miss him, Pompidou. I miss the way he used to look at me like I mattered. Now, he can’t even look me in the eyes. And I don’t know why I’m clinging to that, why I’m hoping he’ll suddenly turn around and go back to being who he was.”

The silence swallows you for a moment. “Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still the same pathetic teenager from Arcadia Bay who’s scared that she doesn’t deserve anything better. That she’s always going to be left behind, and this… this is just proof.” Your voice falters, words thick with pain you can no longer hold back. “And if he leaves, then maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“Maybe I was the one who left him in an alternate reality, and this is the price I have to pay for it,” you joke, but it only feels like a pathetic attempt to make yourself feel better.

The pain is so sharp it almost feels physical, a hollow ache that makes every breath feel heavier than the last. You close your eyes, fighting against the helplessness clawing at your insides, but the words keep pouring out, jagged and raw, as though voicing them might lessen the weight—even if it’s only to a cat who can’t respond.

“Do you know what’s worse?” you whisper, fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt over your chest as if you could hold yourself together by sheer will. “It’s that I can’t even be mad at him. I want to be—believe me, I’ve tried. I tell myself he’s the one pulling away, that he’s the one who’s changed, but then I start wondering… what if I pushed him to this? What if I’m the reason he’s slipping through my fingers?”

A soft tremor runs through your hands, and you curl them into fists, teeth gritted as you force the tears back. “I keep thinking… maybe he’s right to distance himself. Maybe there’s something broken in me, something that just drives people away. And the worst part is, I keep wishing he’d come back, like I’d somehow be enough if I could just—”

Your voice catches, breaking into a whisper as you bury your face in your hands, barely holding in the sob that threatens to spill out. “I just don’t understand. He was my safe place, Pompidou. For the first time in so long, I actually felt like I mattered. He made me feel seen. And now… now I feel invisible all over again, like everything we shared was just temporary, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Pompidou shifts closer, his soft purr rumbling beneath your fingertips as you stroke his fur, a small solace in the middle of this storm.

“I try to convince myself that I’m fine, that I can go on without him,” you continue, voice cracking as the words spill out unchecked. “But the truth is, I’m terrified. I’m scared that if he leaves… if he’s really gone, I’ll be alone again, just like before. And I hate myself for feeling this way, for being so… so weak.”

The tears finally break free, slipping down your cheeks in a silent flood. “What does that say about me? That I’m so dependent on him, that I can’t even imagine my life without him? I thought I was stronger than this, that I’d learned how to stand on my own. But now… now it’s like I’m right back to that scared, lonely kid I used to be, clinging to anyone who shows me a hint of kindness.”

You pull your knees to your chest, holding yourself as tightly as you can, as if you could somehow shield yourself from the emptiness swallowing you whole. “I can’t stop thinking that maybe this is all I deserve. That maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe he’s finally seeing me for who I am, and he’s realizing I’m not worth it.”

Your shoulders shake as the sobs escape, quiet and raw, each one cutting through you like glass. Pompidou curls closer, his little face pressing against your arm, as though he understands in his own way. But his silent comfort only deepens the ache, a reminder that the person you need more than anything isn’t here, and you’re left holding yourself together with nothing but frayed threads of hope.

With a shuddering breath, you finally admit the fear you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. “What if he doesn’t come back, Pompidou? What if this is it? I don’t think… I don’t think I can handle losing him. Not like this.”

Your voice drops to a whisper, the words coming slow and soft as you gaze out the window, eyes unfocused. “I just… I miss him, Pompidou,” you murmur, fingers absently tracing patterns against the sheets.

“I miss all the little things that made it feel like he was a part of me, like he was woven into my days without me even realizing it. I miss the way he’d send me random sketches, the ones that made no sense but made me laugh anyway, like he was letting me in on his little worlds. I miss… I miss how he’d always have this ridiculous drink order for me every time we’d meet up at the café where we switched up our notebooks with one another before we met for the first time. It’s like he knew exactly what I’d need, even if I didn’t.”

The memories wash over you, and you can’t stop the warmth from pooling in your chest as you picture those moments. “I wish we could go back to that time when things were… simple. When I could sit beside him without feeling like the whole world was shifting under my feet. When he’d laugh and look at me like I was… like I was something special, you know?”

Your voice trembles, and you tighten your grip on the sheets. “And the thing is… it was just easy with him. He’d be there, always making me feel like nothing could go wrong as long as we were together. He’d be there with his quiet, comforting presence, and I could just… be. I didn’t have to pretend or put on some mask. It was like he could see right through me, and somehow, he didn’t care about all the mess he found.”

You take a deep breath, the words spilling out like a plea. “I just want to go back, Pompidou. Back to before everything felt so fragile, before that almost-kiss, before this… this distance. I wish I could reach out and take it all back. I’d give anything just to have things feel normal again.”

Pompidou tilts his head, eyes blinking up at you, and you can’t help but laugh, a soft, broken sound that catches in your throat. “I know it sounds silly, doesn’t it? I mean, how could I expect anything to be the same after that? But I can’t help it, Pompidou. I want to go back to when he’d smile at me like that, when I didn’t have to wonder if I was the one pushing him away.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of each memory anchor you down. “I miss his laugh. I miss his stupid jokes. I miss the way he’d lean closer when he talked about his dreams, his voice getting all serious like he could see every detail in his mind. And I miss… I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere, like I belonged with him. I miss how he’d look at me with this warmth, like I was enough, just as I was.”

The words come out like a broken whisper, a confession you’ve been holding inside for far too long. “I can’t stop missing him. I wish… I wish I could go back to that last night before everything shifted. Before the night we nearly kissed, before I even realized what I felt. I wish I could’ve just stayed there, in that moment, without letting any of it change.”

You hug your knees, curling up as the ache settles deeper, heavier. “But I can’t. And now it’s as if I’m left with pieces of him in everything around me, and I don’t know how to put myself back together without him.”

You pull yourself up, exhaling slowly, and walk over to your desk. The room feels quiet, still heavy with everything you’ve let out, yet somehow emptier too, as if releasing the words has left you hollow. With a shaky hand, you pick up your phone and make your way back to bed, curling up beside Pompidou, who has already claimed his spot against your pillow. Settling into the blankets, you scroll through your contacts, your thumb hovering over Hongjoong’s icon.

It’s just his initials next to a simple photo he once sent—a candid moment he probably forgot about, something so ordinary that it’s precious now. The way he looked when he didn’t realize anyone was watching: a slight smile, eyes softened by something he found funny, maybe even a bit endearing. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you let yourself scroll up, reading through old conversations like leafing through the pages of a treasured book.

Each message brings back flashes of shared laughter and late-night ramblings, little moments where time seemed to pause, and it was just the two of you—untouchable, safe. You linger on a message he sent on a rainy afternoon, a random joke he thought would cheer you up. Your lips curl into a faint smile, but it’s bittersweet. There was a time when it was so easy, so effortless, like breathing. He had a way of knowing exactly when you needed a reminder that he was there. But now, that comfort feels distant, unreachable.

A tear slips down your cheek again before you realize it, and you hastily swipe it away, but the sorrow wells up again, slipping past your guard. As if sensing your pain, Pompidou extends a soft paw, resting it gently below your eyes, and you feel his fur against your cheek, grounding you in a way that words can’t. His small gesture tugs a quiet, breathy laugh from you, despite the ache in your chest. It’s as if he’s trying to catch your sadness, pulling it away piece by piece, his wide eyes fixed on yours with an empathy you can almost feel.

You let your head fall, hugging Pompidou close, allowing yourself to finally surrender to the pain and let it wash over you without restraint. The loneliness, the longing, the hollow spaces Hongjoong’s absence has left in you—all of it spills out as you clutch the feline tightly, letting his warmth and steady breathing lull you into a fragile sense of comfort. The room seems to blur, softening around you as the weight of everything you’ve been holding back presses into you.

The tears come faster now, unstoppable, and your quiet sobs fill the silence, raw and unfiltered. It’s just you and Pompidou, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not truly alone. There, in the quiet solace of your room, you cling to that small comfort, letting yourself feel every ounce of longing, letting yourself miss him—fully, desperately, hopelessly.

—

Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood in his office, the warm, nostalgic tones of “La Vie en Rose” playing softly from the record player behind him. His gaze fixed on the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and he fought to keep his emotions in check. Each note lingered in the air, pulling him deeper into the web of memories he was desperately trying to forget. This song, of all songs—he could still remember how it had been playing when the two of you had stood together in the flower shop, laughing over bouquets and trading light-hearted jokes as if the world beyond didn’t exist.

Part of him knew he could walk over and turn it off. The music was his to control, after all. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The melody was the last fragile thread that kept him tethered to you, a reminder of the warmth he felt in your presence, the comfort of knowing someone understood him.

The dim light from the city outside cast a soft glow over his office, illuminating the expanse of papers scattered across his desk, the outlines of unfinished sketches and hastily scrawled notes, all reminders of the whirlwind he’d buried himself in since he started pushing you away. Each corner of the room felt saturated with memories of you—and it was strange how a space that had once felt so alive now seemed hollow, absent of the warmth you’d brought into it.

He tried to focus on the skyline again, his eyes tracing the glittering lights of the city. It was an attempt to ground himself, to pull himself back from the turmoil inside him. But tonight, every bit of stillness he attempted felt false, every piece of composure barely hanging by a thread. All he could think about was you—the absence of your presence filling every empty space in his mind, as if refusing to be silenced.

He turned slowly from the window, allowing his gaze to wander over his desk. It was almost impossible to remember the last time he’d felt fully at ease in this room. The stacks of designs that had once held so much promise now felt like hollow accomplishments, each one only reminding him of the fire you’d helped him ignite. His eyes landed on a small pendant lying amidst the clutter. The flower encased inside had faded slightly, its once-vibrant petals softened by time. He picked it up, cradling it carefully in his hand, feeling a strange tenderness rise within him.

You’d given him that flower, pressing it into his hand with a shy smile as you murmured something about it bringing him luck. He could still recall the way your fingers had lingered against his, the brief but electric touch that had left him wondering if you felt it too. “For good luck,” you’d said, your eyes sparkling in that way they always did when you felt especially close to him.

Hongjoong swallowed, feeling a tightness in his chest as he held the pendant closer. How was it that something so small could carry the weight of so many memories? He closed his eyes, and the warmth of your smile flashed in his mind, as vivid as if you were standing beside him. But now, as he held the pendant, it felt heavier, like a tiny piece of the past he was terrified of losing forever.

In his mind, he slipped back to that night—the one that had started as an ordinary work session, yet had unraveled into something far more vulnerable. He could still feel the closeness of the room, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows as you both worked side by side, immersed in the quiet moment you shared.

You’d shared things that night that were never meant to leave the room. He could still hear your voice, low and hesitant, as you revealed the fears you held closest to your heart. “Being left alone,” you’d admitted, your words raw and unguarded. The truth of it had lingered between you, a quiet vulnerability that had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

When you turned the question back on him, he’d hesitated, feeling the weight of his own guarded secrets pressing against his chest. But in that quiet space, under the gentle glow of the lamp, he’d found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years. “Losing myself,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible, but enough for you to hear. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Now, standing alone in his empty office, Hongjoong felt the irony of it all washing over him. He’d tried so hard to protect himself, to build walls so high that even you couldn’t reach them. But now, it felt as if he had developed a new fear bigger than losing himself—losing you.

A quiet knock on the door broke his reverie, and he tensed, slipping the pendant into his pocket as he turned. Wooyoung’s face appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Hongjoong standing alone, the haunting strains of La Vie en Rose still spinning softly from the record player across the room.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to the player, where the melody had been looping for what must have been the better part of an hour. “Still here?” he asked quietly, a hint of concern threading his tone.

Hongjoong forced a slight smile, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wooyoung stepped further into the room, his gaze sharp as it settled on Hongjoong. “You know…” Wooyoung began, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, “the world can see how miserable you are. Including her—especially her.”

Hongjoong stiffened, the forced nonchalance slipping from his face as he turned away, staring intently at the record player as if it held all the answers he was struggling to find. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.

��Hongjoong,” Wooyoung’s tone softened, a hint of exasperation breaking through. “I know you. I know how much you care about her. And I know you’re running from something you can’t outrun. But you’re not fooling anyone by pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, his mind racing with all the reasons he’d built to keep you at a distance. Each one felt logical, safe, a way to protect himself from something he couldn’t quite name. But here, with Wooyoung standing there, watching him with that steady gaze, he felt every layer he’d built start to unravel.

“I’m not pretending,” he said quietly, barely audible above the music.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning softer, almost pleading. “Then what are you doing, Hongjoong? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone too scared to reach for what he really wants.”

Hongjoong’s heart twisted painfully, Wooyoung’s words hitting far too close to home. He felt the weight of everything he’d tried to suppress rising within him, a tidal wave of emotions he’d buried so deeply he’d convinced himself they were gone. But Wooyoung’s words had brought them to the surface, and now, there was no escaping them.

A silence stretched between them, and Hongjoong’s gaze fell to the floor. In that moment, he felt utterly vulnerable, as though Wooyoung could see right through him, could see the aching desire he’d tried so hard to deny. He didn’t have to say it—Wooyoung already knew.

Hongjoong’s fingers were still curled around the pendant in his pocket when Wooyoung let out a quiet sigh, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “So,” Wooyoung began, breaking the silence, “are you really going to stand here, pretending everything’s fine?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing. He wanted to brush off Wooyoung’s words, to deflect with some casual response that would keep the carefully built walls intact. But his mind was a battlefield, each memory of you cutting through his defenses like a blade.

“Everything is fine,” he replied tersely. He didn’t meet Wooyoung’s eyes, focusing instead on a spot just beyond his shoulder.

Wooyoung’s brows knitted together, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’ve been playing her favorite song on loop for the last hour. That’s why you’ve been holed up in here, avoiding anything that reminds you of her.” He shook his head, his tone equal parts exasperation and worry. “Hongjoong, you’re not fooling me. I know you, and I know you’re running from something—from someone.”

Hongjoong let out a low, frustrated sigh, finally looking up at Wooyoung. “Wooyoung, just drop it, alright?” He forced a tense smile, attempting to sound dismissive. “This… whatever you think is going on, it’s all in your head. We were just friends.”

But Wooyoung didn’t budge. “Friends?” He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it, just the weight of disbelief. “You really want to go with that? Because the way you’re acting… it doesn’t look like you’re just missing a friend. You’re avoiding her like she’s a stranger, but then you’re here, playing her favorite song over and over, clutching onto that pendant like it’s the last piece of her you have.”

Hongjoong’s fingers instinctively tightened around the pendant, and he felt a pang of frustration rise within him. He didn’t want to admit that Wooyoung’s words struck too close to home. “I told you, it’s nothing like that,” he bit back, his tone sharper than intended. “You’re turning this into something it isn’t.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his gaze not faltering. “Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like a guy who’s desperately trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t even believe.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Hongjoong, you can’t keep lying to yourself.” Wooyoung’s tone softened, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to cut deeper than the words themselves. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know that you care about her. You’re not fooling anyone by pretending this distance is ‘better’ for either of you.”

Hongjoong’s patience began to fray, his frustration morphing into anger. He shot Wooyoung a glare, his voice rising. “It is better, Wooyoung. She… she deserves better. She doesn’t need to be pulled into whatever mess I am.” He paused, catching his breath, his anger mingling with something closer to desperation. “I’m not what’s best for her. And it’s better for the both of us if I keep my distance.”

Wooyoung’s expression shifted, his gaze hardening as he stepped closer, unwilling to let Hongjoong brush him off. “So, what? You think pushing her away, acting like she means nothing, is somehow good for her? You really think she’s better off without you?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong replied, his tone final, but the conviction in his voice was starting to waver.

Wooyoung gave him a long, scrutinizing look, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken truths. Then, Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “You’re lying to yourself. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Hongjoong. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

The words hit Hongjoong like a slap, and a flash of anger surged within him, simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “I’m doing this for her, so just… stop.”

But Wooyoung wouldn’t relent. “You’re not doing this for her. You’re doing this because you’re afraid. Afraid to admit how much she means to you. Afraid of what might happen if you actually let her in. Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever you think is keeping you from being with her… maybe it’s worth rethinking. Because if you keep running like this, you’re going to lose her. And then what?”

Hongjoong felt his control slipping, the carefully constructed barriers he’d built starting to crack under the weight of Wooyoung’s words. He clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “This isn’t about fear.”

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice softened, a hint of understanding breaking through the frustration. “Hongjoong… I get it. You’re scared of losing yourself. Of losing control. But she’s not the one who’s going to make that happen. You are, by doing this. By trying so hard to keep her out.”

Hongjoong stayed silent, his chest tightening as Wooyoung’s words began to sink in. He wanted to deny it, to push back with the same conviction he’d clung to for weeks, but he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew there was truth in Wooyoung’s words.

Finally, Wooyoung let out a sigh, his tone softening even further. “Listen, man. I don’t know what almost happened, or why you’re so determined to stay away from her, but you have to ask yourself… is this really what you want?”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to that night in your apartment—the feeling of your hand brushing his, the way your gaze had lingered on him, the unspoken tension that had nearly pulled him into something he couldn’t name. He’d wanted so badly to close that distance, to feel your lips against his, to let go of the fear and doubt that had held him back. But just as he’d leaned closer, Wooyoung’s call had snapped him out of the moment, bringing him crashing back to reality.

“Do you even understand how much she’s hurting, Hongjoong?” And there it was again—the harshness in Wooyoung’s tone. “Seonghwa told me she’s tearing herself apart over this. She doesn’t eat right anymore, and she barely even sleeps. She spends her nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where things went wrong, wondering if she’s the problem.”

The words landed like a punch to Hongjoong’s gut, leaving him breathless. Images of you flashed through his mind—moments when he’d caught glimpses of your smile faltering, your laughter quieting, the spark in your eyes dimming little by little. He’d told himself it was just his imagination, that you were fine. But Wooyoung’s words shattered that illusion entirely.

“She thinks she did something wrong, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung continued, his voice filled with barely contained anger. “She actually believes she’s the reason you’re running. Every time you disappear, every time you pull away, she thinks it’s because of something she did. And the worst part? She doesn’t even blame you. She blames herself.”

Hongjoong’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as guilt clawed at him.

“Seonghwa told me she asked him if she was too much. Can you believe that?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “She actually thinks she’s too much for you. That she’s somehow burdening you, dragging you down. She’s convinced herself that if she were just… less, maybe you wouldn’t be running.”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched, a wave of nausea rolling over him as he realized the full extent of the pain he’d caused. You—who had always been so vibrant, so unapologetically yourself—were now questioning every part of who you were, trying to shrink yourself down to avoid scaring him away.

“She’s not even angry at you, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice barely above a whisper now, each word a dagger aimed straight at Hongjoong’s heart. “She doesn’t hate you for this. She just… she thinks she’s not enough. Or that she’s too much. Either way, she’s convinced that she’s the problem.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He could feel the anchor of your pain weighing down on him; He’d done this to you—turned you into a shadow of yourself, left you grappling with doubts and insecurities that weren’t yours to bear.

“You’ve been so busy hiding behind your own fears,” Wooyoung continued, “that you haven’t even stopped to consider what this is doing to her. You’re so terrified of being hurt again that you’re hurting her—over and over, every day, with every step you take away from her.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but the words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say to justify this? How could he explain that he’d been running not to hurt you, but to protect himself? It sounded so selfish, so small in the face of everything you were going through.

“And you know what’s really twisted?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “She’d take you back in a heartbeat. Despite everything, she’d still look at you the same way she did before you started pushing her away. She’d still forgive you, still try to see the good in you, because that’s who she is. That’s how much she cares.”

Hongjoong felt something break inside him, a quiet, shattering realization that left him reeling. You would forgive him. He knew that. He could see it in his mind—the way you’d smile softly, the way your eyes would fill with understanding, even now. Even after everything, you’d welcome him back, arms open, heart exposed, waiting.

“She deserves better, Joong.” Wooyoung’s words were softer now, the anger replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her question her worth. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s somehow wrong just for being herself. And if you can’t be that for her… if you’re too wrapped up in your own fears to let her in… then you need to let her go.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened, a hollow ache spreading through him as he struggled to process it all. He didn’t want to let you go. He couldn’t. But the thought of holding onto you only to keep hurting you, to keep dragging you through his own tangled web of insecurities and fears—it was unbearable.

“She’s barely holding up. She hides it well, but Seonghwa can see it. He told me how she sits alone for hours, just staring off into space, like she’s lost something she can’t find. She keeps her phone close, hoping maybe, just maybe, you’ll reach out. But every time you don’t... it breaks her a little more.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened painfully, each word slicing through him like a blade. He could see it so clearly now, every painful moment he’d forced you through. How you must’ve waited for messages that never came, must’ve spent countless nights wondering where things had gone wrong. The thought of you sitting there, lost in your own pain, while he’d been so focused on his own fears, was more than he could bear.

“And don’t think she hasn’t tried to talk to you.” Wooyoung’s voice turned sharp, accusatory. “Seonghwa told me how many times she’s wanted to reach out, just to make sure you’re okay, just to see if you’d give her even a scrap of reassurance. But every time, she stops herself. She doesn’t want to bother you, doesn’t want to seem needy. She’s holding back everything she feels because she’s afraid it’ll push you further away.”

Wooyoung’s eyes softened slightly, but the fire of his conviction remained. “You need to understand, Hongjoong. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about her too. You’re hurting her, and if you don’t start realizing that, it’ll be too late. She’s going to break, and I don’t think she’ll come back from it.”

Hongjoong felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. The thought of you shattering into pieces because of his cowardice was unbearable. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to say that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He was only trying to shield himself from the fear of loss, the same fear that had haunted him since that girl from his past had walked away.

“I can’t… I can’t lose anyone again, Woo,” Hongjoong finally admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “What if she sees me for who I really am? What if she realizes I’m not worth it?”

Wooyoung shook his head, frustration flashing across his features. “That’s where you’re wrong. She already sees you, and she loves you for all the parts you’re trying to hide. You think you’re protecting her by staying away, but you’re only pushing her further into despair.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions colliding within him. “How do you know? How do you know she feels that way?”

“Because I’ve talked to Seonghwa, and he cares about her, Joong! He’s seen her cry over you. He told me she broke down one night, just sitting on the floor of her room, wondering why you were so distant. She kept saying she must’ve done something wrong. Do you want that for her? Do you want to be the reason she loses herself?”

The image of you curled up alone, tears streaming down your face while grappling with your worth, sliced through Hongjoong. The sheer guilt of it settled heavily in his chest, suffocating him. He had wanted to protect you, but in doing so, he had only hurt you more.

Hongjoong lingered in silence, the weight of his unspoken fears casting a shadow over the room. He could feel Wooyoung’s gaze on him, a

persistent pressure urging him to confront the thoughts he’d been too afraid to voice.

“What if…” The words caught in his throat, his voice strained with the vulnerability he couldn’t hide. “What if I take the next step, and she leaves? What if she ends up leaving just like—”

Wooyoung interrupted him by reaching forward, pressing his fingers gently but firmly to Hongjoong’s lips, shushing him with an authority that surprised them both. “I know what comes next, Hongjoong,” he murmured. “You don’t need to say it.”

Hongjoong stiffened, pulling back ever so slightly, a touch of annoyance flickering across his face. “You think it’s that simple?” he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You think it’s easy to just… forget?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, though he held firm. “I think you’re holding onto something that’s long gone, Joong. And you’re letting it get in the way of something real.” He paused, leaning forward. “So what if the girl you loved back in middle school left you? You’re still letting her be the one who decides what happens now?”

Hongjoong’s mouth opened, then closed, his defenses crumbling under Wooyoung’s scrutiny. He could feel the words bubbling up, the excuses he’d used to justify his fears over and over, but this time, they didn’t come. The silence between them grew heavier, and he felt himself shrinking under Wooyoung’s eyes.

“It’s not about her,” Hongjoong finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. “It’s just… this was exactly how it started back then. The same moments, the same feelings, and then…” His voice broke, a haunted look creeping into his eyes as the memories clawed their way to the surface. “And then it all just fell apart the moment she left without a word.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his gaze filled with something close to sympathy, but there was no pity there, only an understanding forged through years of friendship. “Joong,” he said softly, leaning even closer as if he could bridge the distance that Hongjoong had placed between himself and everyone around him. “So what if some things feel familiar? They’re not the same person, are they? You’re not the same person, either.”

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest as he searched for a way to deflect, to deny the truth in Wooyoung’s words. “It’s… it’s not like that, Woo. You don’t get it.” His voice grew sharper, frustration edging his tone as he tried to hold onto the walls he’d built.

Wooyoung shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

Hongjoong looked away, his gaze hardening as he stared at the floor. “It’s not that simple, okay? You don’t know what it’s like to… to risk everything and then lose it.”

Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hongjoong, I may not know exactly what you went through, but I do know one thing: you’re letting something from the past dictate your future. And that’s not fair. Not to you, and definitely not to her.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he felt the weight of Wooyoung’s words settle over him. Part of him wanted to argue, to cling to the fears that had kept him guarded for so long, but another part—a part he’d buried deep—knew that Wooyoung was right.

“What if I let myself try?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his words laden with the weight of years of doubt and self-preservation. “What if… what if I take that risk, and she ends up leaving?”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward, resting a reassuring hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Joong, if she’s really the person you believe she is… then maybe it’s a risk worth taking. Because people leave, yeah. They walk away. But the ones who matter, the ones who are meant to stay—they won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re saying I should just… trust that?” His voice wavered, the question more for himself than for Wooyoung, as if he needed to convince himself that he could still believe in something other than his own fears.

Wooyoung’s mouth curved into a gentle, understanding smile. “Yeah. Trust it. Don’t let something that’s already gone keep you from what could be right here, right now.”

“What if I let her in? What if I let her see the real me? What if it’s not enough?”

“Then you fight for her,” Wooyoung replied. “You show her every day that she’s enough. You fight for her instead of running away. You have to be brave enough to take the risk, Joong. And if she does leave, at least you’ll know you tried. You can’t live in the shadow of your past forever.”

“But what if she sees me as weak?” Hongjoong countered, bitterness lacing his tone. “What if she thinks I’m broken?”

“Then you show her that even broken pieces can fit together to make something beautiful,” Wooyoung shot back. “You’ve built this wall around yourself, but you’re just hurting the one person who’s tried to break through. You need to trust her. You need to let her help you. She wants to be there for you, but you have to meet her halfway.”

The truth of those words echoed painfully in Hongjoong’s mind. He had been running, terrified of the vulnerability that came with love, terrified of the chance that he could be left once more. But he could feel the edges of that fear beginning to fray under the weight of his guilt, unraveling with every word Wooyoung spoke.

“You can’t let the past dictate your present, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer now, a mixture of empathy and frustration. “You can’t keep running away from what you feel. If you do, you’ll end up losing her, and it’ll be your fault.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced as he thought of you—how you had lit up his life in ways he never thought possible. How your laughter had become a soothing balm to his weary soul. He couldn’t keep ignoring the truth that was staring him in the face. The realization washed over him like a cold wave. “What am I supposed to do?” Hongjoong whispered.

“Fight for her, Joong. Show her that you’re not afraid. Be honest with her, and don’t let fear win this time.” Wooyoung leaned closer. “She deserves that much, at the very least. Fight for her—before it’s too late.”

“But what if it already is?”

🪞 — lividstar.

[vcutparis]

when you so low you start yapping to a cat and ignore the guy you are potentially soulmates with...

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Six: A New Companion

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 5k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ The tension mounts as you anxiously await a message from the directors. A call from Seonghwa bringing you the not-so-good news of you passing the first round of the casting brings mixed emotions, and a walk in the park offers a brief escape from your spiraling worries. Returning home, you find comfort in the unexpected presence of Pompidou, Monsieur Frank’s mischievous feline. As the day of the callback arrives, the pressure intensifies, culminating in a nerve-wracking evaluation before Hongjoong and the casting panel.

a/n: one of my classmates from my journalism class just asked me how i improve my literary skills and i blanked out because i couldn’t tell her i do it by writing fics :’) only our class’s photojournalist knows about it because she’s a close friend of mine

tags: @beabatiny

It’s been three days, and you’ve been on the edge of your seat for what feels like an eternity, always hoping for a callback notification. But that’s not the only thing that’s stressing you out—the sketchbook is another factor, too. Sure, you were hoping to make it past the first round, but if you did, that would only mean permanently being under the same workspace as the man who owns the sketchbook that you still don’t have the guts to return—not because you don’t want to but because you’re scared. And he wouldn’t be just a co-worker, no, he’s the creative director, meaning you’re not just under the same agency as him—instead, you’re under him.

You’ve been contemplating whether you should drop subtle questions here and there to Seonghwa in your conversation, asking if Hongjoong is currently going through a tough situation regarding his line of work, but that would be too obvious. It’s not that you were keeping your secret for the sake of saving your potential career—you wanted nothing more than to just shove it into Hongjoong’s arms and make a run for it, but the possible consequences kept outweighing your rationality. This was one of the many struggles of yours you can’t confide in someone about.

Today was no different. It was only early in the morning, but you were already pacing around your room, glancing back and forth at the sketchbook that was now laid on your bed. Each time you looked at it, your stomach twisted with anxiety, the constant thoughts swirling in your head at an even faster pace. What if Hongjoong finds out? What if he’s already suspicious? Every scenario played out in your head, from being publicly shamed to being blacklisted from the industry. The longer you thought about it, the more you felt the weight of the potential repercussions.

Would Hongjoong be understanding if you returned the sketchbook and explained the mix-up? Or would he think you were trying to steal his ideas? The stakes felt incredibly high, and it was a gamble you weren’t sure you were ready to take. Trust was hard to rebuild once broken, and you had just begun to establish a foothold in this new world.

You sat on your bed, picking up the sketchbook and flipping through its pages again. The designs were intricate, detailed, and undoubtedly brilliant. You admired Hongjoong's work, but that admiration was tainted by the anxiety of knowing you had something that didn’t belong to you. Just then, when you felt like your resolve was about to crumble completely, your phone that was on your desk started ringing. Anxious, you quickly walked toward it and saw that the caller was Seonghwa. You picked it up, trying to sound calm as you greeted him like you weren’t just nearly losing it seconds ago.

“Hello, Seonghwa,” you said, your voice slightly shaky—after all, he could be calling for any reason out there, even the ones outside of your mind.

“Hey,” Seonghwa’s voice came through the line, cheerful as always. Would he still sound the same, were he to ever find out? “I have some great news for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. "Really…? What is it?"

“You got a callback,” Seonghwa announced, a hint of pride in his tone. “The casting directors were really impressed with you.”

Relief and excitement washed over you, momentarily drowning out your worries about the sketchbook. “That’s… that’s amazing. Thank you so much for letting me know and for believing in me, Seonghwa.” You were happy, really. It’s just you didn’t have it in you to outwardly express it, especially considering your current situation.

“I knew you had it in you,” Seonghwa continued. “They’ll be sending you a message with all the details. Make sure you’re prepared, alright? This is a big step.”

“I will, thank you again, Seonghwa. I really appreciate all your support.”

“Of course,” he replied warmly. “I’m in full support of you. Just stay focused and do your best.”

You ended the call feeling a mix of elation and nerves. The callback was a huge opportunity, but it also meant your anxiety about Hongjoong and the sketchbook would be an ongoing issue. You had to figure out a way to handle it without jeopardizing everything you had worked for. A few minutes after the call, you received a message from an unknown contact and read it. It’s from the agency and its casting directors:

Congratulations on making it to the next round of callbacks for our upcoming show! We were thoroughly impressed with your performance during the initial casting, and we are excited to see more from you.

Here are the details:

1. Date and Time: Please arrive at our main office at 9:00 AM sharp on Friday this week.

2. Location: 8th Avenue, Paradigm Street.

3. Attire: Please wear simple, form-fitting clothing that allows us to see your figure clearly. Avoid excessive accessories or makeup.

4. Portfolio: Bring an updated portfolio with recent photos, including headshots and full-body images.

5. Preparation: Be ready for a photography session and possibly engage in a brief interview with our casting directors. We are looking for confidence, professionalism, and the ability to adapt to different styles and instructions.

We wish you the best of luck and look forward to seeing you soon.

After you finish reading it and taking mental notes of each requirement, you let yourself fall onto your bed on your back, looking up at the ceiling while groaning and burying your face in your hands. This was supposed to make you happy, but all you felt was nervousness. Could this really be treated as a win when it comes at the cost of a huge loss?

Meanwhile, Seonghwa was, as usual, in his office, accompanied by the presence of Wooyoung, who had been silently listening in on your phone call with Seonghwa while he was busy drawing little doodles on the notepad settled on top of Seonghwa’s desk. “Was that her?” Wooyoung asked, his voice eager.

Seonghwa nodded with a small smile on his face. “Yeah I’m really happy the casting directors saw the same potential I saw in her. I’m really proud. I genuinely think she’d be such a good fit in the industry. I’m sure she’ll be able to find her place despite the fact that she’s entirely foreign to the concept of fashion and modeling.”

Wooyoung nodded in agreement, hopping up to sit on Seonghwa’s desk. “I agree, but aren’t you a little worried, though? The industry isn’t exactly the kindest, especially to those who are new. It’s a rough world out there.”

Seonghwa sighed deeply, his expression turning serious. “Yeah, that’s true. I just hope she won’t get pushed into the negative side of the world of fashion. It’s inevitable, though, so I really just wish her the best. We can only hope she stays grounded and keeps her integrity intact.”

Wooyoung leaned back, folding his arms. “Speaking of which, don’t you think there’s something strange going on with Hongjoong lately? I mean, he’s still... Hongjoong, that’s for sure, but it’s like the army of dark clouds looming over him are slowly starting to disappear. He doesn’t bring up his sketchbook just as much anymore, and he doesn’t seem to be that stressed out over it. Has he found it yet?”

Seonghwa shrugged, looking thoughtful. “Your guess is as good as mine. The frustration’s still there, but it’s as if it had been tamed, somehow. He’s not that much of a douche during work hours anymore, so I guess that’s a good sign? He’s definitely been more tolerable recently.”

Just as Wooyoung was about to respond, the door to Seonghwa’s office swung open, and Hongjoong stepped inside, raising an eyebrow at the two men. “Are you talking about me?” he asked, his tone light but curious.

Wooyoung quickly shot back, “Yeah, what about it?” Hongjoong rolled his eyes, a blank expression on his face as he walked over to Seonghwa’s table and pinched Wooyoung’s ear. “Ow!” Wooyoung yelped, rubbing his ear with a pout.

“Just because you like being the talk of the town doesn’t mean it’s the same for other people,” Hongjoong said, letting go of Wooyoung and making his way to the couch in Seonghwa’s office. He flopped down, stretching out as if he owned the place.

“Je m’appelle ‘don’t give a shit,’” Wooyoung retorted, shrugging his shoulders defiantly at Hongjoong.

Seonghwa, trying to keep the peace, interjected. “Enough of that. What brings you here, Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong shrugged nonchalantly. “Something similar to why Wooyoung loves making himself at home on my office couch. You know, back pains and stuff.”

Seonghwa let out an exasperated sigh. “You two aren’t any different at all, are you?”

A comfortable silence settled over the room for a moment before Hongjoong broke it. “What, you don’t want to talk about me anymore now that I’m here?”

Wooyoung grinned, leaning back on the desk. “Oh, we’ve got plenty to say about you, Hongjoong. Don’t worry.”

Hongjoong chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sure you do, but maybe save some of it for when I’m not around to defend myself.” He reclined comfortably on Seonghwa’s couch, casually observing the room. He turned his attention to Seonghwa, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Hey, do you have a list of the models who got a callback? I’ve been so busy lately that I haven't had a chance to keep in touch with the casting directors.”

Seonghwa looked up from his desk, shuffling through some papers. “Unfortunately, there were only a handful of models the casting directors were interested in. Less than half, to be precise.”

Wooyoung, who had been lounging against the desk, interjected with a grin. “Wanna know what’s fortunate, though?”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on.”

Wooyoung’s grin widened. “She got in. You know, the—”

“Really?” Hongjoong’s eyes lit up with genuine excitement, already knowing who Wooyoung was referring to. “That’s great news. I never doubted your keen eye, Seonghwa.” He shot Seonghwa a grateful look, as if it weren’t for Seonghwa spotting you at Rue de la Paix, you wouldn’t have even attended the casting.

Seonghwa smiled modestly. It was always nice hearing compliments from Hongjoong, as they never came along that often. “I knew she had potential the moment I saw her.”

Hongjoong nodded appreciatively. “The schedule’s set for Friday this week, right?”

Seonghwa confirmed with a nod. “Yes, Friday.”

Hongjoong’s smile broadened. “Can’t wait for the day to come.”

—

Two days later, you decided to take a walk to the local park, desperately needing a few moments to yourself for some fresh air. The schedule for the callback was now only two days away, and time felt like it was moving both fast and slow at the same time. The anticipation was nerve-wracking, and you couldn't shake the anxiety gnawing at your insides.

The situation with Hongjoong was still fresh in your mind. Like you’ve already told yourself countless times, it wasn’t like you wanted to keep the sketchbook a secret forever. You knew how important it must be for a creative director of a fashion brand. You just needed time to figure out how to sort things out without potentially harming your future career.

As you strolled through the park, you found a nearby bench and sat down, letting yourself get lost in the sunset. The sounds of the crowd around you blurred into the background, offering a momentary escape from your thoughts. Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket. It was your mom calling. You accepted the call, bringing the phone to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” your mom’s voice was warm and comforting. “How have you been? I haven’t heard from you in a short while.”

You sighed softly, trying to keep your tone light. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy with what?” she asked, concern lacing her words. “You haven’t told me anything about the results of the initial casting yet.”

You took a deep breath and pursed your lips, deciding to share the good news. “I got a callback. It means I’m in for the second round of evaluation, which will be held this Friday.”

Your mom’s initial reaction was one of joy. “That’s wonderful, dear! I’m so proud of you!” But then she seemed to sense your hesitation. “You don’t sound too excited about it. What’s wrong?”

You brushed off her concern, not wanting to worry her. “It’s just been a long week.”

She paused for a moment, clearly wanting to press further, but then she relented. “Alright, just remember to take a break if you need one. You don’t have to push yourself too hard.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you replied, feeling a bit more at ease. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Take care of yourself. I’ve got to go now—the house chores won’t finish themselves.”

You ended the call and put the phone back in your pocket, letting out a sigh you didn’t even know you were holding. As the sky started to darken, you decided it was time to head home. Standing up, you began walking back, lost in your thoughts. Just as fate would have it, as you were making your way home, you spotted Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and another friend of theirs—someone you had seen with the casting directors during the initial casting—on the other side of the street. Your eyes widened in panic.

Seonghwa seemed to notice you first, raising his hand to wave. Before he could get your attention, a bus passed by, and you used the opportunity to dart in the opposite direction, hoping to stay out of sight. Your heart pounded as you hurried away, not daring to look back. When the bus moved on, you were no longer on the other side of the street. Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Wooyoung stood there, puzzled.

“Where’d she go?” Wooyoung asked, glancing around.

Seonghwa shrugged, looking equally confused. “Beats me. She’s probably in a hurry.”

You continue running until you reach your apartment building, pausing to catch your breath before entering. Your heart is pounding, not just from the exertion, but from the adrenaline of your narrow escape. Once inside, you lean against the wall of the lobby, trying to steady your nerves and slow your racing thoughts.

As you approach your apartment, you are met with an unusual sight: Pompidou, the mischievous cat of a fellow tenant, Monsieur Frank, is lying peacefully in front of your door. It’s rare to see the usually rambunctious feline so calm. Cooing softly, you crouch down and slowly extend your hand towards Pompidou, ready to pull back if the cat resists. Much to your surprise, Pompidou looks up and begins nuzzling its head against your palm, purring contentedly.

“Hey there, Pompidou,” you say softly. “What brings you here today? Are you on an adventure? I hope you’re not planning on scratching my door again, or are you?” You scratch its head a few times, smiling at the unexpected affection, but your knees soon start to ache, reminding you that you need to head inside. Unlocking the door with your keys, you push it open, only to find Pompidou following you inside.

Worried that Frank might panic over his missing cat, you try to gently lead Pompidou back outside. “Come on, little guy, let’s get you back to Frank. He must be worried,” you say, but the cat has other plans and darts further into your apartment instead.

Chuckling, you shake your head and playfully call out, “Want to play a game of tag?” Even though you know the cat can’t understand, you chase it around the room with light-hearted enthusiasm.

“Pompidou, come back here! You’re going to make me late for... well, for worrying about everything,” you say, laughing amidst your frustration.

Eventually, Pompidou finds its way into your bedroom. As you laugh at the cat’s antics, your laughter abruptly stops when you see Pompidou circling Hongjoong’s sketchbook on your desk. You sigh softly, walking over to sit down on the chair in front of your desk, watching as Pompidou finally settles down beside the sketchbook. You gently caress its head and ask, “Why did your owner name you Pompidou?” The cat purrs in response, making you chuckle softly. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just curious. Honestly, if anything, it suits you pretty well.”

“Why are you so mischievous?” you continue. “Always messing around with Madame Dupont’s garden and getting into trouble with all the other tenants. Do you like seeing them all flustered? I swear, every time I see Madame Dupont, she’s grumbling about you digging up her flowers. And last week, Monsieur Bernard was ranting about you knocking over his trash cans. You’re quite the troublemaker, aren’t you?” you say with a smile.

“Do you know how much trouble you’re causing, Pompidou? Just like me, it seems,” you say, shaking your head. “I’ve got this sketchbook here, and it belongs to a very important man. I didn’t mean to take it, but now… now I’m stuck.” The nerves from today’s encounter begin to creep up again as you confide in Pompidou about the whole situation with Hongjoong. “I want to give it back, I really do,” you continue, your voice dropping to a whisper. “But what if he’s angry? What if he thinks I stole it on purpose? My career could be over before it even starts.”

Just then, Pompidou gets off the desk and jumps into your lap, its paws kneading your chest back and forth. The gesture nearly brings tears to your eyes, and you look at the cat with a heartfelt gaze, continuing to caress its head. “You’re a sweet kitty, Pompidou. Do you think things will work out? Maybe I’m overthinking this,” you say, trying to reassure yourself. “Or maybe not. I don’t know anymore.”

Suddenly, you hear the faint sound of Frank calling out for Pompidou from the hallway. The cat’s ears twitch at the sound, and it looks up at you, seemingly understanding the call. “That’s your cue,” you say softly. “Time to head back to your owner.”

Standing up, you carry Pompidou in your arms. “Let’s go, little guy,” you whisper as you walk to the door. Opening it, you set the cat down on the hallway floor. “Stay out of trouble, okay?” you add, bidding it farewell and closing the door behind you.

Inside, the apartment feels a bit emptier without the mischievous cat, but you take a deep breath, trying to focus on the upcoming callback and the challenges ahead. Sitting back down at your desk, you look at the sketchbook and then at the empty room, a heavy sigh escaping your lips.

You wish things were simpler, but in reality, they’re anything but such.

—

You find yourself back in the waiting room, but this time, the atmosphere is different. The room is nearly empty, with only a few models left who, like you, have made it past the initial round. Clutching your new portfolio filled with the photos the casting directors requested, you sit down, anxiously glancing around the room and fiddling with your fingers. The anticipation in the air is palpable.

The evaluation starts, and models are called in one by one. With every name called and every person who leaves the room, your turn feels like it’s creeping closer. Your heart races, your palms sweaty, and you try to focus on steadying your breath. The fewer people left, the more your anxiety grows, until finally, the inevitable arrives, and your name is called.

You stand up, nerves bubbling in your stomach as you walk into the room. Facing a panel of casting directors, photographers, and the creative director, Hongjoong, you take a deep breath. Seonghwa is there, offering you a reassuring smile, and you notice the man they were with two days ago, now holding a camera. He seems to be one of their photographers.

“A pleasant morning to you,” one of the casting directors begins. “We’re glad to see you again. Let’s start by introducing ourselves.” Each panel member introduces themselves, and you discover that the man you saw with Seonghwa and Hongjoong two days ago is named Wooyoung.

“Thank you for having me,” you respond, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Please, show us your portfolio and tell us a bit about your journey,” another casting director instructs. You present your portfolio to the panel, accompanying it with a brief but passionate description of your aspirations.

“I grew up in a small foreign town, Arcadia Bay, far from the exquisite streets of Paris,” you begin, your voice wavering slightly but growing stronger as you continue. “Ever since I was young, I dreamt of something bigger—an adventure, a new life. Moving to Paris was my way of chasing that dream. I left everything behind, knowing that this city held the opportunities I was searching for.” You swallow, feeling the panel’s eyes on you, encouraging you to continue.

“I have no experience in modeling, but fashion and photography have always been one of the things I have a fond sense of admiration for. Then, one day, as I was walking down Rue de la Paix during my first week here, Seonghwa found me. It felt like a turning point—the moment I had been waiting for. Seonghwa saw something in me that I didn’t even see in myself, and he encouraged me to take a chance, to believe that I could be more.” The panel listens intently, and you notice a few nods of approval. Hongjoong’s eyes seem to light up with curiosity, and Seonghwa’s supportive smile reassures you.

“Your passion is evident,” says one of the casting directors. “It’s refreshing to hear someone speak so earnestly about their dreams.”

The casting team then takes simple Polaroid shots of you, capturing your natural, unedited state. The panel instructs you to pose for photos, and Wooyoung takes the lead, directing you with a professional yet friendly demeanor. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” Wooyoung says, positioning his camera. “Just relax and be yourself. Show us different sides of your personality.”

You follow his instructions, moving through a series of poses. You start with a confident, bold stance, then shift to a softer, more vulnerable look. You feel the tension in your body easing slightly as you focus on Wooyoung’s directions. “Great, now let’s try something that shows your inner strength,” Wooyoung suggests, encouraging you to channel the determination and resilience that brought you to Paris. You let out a genuine smile, thinking about how far you’ve come and the obstacles you've overcome. The room feels less intimidating with each click of the camera.

After the photo session, the panel provides immediate feedback. They exchange glances and murmur among themselves before addressing you. “Thank you for sharing your story,” one of the casting directors says. “We’re impressed with your passion and the natural talent you’ve shown today. It’s clear that you have a strong sense of self and an eagerness to learn and grow.”

Another casting director adds, “Your poses were confident and versatile, and you took direction well. It’s evident that you have potential, and we appreciate the sincerity you brought to this session.”

Hongjoong nods in agreement. “Your story is inspiring, and it’s always exciting to see someone with such raw talent and determination. We’ll be reviewing all the candidates and making our final decisions based on today’s performance, but I wanted to let you know that your dedication has not gone unnoticed.”

You nod, expressing your heartfelt gratitude to the panel for the opportunity. As you gather your things and prepare to leave, you can’t help but feel a whirlwind of emotions coursing through your body—relief from having successfully completed the evaluation, and anticipation mixed with lingering nerves about what the outcome might be. Your heart is pounding, echoing loudly in your ears as you stand up from the chair. You take a moment to steady yourself, making sure you haven’t forgotten anything. Carefully, you close your portfolio, securing it under your arm, and take a deep breath to calm your racing thoughts. The journey back to the waiting room feels like a blur, your mind replaying every moment of the evaluation, analyzing each word and gesture.

Entering the waiting room, you notice it’s even emptier than before. The models who finished their evaluations have left, and only a handful of others remain, either waiting their turn or gathering their belongings. You walk over to where you had been sitting, the spot now feeling strangely familiar and comforting after the intensity of the casting room. You quickly collect your bag, hands slightly trembling with the residual adrenaline. The weight of your belongings feels grounding, a tangible connection to reality amidst the haze of your thoughts. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you take one last look around the room, almost as if searching for some sign of reassurance or validation.

Pushing open the heavy doors of the building, you step out into the fresh air, the cool breeze hitting your face and providing a welcome contrast to the stuffy interior. The city noise greets you—honking cars, distant chatter, the rhythmic clatter of footsteps on the pavement—all grounding you further in the present moment. Just as you begin to descend the steps, a voice calls out your name from behind.

“Wait!”

Your immediate instinct is to ignore it, the adrenaline pushing you forward, wanting to escape the intensity of the day. Your steps quicken, the sound of your name echoing in your ears, mingling with the cacophony of the street. The voice persists, but you force yourself to focus on the path ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon as you make your way towards the sanctuary of your own space. The city feels like it’s rushing by, each step taking you further from the anxiety of the evaluation and closer to a place where you can breathe and reflect as the voice fades into the background.

On your way back home, your phone suddenly rings from inside your bag. You rummage through your belongings, pulling out your phone to see a message notification from Seonghwa.

Have you already left the building?

You quickly type out a response.

Yes, I have.

Why? Was it you calling me earlier?

A moment later, his reply comes through.

Earlier? No, I’m still here with the casting directors.

Did something happen?

Confusion settles in. If Seonghwa wasn’t the one calling you, then who was it? Not wanting to delve deeper into the mystery right now, you settle with a vague reply.

No, don’t worry about it.

After hitting the send button, you shut your phone and tuck it back into your bag, continuing your steps. As you reach your apartment building, you’re greeted by a familiar, pleasant surprise—Pompidou. The mischievous cat sits by the entrance, its bright eyes peering up at you. The street is bustling just a few steps away, making you worry for the little feline’s safety. You waste no time bending down to scoop him up, lightly scolding, “Pompidou, you can’t stay outside like this. It’s dangerous!”

Pompidou responds with a soft meow, and you can’t help but laugh lightly at its endearing nature. Setting it down once you’re inside the building, you begin walking toward your apartment. However, you stop in your tracks when you feel the light brush of a cat’s fur against your legs. Looking down, you see Pompidou trailing right behind you, its tail flicking playfully. Crossing your arms, you chuckle, “You’re not planning on lounging in my room and worrying your poor owner again, are you?”

Pompidou circles around your leg, his silent response making you sigh in playful defeat. “Alright, alright. Come on, then,” you say, allowing him to follow you.

Once you’re in front of your door, you unlock it and let it enter first, soon following after and shutting the door behind you. You slip off your shoes and set your bag down on the living room couch. Exhausted, you sit down, throwing your head back against the couch’s headrest, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the day begins to settle on you.

Pompidou, never one to miss an opportunity for affection, climbs onto your lap, snapping you out of your thoughts. You begin patting its head, its purrs vibrating softly under your hand. “You know, little guy,” you start, your voice a quiet murmur in the stillness of your apartment. “Today was... something else.”

Pompidou’s eyes blink up at you, its soft gaze encouraging you to continue. “The callback was nerve-wracking. I presented my portfolio, and they took some photos. Wooyoung—turns out that’s the name of the guy I saw with Seonghwa and Hongjoong—he was one of the photographers. They gave me feedback, and... well, it’s all in their hands now.”

You pause, scratching behind Pompidou’s ears. “Honestly, I never imagined I’d be here, in Paris, doing this. It feels like just yesterday I was in Arcadia Bay, working at a diner while dreaming of a new life. Then Seonghwa found me at Rue de la Paix and changed everything. It feels like a turning point I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

Pompidou shifts, its paws pressing against your leg as if to comfort you. You smile softly. “But it’s scary, too. What if I’m not good enough? What if I can’t handle the pressure? And then there’s Hongjoong’s sketchbook... I still haven’t figured out how to give it back to him. It’s like it’s a huge secret weighing me down.”

Pompidou nuzzles its head against your hand, its purring intensifying. You let out a small laugh. “You’re right, Pompidou. I shouldn’t let it consume me. One step at a time, right?” You continue to pet the feline, feeling a bit of the day’s tension melt away. “You’re such a good listener, you know that? Even if you don’t understand a word I’m saying and probably think I’m out of my mind.”

The cat’s eyes close in contentment, his purring a steady, soothing rhythm. “I wish I could be as carefree as you, Pompidou. Just wandering around, finding joy in the little things,” you begin, “but maybe that’s what I need to do—find joy in the small victories and not get too caught up in the what-ifs. Yet for me to be able to reach the highs, I need to survive the lows first. I just hope all of this will be worth it in time.”

🪞 — lividstar.