The Loneliest Girl In The World

by ArielleWrites

Summary:

She didn’t plan to survive. But when a stranger—quiet, caring, and impossibly gentle—rescues her from the ocean, she’s forced to keep living in a world that still feels empty. That stranger? Kim Taehyung. Global superstar. And now, maybe, the only person who won’t stop seeing her.

Later, working at a café near a music studio, she tries to disappear again. But Taehyung keeps returning—and so does Lee Know, the Stray Kids member who always smiles for her. Caught between two idols whose feelings seem too real to be true, she doesn’t realize the hardest part won’t be choosing—but believing any of it could be hers.

As the stolen songs of her past resurface and friendships fracture, she must finally confront the truth about her voice, her worth, and her future. The Loneliest Girl in the World is a story about unwanted survival, reluctant hope, and learning to stay—because loving someone starts with letting yourself be loved.

Chapter 1: Prologue: Sorry, But I Am Below Empty

It wasn’t courage.
It wasn’t drama.
It wasn’t even sadness, really.

It was silence.

And the way silence becomes a living thing when no one speaks your name.

She stood at the edge of the Santa Monica shoreline in a skintight jumpsuit, the kind swimmers wear. Only she wasn’t here to swim. The pockets were filled with paperweights, rocks, a brick wrapped in cloth. Things with mass. Things with purpose.

The purpose? To take her life. She was done fighting. She was done caring, about anything.

She didn’t care that the sand felt cold beneath her feet, collapsing under each step like the earth was already giving her up.

She couldn’t swim. She hated the ocean. More… she feared the ocean. The taste of salt. The slap of waves. The way it pulled at your body like it wanted to take you apart one piece at a time. That’s exactly what she wanted, to be torn apart. She wanted to be pieces that could never be put together again. Pieces that could never be found.

She wanted to disappear. No body. No trace. Just gone. And she’d read enough to know this would work. Weight and water. That’s all it would take.

She left a note. She was sorry, but she was also below empty.

There was so much she expected to do by now. To have experienced. She thought she would have lived some kind of life, but she never did.

She had true friends, she knew that, but even they thought a life with just their love should be enough. They could receive love and know what it feels like to be loved, but for her friendships should be enough.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for her.

So, she walked into the ocean.

The first wave hit her shins.

The second caught her knees.

By the time the water slammed into her thighs, she was shaking—but not from cold.

A scream built in her throat. Not because she wanted to live, but because dying felt so real now. So loud. So final.

She kept walking.

The waves rose faster than she planned. The jumpsuit clung tighter. The pockets yanked her down. Her balance shifted and suddenly—she wasn’t standing anymore. She was falling. Sinking. Swallowed by the earth. She embraced it.

Just take me, she thought. Take me away from this life. From this hell. From this loneliness.

Freedom from pain.

And then it happened, all at once:
Salt in her eyes.
Pressure in her chest.
Terror screaming through her body even though her mind whispered, finally.

She was too deep to breathe, too bound to swim, too tired to try.

The ocean claimed her.

Until…
Something yanked hard at her wrist. Then her arms. Then her body.

She twisted in the water, dazed and thrashing.

And then—sharp pressure. Tearing.

Her jumpsuit was ripped from her body.

Hands, real, strong and alive, pulled at the fabric at the shoulder, then down her side. The weights spilled out. The cold hit her skin like knives.

She kicked weakly, but there was no strength left.

She felt herself pulled through the water, limbs bare, skin burning, eyes shut.
And then—air. Gasping, blinding, painful air.

Salt on her tongue. Sand in her mouth. Her lungs heaved.

She retched. Coughed. Rolled. Gasped, again.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

And she hated it.

She opened her eyes and realized her body was shaking. Not from the ocean, but from exposure. She blinked through salt and tears and saw nothing but sand, sky, and a silhouette beside her.

A man. Kneeling. Breathing hard.

He wasn’t looking at her face.

He was pulling something over her—soft, warm, cotton-heavy. A hoodie. His.

And only then did she realize that she was completely naked.

She wore nothing but his hoodie and the salt on her skin.

Her throat tightened. She rolled away from him instinctively, dragging the hoodie tighter. Humiliation poured over her like a second drowning.

“I should take you to the hospital,” he said, gently.

“No.” Her voice was shredded. “No hospitals.”

A pause. Then a sigh.

She heard him pull out his phone. Felt the air change as he stepped away. A minute later, he crouched beside her again.

“Uber’s on the way,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know where to send it. I guessed Venice.”

She nodded, knees curled under the fabric. She wasn’t going to Venice, but she wasn’t sure she wanted him to know that. Sand sticking to her damp thighs. Shame blooming in her gut like a bruise.

He handed her a small, folded scrap of paper. His handwriting was surprisingly careful.

Taehyung
A phone number underneath.

“Just in case,” he said.

She stared at it.

Then balled it up in her fist.

He helped her to her feet but didn’t touch her again. She walked, barefoot and broken, to the curb where a car waited. He opened the door, gave the driver her name and stood back, watching as she sank into the seat like a stone.

She didn’t say thank you, because she didn’t feel it.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t need a last look at him, because she hated him.

But her fingers didn’t let go of the paper with his number, in fact she gripped it, unable to let it or maybe him, go.

Chapter 2: After The Waves

Summary:

I thought I was going to disappear into the sea, but now I’m in the back of an Uber, barefoot, wearing a stranger’s hoodie, and heading to an apartment I never thought I’d return to. Nothing about surviving feels like relief. Just more silence. More shame. And a number in my hand I can’t bring myself to throw away.

I didn’t look back when the door closed.

Didn’t say thank you.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t speak.

The Uber pulled away from the curb, and I melted into the seat like I’d just come out of the sea—which, technically, I had. I was soaked, barefoot, wrapped in a hoodie that didn’t belong to me, and holding a scrap of paper like it was the only proof I hadn’t drowned.

The driver glanced up at me in the mirror. I didn’t blame him. I looked like a story. I just didn’t want to be one.

“Venice, right?” he asked.

“No.”
My voice came out wrong, hoarse and cracked. “Downtown. A few blocks from the Crypto Center.”

He tapped his phone. “Got it.”

I sank further into the seat and turned my face toward the window. City lights blurred past. Strip malls, neon signs, palm trees. LA pretending to sleep.

I didn’t live near the Crypto Center because I liked it. I lived there because I found a one-bedroom apartment on a lease I couldn’t afford and couldn’t break. It was small, sterile, and quiet—like someone had staged it for a single person who wasn’t meant to be there long. And somehow, I had made it lonelier.

I was behind on rent. Utilities were a coin toss. If the lights were on when I got home, I’d consider it a win.

The jumpsuit was gone. I’d spent days planning it, down to the stitch. It wasn’t just for the weight—it was supposed to be sleek. A way to disappear cleanly. I didn’t want to leave a mess. I didn’t want to be rescued.

And now here I was: not dead, not dressed, not in control of anything.

The hoodie swallowed me whole. I kept pulling the sleeves over my hands like I could disappear into them instead. It smelled like salt and skin and detergent—like someone who was real. Like someone who belonged to the world.

I hated that it comforted me.

I looked down at my hand. The paper was still there.
Taehyung.
His name. His number.

I should’ve thrown it out the window. I should’ve let it drift into the street like all the other things I’d let go of.

Instead, I folded it once. Then again. Tucked it into the sleeve. Like maybe if I kept it close, the pain of being alive wouldn’t feel so loud.

The car turned off Figueroa and slowed in front of my building—a gray block of concrete and tinted glass, the kind of place that charges extra for a view you’ll never look at.

“This good?” the driver asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

I stepped out barefoot, hoodie sticking to my skin, knees scraped, salt crusting on my legs. The streetlight buzzed overhead, casting shadows too harsh for someone who had tried to erase herself an hour ago.

I didn’t look back at the car.

I didn’t want to see if he was watching me.

🥹🥹

I keyed in the code too fast and had to start over. The second time, my fingers shook so badly the numbers blurred. The little beep sounded, and the lock clicked open.

I pushed the door with my shoulder and stepped inside. The air was stale. The apartment smelled like dust, old coffee grounds, and detergent. A scent that had once meant routine. Now it smelled like someone had left in a hurry and never come back.

I didn’t turn on the lights.

The glow from the hallway spilled in behind me, enough to trace the familiar outline: the corner couch I didn’t sit on, the table covered in unopened mail, the TV I never turned on, the kitchen with its empty fridge humming like it still had something to do.

I walked straight to the bathroom and flipped the light switch.

The mirror caught me off guard.

I hadn’t seen myself in weeks—not on purpose. I avoided mirrors like ghosts do. But there I was, glowing sickly under the vanity bulbs. Wet hair stringing down my cheeks. Salt dried on my skin in patches. Eyes bloodshot. Lips cracked.

And the hoodie.

Taehyung’s hoodie.

It looked wrong on me. Too big. Too soft. Too much like something that belonged to a good person. A person who mattered.

I pulled it tighter around my body.

I didn’t take it off. Not yet.

I turned on the shower and sat on the edge of the tub while it warmed, staring at the tile like it might blink first. I wasn’t ready to feel my body. Not clean. Not anything. I didn’t want to find out what the ocean had done to my skin or what had already been done before it.

Steam fogged the mirror. Finally.

I stepped in, hoodie and all.

The water hit me like heat and regret. I peeled the hoodie off under the spray, slowly, like skin. It fell into the tub with a wet thud. I sank to my knees and stayed there until the water ran cold.

When I got out, I wrapped myself in a towel, sat on the floor of my bedroom, and stared at nothing.

I was alive.
I was clean.
And I didn’t know what to do next.

The salt was gone.
But the weight stayed.

🥹🥹

I dried off, not because I wanted to, but because my body was shaking again, and I didn’t want to die of hypothermia after surviving the ocean. I grabbed an oversized t-shirt off the floor, something I hadn’t worn since the last time I believed I’d get my life back. It still smelled faintly of bergamot and printer ink.

I curled into bed without turning on the light.

The paper was in the hoodie pocket, now draped across the back of my desk chair, heavy with ocean and something else I didn’t want to name. I didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

Instead, I picked up my journal — the one with the soft leather cover and ribbon bookmark still stuck on the page where I’d last believed I had a future.

I uncapped a pen. Put it to paper.

Then froze.

The words didn’t come.

My words didn’t feel like mine anymore.

This journal used to hold everything — my grief, my sarcasm, my rage, my dreams. But now it felt like a lie. My words didn’t belong to me. Mia had taken them. Repurposed them. Sold them. She’d woven my heartbreak into shiny pop lyrics, and the world ate them up like they were hers to give.

My diary had become a pre-write. A rough draft of her career.

I slammed it shut.

The pen rolled off the bed and onto the floor.

I turned off the lamp and laid back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as if it would blink back.

Sleep didn’t come easily, but it came. Eventually.

🥹🥹

I dreamed of Mia.

We were laughing in her kitchen. Drinking wine out of chipped mugs, curled on her floor with notebooks in our laps, talking about how this would be our year. We had a sound, she said. Something real. Something the world hadn’t heard yet.

And then in the dream, I said something I hadn’t in real life.

“You don’t think I’m enough, do you?”

She smiled at me like I was a child.

“You’re brilliant,” she said. “But no one wants to hear it from someone like you.”

I woke up cold.

My throat was tight. My body felt heavier than it had in the water.

The room was silent except for the hum of my ancient fridge. I sat up slowly, sweat cooling on the back of my neck. I glanced at the desk chair.

The paper was still there.

Taehyung. His number.

I got up and peeled it from the hoodie. It was crumpled, damp around the edges, but still legible. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at it, phone in one hand, his name in the other.

Just in case, he’d said.

Just in case what?

Just in case I wanted to thank him? I didn’t.

Just in case I needed him? I didn’t know how.

I opened my contacts. My thumb hovered over the keypad.

Then I folded the paper again. Smaller this time. Pressed it between the pages of my useless journal.

Not tonight.

Maybe never.

I got back in bed and turned toward the wall.

The hoodie still hung on the chair, limp and heavy, dripping onto the floor.

I reached for my phone again, this time to set an alarm I didn’t need. I wasn’t working. I wasn’t going anywhere. But I needed the illusion of purpose. I needed something to ignore when it rang.

7:00 a.m.
Label: Pretend.

I opened my banking app. Just to torture myself.

The screen lit up with a number so low it felt like a joke.

Two digits and change. Less than the cost of the jumpsuit I’d worn into the ocean.

I locked my phone and tossed it face down on the floor.

That was why I gave up,I thought. Because no one sees you when you’re slipping.

Eventually even a chatterbox like you runs out of things to say, and people stop asking, anyway.

Because it’s not just one thing. It’s every little thing.

And tonight, I survived them all.

Completely against my will.

Chapter 3: Hpnotiq at the End of the World

Summary:

I got drunk in a silk dress by the ocean, listening to voicemails I was never supposed to hear. And then he shows up, again.

I didn’t think I’d still be here.

That was the whole point. I planned it. Picked the day. The hour. The jumpsuit. The weight.

I wrote the note.

There was no “after.”

Now I’m staring at the ceiling of my apartment like it might give me an answer. The light cuts across my face in warped slats through the busted blinds. My mouth tastes like sea salt and sleep. My scalp feels tight with dried saltwater and sweat I never bothered to rinse away.

What now?

My phone is somewhere—probably under the bed. I haven’t checked it. I don’t want to. There’ll be texts. Missed calls. Maybe a voicemail from someone crying. Or worse—nothing at all.

I told them I was done.

And I meant it. That wasn’t a cry for help. I wasn’t asking anyone to save me.

But now I’m here. Still breathing. My heart keeps thudding like it didn’t get the memo.

Fuck.
Taehyung.

His name tastes sour in my mouth.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars. I don’t want to cry. Crying feels like surrender. Like giving the world one more thing to take from me.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. Not on that beach. Not in that moment. Not when I had finally made peace with leaving. He wasn’t supposed to see me. Touch me. Drag me back.

He ruined it.

And now I’m stuck with the aftermath. A life I didn’t plan to keep. A job interview I only scheduled so people wouldn’t ask questions. A fridge full of food I thought someone else would find. An entire world that just… kept spinning without me.

I breathe in. It hurts. I breathe out. It still hurts.

I was ready to die.
I never prepared to live.

I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

But the light still spills in.

And I’m still here.

💜💜

I’m late.

Not a few minutes late—first-day, embarrassingly, they’ll-never-forget-my-face late.

The kind of late that confirms I never actually planned to show up.

I fumble with the apron in the back hallway of the café, hands shaking as I tie the knot. The shirt clings to my still-damp skin from the rushed shower, and my shoes squeak on the floor like they know I don’t belong here. I smell like anxiety and whatever half-assed body wash I grabbed on the way out the door.

The register girl—Shay, I think—gives me a long look but doesn’t say anything.

It’s busy. Too busy for a full confrontation. A line snakes past the pastry case, and steam fogs the counter glass.

I take my place at the espresso machine like I’ve done this a hundred times, because technically, I have. Just not here. Not with these people. Not while pretending to have a future.

Someone hands me a cup to finish. I grab it on instinct, foam already swirling into a familiar rosette.

That’s when I hear it.

 

“You’re new,” he says, voice is clear and d
directed at me.

Everyone looks up. One of the baristas nearly drops a cup. The room goes weirdly silent.

“Y-yeah. First day,” I say, instantly regretting how shaky my voice sounds.

He nods. “Welcome.”

That’s it. But something changes.

After he leaves, the mood shifts. One girl slides me a cookie with a shrug. Another offers to help me learn the register.

“You’re the first person he’s spoken to in months,” someone whispers.
“He usually just points at the menu.”

Suddenly, I’m no longer an outsider. They don’t know it, but he just cracked open the door to something.

I don’t understand why, but somehow, Lee Know just bought me a new life.

💜💜

I’m on the floor of my living room. My back pressed against the base of the couch like it might hold me up. One leg curled under me, the other stretched awkwardly to the side. My legs hurt. My wrists ache. My feet are blistered from standing all day, and my brain feels like it’s humming with low-grade electricity.

I’m not crying. I’m too tired to cry.

I’m just… scrolling.

The TikTok algorithm doesn’t care that I nearly drowned two nights ago. It wants me to buy tinted lip balm and believe in my dreams.

Then it happens.

A video starts with a familiar acoustic strum.

My thumb freezes mid-scroll.

No.
No, no, no.

That’s my melody. My chords. That’s the song we wrote on the fire escape, the summer we swore we’d never leave each other behind.

The lyrics hit next.
I still hear your voice in the shape of my name…

I go completely still.

The screen cuts to an interview. Mia. My Mia. Except she’s not mine anymore.

She’s glowing under studio lights. Hair glossy. Eyes wide. Lying through her perfect teeth.

“I wrote this alone,” she says, smiling like the truth never existed. “During a really hard time. It was like… a message to myself. A reminder to hold on.”

My ears start to ring.

Alone?
You liar. You fucking liar.

The memory shoves its way in:

Two girls wrapped in a thrifted blanket. Sitting on a rusty fire escape. Writing lyrics on napkins with Sharpies. Laughing. Dreaming. Bleeding truth into every line.

“If I ever get famous,” Mia had whispered, “I’ll make sure they know your name.”

But they don’t.
They never did.

I slam the phone face down on the floor. Not out of self-care. Out of pure, vibrating rage. If I keep looking at it, I’ll throw it across the room.

She stole my words.
She stole my voice.
She stole me.

And no one noticed

💜💜

That night, I got dressed like I had somewhere to be.

Lashes on, lips lined, heels buckled, perfume dabbed behind each ear. I looked good enough to be missed. As always.

Then I got drunk by myself.

I walked to the supermarket in a silk dress and bought the bluest bottle I could find. It was called Hpnotiq. I’d never heard of it, but a random guy in the aisle—literally just some guy—said it would get the job done. That was enough for me.

And he was right. It was electric and just a little too sweet, but it slid down easy.

I drank half the bottle before I even got to the beach.

The same beach.
The place where I tried to end it all.

I sank into the sand like a ghost come back to haunt the place of her own vanishing, the bottle gripped tight in one hand, my phone in the other.

I started playing the voicemails.

Your voice. Over and over. Frantic. Angry. Terrified.

“What the fuck—where are you?” Drink.

“Please, please, don’t do anything. Just—call me back. Please.” Gulp.

“I swear to God, if you’re at the ocean again I’m calling the cops.” Drink.

“I’ll never forgive you if you die.”
“I mean it.” Shakes head and laughs.

That sounded about right. I die but it’s everyone else who suffers.

Every time your voice cracked, I took another gulp. A little more gone. A little more numb. A little more detached from the girl in the dress and the waves and the worry.

And then—

“Holy shit! You are here!”

The voice cuts through the tide and the static and the alcohol.

I turn.

It’s him.

Taehyung.

The guy from that night. The one who ruined everything by dragging me back to the world. The one who wouldn’t let me disappear.

The one I hated with every cell in my body.

He’s standing there. All strong of a swimmer with the strength to literally drag me back to land and the world of the living.

He’s right there! In front of me..!

And all I can think is, Damn. He’s hot.

Chapter 4: You Look Nice

Summary:

WTF does that even mean?

The sand is cold beneath me, but I don’t move.

I’m curled into myself, knees to my chest, the blue bottle of Hpnotiq cradled like a baby between my arms. I’ve stopped listening to the voicemails. I just let them play now.

My phone is face down in the sand, speaker on, sobbing into the night.

“Where are you?” Asks a friend.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Said another.

“Pick up the fucking phone.” Said a third.

I was supposed to be dead by now.

A seagull shrieks somewhere overhead and I flinch. Then suddenly—

Footsteps.

Close ones.

Not soft, sneaky ones. Running.

My head jerks up in time to see a tall figure crash down the slope of the dunes like he’s chasing something—or being chased.

“Holy shit!” the figure pants. “You’re actually here!”

I blink, my mind slow to process.

Dark jeans. Loosened shirt. Wind-tossed hair and those ridiculous, too-pretty eyes.

“You,” I mumble.

He stops a few feet away, breathless, staring at me like I’m a ghost.

Or maybe he’s the ghost. The one who saved me, then disappeared.

“You remember me,” he says.

“Unfortunately.”

A small grin flashes across his face, but it doesn’t last. He sees the bottle in my lap. The messages still playing. My wrecked expression.

His grin fades.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks softly, walking closer.

“What does it look like?” I slur. “Celebrating.”

He crouches beside me, not touching but close enough to feel.

“Celebrating what?”

“My survival. My failure. Take your pick.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just studies me, like he’s trying to figure out what version of me this is. The dead girl who didn’t die. The angry one who told him to go to hell.

“Why are you here?” I ask finally.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. So I went for a walk and you’re actually here!”

I laugh. It’s ugly and harsh. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “But I had to know.”

“Know what?”

“If you made it.”

I look down at the bottle. It’s almost empty. I’m so tired. I don’t even know what time it is. I could lie here forever and no one would notice.

He kneels now, shifting in the sand beside me. “You look—”

“Don’t,” I warn. “Don’t say something nice. I might throw up.”

He chuckles once, dry. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

I turn to glare at him. “I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “That’s obvious.”

We sit like that for a long beat, the wind blowing around us, the ocean dragging in and out like it’s bored of us both.

I don’t tell him to leave.

And he doesn’t offer to go.

Not yet.

💜💜

The world is bright and hazy when I open my eyes. Too bright. Too hazy.

The first thing I register is the sun—rising fast, golden and unforgiving—and the grit of sand in my eyelashes. The second is the weight of a body curved around mine.

Warm breath brushes the side of my neck.

Taehyung.

He’s asleep behind me, one arm draped around my waist, the other wedged beneath his own head. His face is tucked into the curve of my neck, hidden, as if he knew he’d need to stay unrecognizable if anyone saw us like this. Like two lovers, curled up in the aftermath of something tender.

But we’re not lovers.

We’re strangers.

Sort of.

I shift slightly, but before I can sit up, his voice murmurs against my skin.

“You’re awake?”

He doesn’t move. Not at first. But then he stiffens—body coiling—and he pulls away fast.

“Shit,” he mutters, sitting up. His eyes scan the beach. Already a few early risers are setting up towels, dragging coolers, flinging frisbees like it’s just another summer day. “Shit.”

He fumbles for something behind him and finds a black baseball cap, jamming it low over his eyes. Then sunglasses. His entire body language changes—shoulders tight, chin down, always angled away from anyone walking by.

Every biker, every jogger, every kid on a scooter—he flinches like they might pull out a camera.

But even as he panics, he glances back at me.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did you… make it home last night?”

“You mean from the beach I passed out on?” I rasp, wiping sand from my cheek. “No. I’m still here.”

He huffs a soft laugh and nods, not meeting my eyes. “Right. Of course.”

I push myself up slowly. My back is killing me, and my dress is rumpled and crusted with saltwater.

I must look like a drowned rat in a prom gown.

“Do you have a ride?” he asks quickly, eyes flicking toward the parking lot. “Or I can take you.”

I blink at him. “You… drove?”

“Yeah.”

“To a beach where you chased a stranger down in the dark?”

He shrugs, like the question doesn’t need answering. Like this is normal.

I squint at him. “Why are you offering me a ride?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps his face turned slightly so his profile is all I see. Clean lines. Sharp jaw. Baseball cap pulled low like he’s hiding from the sun—or the world.

I shake my head, trying to read him. He doesn’t look like someone who’d offer rides to strange women on beaches. He looks like someone who gets offered things. Rooms. Numbers. Hotel keys. Worship.

With that face, it’s impossible to imagine he’s not used to waking up in someone’s arms.

Which makes this even more confusing.

“I’ve already called a car,” I lie.

His mouth quirks, just barely. “Cancel it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He still won’t look at me fully.

It’s obvious now. He’s afraid someone will recognize him. The cap. The glasses. The nerves.

But he’s here anyway.

That part I don’t understand.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “But I promise I’m okay.”

I stand up, brushing sand off my thighs. My head is pounding, but I manage a smile. “I’m glad you got to see that I am very much alive.”

His eyes flick to mine, finally.

Something dark flickers behind them. Relief. Regret. Maybe both.

And then he nods, once, like he’s memorizing the sight of me.

Like he might never see me again.

💜💜

I got home half an hour later, the Uber costing more than my entire shift would earn. I showered, washed my hair, scrubbed my arms raw—but when I leaned into the mirror, my makeup was still nearly perfect. A little smeared, sure, but not destroyed.

I stared at myself.

Then didn’t touch it.

I got dressed. Put on a sweater. And left it on my face. Not that anyone would notice.

💜💜

Work was boring.

It always was. It always would be. Nothing changed. Nothing ever would change.

I made drinks. Smiled like I always, faked. No one noticed anything different about me, not the leftover eyeliner, not the faint gold shimmer clinging to my cheeks. Did they think my skin was always this flawless? Or that my lips were always this redMaybe they did.

Except Lee Know.

He picked up his drink, then stopped. His eyes lingered.

“You look nice today,” he said casually. Not flirty. Just… like an observation.

Then he left.

Just like that.

And I—

I didn’t move.

Nice?

I hadn’t even done my makeup this morning. I’d gotten home from the beach, peeled the sand off my skin, showered, and realized the waterproof makeup from last night hadn’t budged. I hadn’t had the energy to scrub it off. So I left it. That’s what he saw.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t me.

I stared at the milk wand until the foam overflowed, biting the inside of my cheek.

Did he mean it?

No. He couldn’t have. He probably thought I’d dressed up on purpose. Or maybe he was just trying to be polite. Or maybe—maybe—he was teasing me. That little smile he had. He’s handsome. And people like that say nice things all the time without meaning them.

But then again, he hadn’t smiled when he said it. Not really.

You look nice.

I gripped the edge of the counter. I hated how much it threw me. Hated that a sentence like that could unearth something I’d tried so hard to bury.

Because no one had ever said it like that before.

And part of me, a small, stupid, impossible part, wanted to believe he meant it.

I didn’t know what scared me more—that he meant it, or that he didn’t.

Chapter 5: A Joke.

Summary:

I should have known I’m just a joke.

The morning rush is already buzzing when I clock in.

Milk hisses under the steam wand, someone’s kid is crying over the wrong muffin, and the espresso machine sounds like it’s two shots away from quitting. I tie my apron, tuck my hair back, and slide behind the bar like muscle memory.

Shay is at the register, tapping in orders with the kind of easy smile that makes strangers overshare.

She looks up as I pass. “You okay?” she mouths.

I shrug. She gives me the look we’ve silently agreed on: I know that’s a lie, but fine.

We settle into the rhythm. I pull shots, she rings people up, we move around each other without thinking.

Then the bells over the door jingle.

Shay glances up, freezes for a half-second, then tilts her register monitor a little so the screen blocks her mouth. When the line shuffles, she catches my eye and silently mouths something that looks like:

Leak. No.

I frown. What the hell does that mean?

She exaggerates it, desperate:

LEE. KNOW.

I know that’s a regular’s name but so what?

Her eyes go wide like she’s physically offended. She drags her gaze back to the line, and that’s when he steps forward, it’s his turn at the counter, mask pulled down just enough for me to see the curve of his mouth. He studies the menu like he’s never seen it before, which is already a lie — he orders the same thing every time.

“Can I get you your usual?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. I want something different.”

“Okay,” I say. “What are you in the mood for?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “What do you like?”

I blink. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He leans in slightly, elbows on the counter, posture too relaxed for someone with millions of fans. “Your favorite drink. What is it?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t like it,” I say, waving him off. “It’s too sweet.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You drink americanos. Trust me. You’ll hate it.”

His eyes narrow, amused. “Why are you avoiding the question?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I sigh. “Fine. Cookie dough latte.”

He grins. “Large.”

I stare at him. “Why large?”

“So I can judge your taste properly.”

A surprised laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I put in his order, then start making the drink exactly the way I like it — extra sweet, extra foam, a swirl of syrup the color of childhood joy and dental regret.

When I slide the cup toward him, he lifts it with both hands, inspecting it like it’s suspicious.

“This is how you like it?” he asks.

“Exactly how I like it,” I say. “No take-backs.”

He takes a sip.

His eyebrows shoot up immediately.
“Damn. That’s sweet.”

“I told you.”

He takes another sip, slower this time. “But still good.”

Something warm flickers in my chest.

He taps his card, pays, and then — instead of leaving like he always does — he walks to the window and sits down. No laptop. No headphones. No distraction.

Just him. Watching the café.
And, every so often, watching me.

I try not to look. I fail. Every time my eyes flick toward the glass, he’s there, cup in hand, gaze drifting back to me like it’s on a string.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass. The line swells and shrinks. I wipe the counter, reset cups, breathe.

The bells ring again.

Shay looks up, then practically disappears behind the register like she’s hiding from a grenade.

I don’t look right away. I’m in the middle of wiping a spill, focused on not thinking about the guy in the window.

Then I hear his voice.

Soft. Familiar in a way that makes my spine lock.

“This is crazy.”

I look up.

Taehyung is standing at the counter.

Not dripping ocean water this time. Not shaking on the sand. Not some surreal nighttime apparition.

Just… here.

Inside the café I work.

Under fluorescent lights and bad indie music.

His eyes find mine like they’ve been looking for me for days.

For a second, everything else blurs out. The line, the milk, the noise. It’s just that moment on the beach again, except this time I’m on solid ground and somehow feel more unsteady.

He smiles, small and careful, like he’s afraid any sudden move might scare me off.

“Hey, we keep on meeting” he says quietly like it’s amazing. “You work here.”

My throat won’t cooperate. “Apparently.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, then glances at the menu like he can actually read anything on it. “What do you recommend?”

My brain short-circuits. Recommend? For what? For someone who dragged me out of the ocean and disappeared?

I default to autopilot. “Uh… latte? Cappuccino? Do you… like sweet?”

His eyes flicker over my face like he’s cataloguing every twitch. “I’ll have whatever you think I should have.”

Of course he will.

I punch something in, try not to drop the cup, and make his drink with my hands buzzing. When I bring it back, I’m very, very careful not to touch him as I pass it over.

Which is why it’s so obvious when he shifts his hand on purpose.

Our fingers brush.

Just a second.

Just enough.

Heat snaps up my arm and lands somewhere under my ribs, hot and painful.

Across the room, at the window, Lee Know looks up over the rim of his cup.

He sees Taehyung at the counter.
He sees Taehyung’s eyes on me.
He sees the way my hand jerks back like I’ve been burned.

Something quiet and unreadable moves over his face.

Taehyung steps aside with his drink, giving me one last look like he wants to say something else but doesn’t know how, then finds a seat tucked into a corner, out of the way but angled where he can still see the counter.

So now there are two of them.

One by the window.
One by the wall.

Both pretending they’re just here for coffee.

My skin crawls with awareness.

The next time the line thins, I duck my head and murmur to Shay, “Can you cover the bar for a second? I need to check the fridge.”

She nods automatically, then leans in just enough to whisper, “I told you they like your line better. I must look too much like a fan.”

“Fan of what?” I ask, genuinely confused.

She stares at me like I’ve just spoken in tongues. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m really not.”

She glances from me, to Taehyung, to the window where Lee Know pretends not to watch us, then back.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You are so lucky and so insane. Go check the fridge. We’re talking about this later.”

I flee to the back before I have to survive another second of that.

By the time I come out again, Taehyung is gone.
Lee Know’s cup is empty.
He throws away and heads out with a small wave.

That night, Shay’s voice follows me home.

Fan.
They must think I’ll film them.
Why are they coming to your line?

I throw my bag on the floor, sit with my back against the couch, and pull my laptop onto my knees.

I type Lee Know first.

The search results explode—music videos, choreography clips, fancams of him spinning under stage lights, dance challenges and comments pouring in from all over the world.

Then I type the other one.

Taehyung.

I don’t even have to add anything else. His face fills the screen. Headlines, interviews, glossy spreads with his eyes smoky and soft, his smile gentle, his voice quoted under inspirational captions.

My lungs start to burn.

They look unreal like this, like two different versions of the same impossible dream. They belong to a universe where people scream for you and cry over you and write essays about what you mean to them.

They don’t belong in my café.
They don’t belong in my line.
They definitely don’t belong looking at me the way they’ve been looking at me.

Or most likely, the way I thought they were looking at me.

Imagined they were looking at me.

I am so stupid.

I slam the laptop shut.

My heart won’t slow down. My skin feels wrong. My face, my body, everything feels like a bad costume.

Of course they’re not serious.
Of course they’re not interested.
Of course this is nothing.

If anything, it’s a story. A bit. A joke they’ll tell later. Remember the girl who didn’t know who we were? Remember how she thought it meant something?

Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.

I curl up on the floor and stare at the ceiling until my eyes ache.

🥺🥺

The next morning, I go to work determined not to give them anything.

No smile.
No warmth.
Nothing they can twist into content.
Somehow I’m sure they’ll come to my cafe, only for me to ignore them. It’s the only revenge I have.

Wednesday, they both show up.

Lee Know comes in early again. But this time I refused to be his comedic relief.

He steps into my line even though Shay’s is open. She calls, “I can help who’s next,” and he ignores it politely, eyes fixed on the space in front of me.

“Morning,” he says with a smile when he gets to the counter.

“Hi,” I answer, flat.

“Can I get—”

“Your usual?” I interrupt. “Or something different?”

He hesitates, searching my face like he’s trying to decide which answer will make me less guarded.

“My usual is fine,” he says finally.

I make it. I hand it over carefully. There’s a beat where he might say something, might ask something, but I shut it down with a chilly, “Have a good one,” and move on to the next order.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sit at the window again.

He doesn’t stay as long this time.

🥺🥺

Taehyung arrives closer to lunch.

The bells ring, Shay looks at me in slow motion, and I feel my whole body stiffen.

He walks to the counter, hat low, mask on this time. But his eyes are the same. Soft. Searching. Relieved.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi. What can I get you?”

There’s something fragile in the way he tilts his head. “How are you?”

“I’m at work,” I say. “What do you want to drink?”

He flinches almost imperceptibly. “Uh… just a latte. Please.”

I make it, slide it over, and keep my fingers out of range.

He doesn’t try to touch me this time.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Next,” I call, already turning away.

He stands there a second too long, then walks out without sitting down.

Shay doesn’t say anything until there’s a lull in the rush. Then she leans on the counter and whispers, “Okay. What did they do?”

“Nothing,” I say.

She gives me a look. “So why do you act like they set your apartment on fire?”

I swallow and wipe a perfectly clean spot on the counter. “Because this is weird, Shay. People like that don’t… keep showing up for no reason.”

“Maybe they just like the coffee,” she offers weakly.

We both know that’s not it.

🥺🥺

On Thursday, it’s more of the same.

Lee Know in the morning. Taehyung later. Both to my line. Both quiet. Both watching for some version of me that isn’t there anymore.

I keep everything surface-level. Straight drinks. No jokes. No personal details.

Shay finally sighs and mutters, “I feel like I’m watching a show where no one gives me subtitles.”

By Friday, I’m so wound up I feel like my bones are humming.

All day, I wait for the bells. All day, I rehearse conversations in my head and then refuse to have them. All day, my chest tightens every time the door opens and it’s not them—and somehow tightens worse when it is.

By Friday, neither of them come in while I’m on the floor. Apart of me dies knowing that I was right about them. It was a game and when I stopped playing they instantly lost interest.

By closing, my shoulders are locked up around my ears. I’m exhausted and furious with myself for caring so much either way.

I peel off my apron in the back, shove it into my locker, grab my bag, and push out the back door into the alley.

I don’t expect anyone to be there.

But someone is.

He’s leaning against the wall near the dumpster, hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed. When the door swings open, he looks up.

Taehyung.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I almost stagger.

For a second, we just stare at each other.

Then something in me snaps.

“Do you think this is funny?”

The words tear out of me before I can stop them. My voice sounds wrong, too loud for the narrow space.

He straightens. “What? No—”

“Do you think because I’m simple and plain and not famous and not rich that you can just play games with me that you can just laugh at me?”

His eyes go wide. “No no no I’m not laughing—”

“Yes you are!” My hands are shaking now. “I’m a joke to you! Do you think it’s OK to treat me this way? Do you think that because I grew I was born with a face I can’t control. It’s OK to tease me in this way?”

“I’m not teasing—”

“No you’re not cause I’m done with this.” My throat burns, and suddenly there are tears in my eyes, hot and humiliating. “Yeah I have to talk to you when I work and you’re a customer. But I’m off the clock and right now you’re nothing to me. So please leave me alone.”

He takes a half step toward me like he wants to catch the words before they hit the ground. His mouth opens, closes.

I can’t stop now.

The tears spill over.

“I don’t deserve this. I’ve done nothing to earn this level of disrespect. Done. Nothing to attract you joking at my expense. I haven’t done anything to you. Why would you do this to me?”

The alley is so quiet I can hear my own breath hitch. I stare at him, chest heaving, waiting for… something. An apology. A confession. A punchline.

He swallows hard. His voice comes out low and wrecked.

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

“Yes,” I say, wiping at my face with the back of my hand. “I did but now I understand and I won’t bother you again.”

I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder.

Then I turn.

And I walk away.

I don’t look back.

I don’t breathe.

I make it to the end of the alley before my knees want to give out, but I keep going, because if I stop now I’ll shatter into pieces right there on the concrete.

Behind me, in the narrow slice of space between the café and the street, I can feel him still standing there.

And that’s where I leave him.

Chapter 6: You Pulled Me Closer

Summary:

He doesn’t react the way you think he will.

I leave the alley fast enough to trip over my own feet.

I don’t want to hear him.
I don’t want to see him.
I don’t want to exist near the memory of the things I just said.

I don’t look back. I can’t.
I just keep moving, blinking hard against tears that won’t stop coming.

I can barely see, I’m crying that hard. The streetlights blur into streaks.
My heart throbs in my ears.
My chest feels carved open.

I step off the curb without thinking—

A horn blasts.
Headlights swing.
A car barrels toward me.

Too close.
Too fast.
Too late.

A hand clamps around my arm, yanking me backwards so hard I crash into a solid chest.

Taehyung’s chest.

The car screeches past, the driver yelling something I can’t hear over the pounding in my head.

Not my head. My ear. I’m pressed against Taehyung and can hear his heart beat.

Taehyung keeps an arm around me for longer than necessary, until he’s certain I’m steady.

Then he lets go slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll collapse if he moves too fast.

“Jesus,” he whispers. His voice is shaking. “Are you okay?”

I try to pull myself together, but I can’t.
My breath is uneven.
My hands won’t stop trembling.

“I’m fine,” I snap, the lie scraping out of my throat.

He steps in front of me, blocking the road, blocking everything, but not touching me.

“You almost got hit.”

“It happens,” I mutter.

“No,” he says, firmer. “It doesn’t.”

His eyes look different now. Wide. Frightened. Like he didn’t expect to almost watch me die twice.

He takes a breath that looks like it hurts.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that in front of me.”

The words hit harder than the near death.

I swallow. Hard.

I can’t hear him.
I can’t hear anything but my own humiliation ringing in my head.

Stop it. You know better than to like anyone. They won’t like you back. Don’t be stupid. Don’t hope.

“I’m going home,” I say.

He doesn’t move to stop me…
But he follows.

Not close enough to touch.
Not close enough to push.
Close enough to protect.

I turn left.
He turns left.

I turn right.
He turns right.

“Stop following me!” I choke out.

He stops walking — but doesn’t back away.

His voice softens to something unbearably gentle.

“I’m not letting you go home alone like this.”

I look away. “I don’t want—”

“Please,” he says. One word. Quiet.
Like he’s begging me to let him make sure I stay alive.

I keep walking, because I can’t think.
But he stays behind me, steady, silent, determined.

When I reach the end of the block, a dark luxury car waits at the curb.

I walk past it—
He steps ahead, opens the passenger door, and says:

“Let me take you home.”

My whole body shakes.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat close.

Stop it! He doesn’t like you. He’s just being kind. Don’t you dare believe anything else.

I get in because I’m too tired not to.

He closes the door gently.
Too gently.

🥺🥺

The ride is silent.

Not tense.
Not awkward.

Just quiet.

He keeps glancing at me like he’s making sure I’m still breathing, still here, still real.

I keep staring out the window because if I look at him, I’ll fall apart again.

My hands won’t stop shaking.
So I tuck them under my thighs.

He notices.
Of course he notices.
His jaw tightens until the muscle jumps.

“Hey,” he says softly.

I flinch.
He stops immediately.

“I’m… sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me.

Stop it. He isn’t worried about you. He feels guilty. That’s all.

The city passes in blurred streaks of neon and shadow until he pulls up to my building.

He puts the car in park.

Then, quietly, with a steadiness that doesn’t match the emotion in his eyes:

“You didn’t push me away.”

I stare at him.

“You pulled me closer.”

My heart stops.

Literally stops.

Then slams back to life too fast to handle.

I don’t have a reaction.
My brain shuts down.
My body goes on autopilot.

“Bye!” I blurt — way too loud — and bolt out of the car like it’s on fire.

I don’t look back.
I run into my building, slam the door behind me, and breathe like I’ve been drowning again.

I don’t know that he gets out.
That he walks to the door.
That he stands there long after I’m gone.

I don’t know any of it.

I’m too busy falling apart upstairs.

🥺🥺

The shower hits me like a wall.

Hot water.
Cold tile.
Salt on my skin.
Tears I can’t stop no matter how hard I swallow.

I sink to the floor and press my forehead to my knees.

Why did I say that?
Why did I scream at him?
Why did I think—
Even for a second—
That someone like him…

Stop it. STOP IT. You know better than this. You don’t get to like anyone. No one ever likes you back. Don’t be stupid.

My chest cracks open.

I cry harder.

Water splashes.
My breath stutters.
My ribs ache.

Eventually I stand.
Eventually I dry off.
Eventually I crawl into bed with wet hair and numb fingers.

And I tell myself:

“He won’t come back after tonight.”

That’s fine.

It should be fine.

It hurts anyway.

🥺🥺

Morning.

My head is heavy.
My body hollow.
My throat sore from crying.

I shuffle downstairs in pajamas — huge shirt, no bra, hair a disaster — just to take out trash.

I push the front door open—

And stop.

And freeze.

And stop breathing.

Because there’s a black Porsche parked at the curb.
And a man in a perfectly tailored suit leaning against it like an advertisement.

Taehyung.

Hands in his pockets.
Eyes lowered.
Hair perfect.
He lifts his head slowly, and when his eyes find mine—

Relief.

Actual relief softens every line of his face.

“Oh,” I squeak.
I actually squeak.
Kill me.

He steps forward slightly.

“Good morning,” he says, voice quiet but warm, like he’s afraid to scare me off.

“Wh—why are you—here?! I mean—here? At my—why?!”

He takes in my pajamas, my messy hair, my swollen eyes.

And instead of laughing—
Instead of judging—
He softens even more.

“I came to take you to breakfast.”

My pulse spikes.

Stop it. Don’t react. Don’t hope. Don’t be stupid. He’s just being kind. He doesn’t mean anything by this.

But my cheeks burn.
My heart jumps.
And my brain short-circuits.

“You—what?” I whisper.

He smiles.
Soft.
Gentle.

“Get dressed,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

Chapter 7: Silly Girl

Summary:

Taehyung takes me out to breakfast.

Breakfast is warm and bright and deceptively normal.

I’m not.

Taehyung sits across from me like he’s made of restraint.
Every time I move, he almost mirrors it—almost touches me—then pulls back in microscopic flinches.

He lifts his hand to brush a crumb from my cheek… stops mid-air… drops it into his lap like he’s scolding himself.

He reaches for his water at the same moment I reach for mine—our fingers brush the air between us, not each other—and he jerks his hand away like he got shocked.

If anyone else looked this tense, I’d assume they were uncomfortable.
But he keeps watching me.

Watching me like he’s starving.

Breakfast ends too slowly and too quickly. He pays. I thank the waitress. The world keeps spinning like nothing is happening, even though something is—something tight and breathless and trembling between us.

We stand.

We walk toward the exit.

And then—

The restaurant playlist switches songs.

A bright bass line thumps overhead.

I freeze.

No.
No way.
NO WAY—

“Smooth like butter, like a criminal undercover—”

I whip around to him.

“IS THAT YOU?!”

He blinks, and for the first time this morning, he looks… flustered.
Actually flustered.

A couple at a table glances over.
I lower my voice.

“That’s YOU.”

He nods, just once. “Yeah.”

“No, like—you-you. Not just some guy—YOU.”

His mouth twitches. “Yes, me.”

“You didn’t think to mention you’re—YOU?”

He leans in slightly—not close enough to touch, but close enough that heat curls up my spine.

“In my defense,” he murmurs, voice low, “you were a little busy trying to disappear into the ocean.”

It should sting.

Instead, I swallow and stare at him as his own voice pours from the speakers above us.

He won’t look up.
Won’t look at the ceiling.
He’s looking at me.

“You hate hearing yourself in public?” I whisper.

“No,” he says. Then softer: “I hate it right now.”

“Why?”

His eyes drop to my mouth for a split second before returning to mine.

“Because I can’t touch you in here,” he says quietly. “And this song doesn’t help.”

My brain malfunctions.

Taehyung inhales like he’s about to combust, then nods toward the exit.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

We step into the lobby.
A valet perks up immediately.

“Sir! Would you like me to pull your car around?”

Taehyung doesn’t even let him finish.

“No. We’ll walk.”

The valet nods, confused. It seems this is a weird request but Taehyung just keeps on walking.

We push out into sunlight.
The restaurant doors close behind us.
The music fades.

And ahead of us stretches a huge, nearly empty parking lot—quiet, sun-washed, waiting.

Taehyung exhales.

“Better,” he murmurs.

We walk in silence toward his black Porsche, parked alone at the far end.

No people.

No cameras.

Just asphalt and breath and tension.

Halfway there, he slows.

Then stops.

I turn to him.

He looks… undone.
Like he’s been holding himself in place with threads and finally feels them snapping.

“Taehyung?” I whisper.

That’s all it takes.

He steps forward, cups my jaw with one steady, heated hand, and kisses me.

It steals the air from my lungs.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting, wanting, aching.

He pulls back barely an inch, breath brushing my lips.

“Stop being a silly girl,” he murmurs.
“I want the serious woman I know is in there.”

My heart detonates.

Without thinking, without breathing…I kiss him back.

Hard.

Desperate.

He gasp! Taehyung actually GASPS and grabs my waist, pulling me closer, kissing me like he’s been drowning for real and I’m oxygen.

And then—

I realize what I’m doing.

Who I’m doing it with.

Who I am.

Who he is.

STOP IT
STOP IT
STOP IT YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO LIKE ANYONE THEY NEVER LIKE YOU BACK STOP STOP STOP—

I shove him.

Hard.

He freezes.
Hands up instantly, gentle, careful.

“Don’t!” he warns softly.

But I’m already backing up.

Already shaking.

Already breaking.

He says my name.

And then—

I run.

Across the empty parking lot.
Past the valets.
Down the street.
Fast enough that my lungs burn and my eyes blur.

I run like I will die if I stop.

Because I might. I know where I am so go to the only place in this neighborhood that I know.

I burst into the café, gasping, trembling.

Lee Know is standing near the counter with a to-go cup.

He turns.

Sees my face.

And his entire expression changes.

“What happened?” he asks instantly, stepping toward me.

I shake my head, unable to speak.

Then—

Tires.
Screeching.

We both look outside.

Taehyung’s Porsche pulls into the lot like a meteor.
He gets out.

Lee Know stiffens.

Taehyung sees him beside me.
Lee Know sees him seeing me.

The air fractures between them.

I panic and dart deeper into the café where Taehyung can’t follow without detonating a public scandal.

He stops at the glass door.

His breathing is hard.
His eyes are locked on mine.
His expression says:

This isn’t over.
Not even close.

He stands there for a long moment—

Then turns.
Gets back in the Porsche.
And drives away.

Lee Know watches him go.

Then looks at me.

Something in Lee Know shifts.

Something sharp.
Something inevitable.

Chapter 8: Don’t You Know Me, Baby?

Summary:

You just need a minute.

The back room smells like coffee grounds and cardboard and bleach.

It’s the only place in the building where I can fall apart without anyone watching me do it.

I brace both hands on the prep table and stare at the wall like it’s going to give me instructions. My lungs won’t cooperate. My heart won’t slow down. My skin still remembers his hand on my jaw like it left fingerprints.

Stop.
Stop thinking.
Stop shaking.

Footsteps pass in the hallway. Shay’s voice is careful and low.

“You good?”

My mouth opens.

Nothing.

So I force out the only word that won’t expose me. “Yeah.”

Shay frowns. I look down, embarrassed and instantly caught in a lie. Even I don’t believe it.

But what could I say? That Kim Taehyung kissed me? She would think that I kept on lying.

He kissed me. Why did he do this to me? He must really hate me.

I press my knuckles to my lips to keep myself quiet. If I cry, it becomes real. If I say his name out loud, it becomes a story.

And I don’t get to have stories. I get to have survival.

If I think of the way his eyes zoomed in on my lips..? All I can do is survive.

Then the front door chime rings.

Normally it means nothing. This café sits across from a big recording studio. Famous people drift in every day like weather, inevitable. They come in hoodies, hats, sunglasses indoors with managers who pretend not to hover.

My co-workers and I? We don’t scream. We don’t stare. We don’t pull out phones. We don’t turn their existence into content, because this cafe has already learned the rules.

It’s why members of Stray Kids can be in and out of here and they’re fans never know.

But the air inside the cafe shifts.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… different.

Voices drop. The cadence changes. Politeness sharpens into something careful.

My hands go cold.

No.
He left.
He drove away.

I tell myself it’s someone else. Another artist. Another face the world worships. Maybe Beyoncé came, I wish with all my heart.

Then I hear him speak.

Not full sentences. Not clearly.

Just a tone—low, controlled, unmistakable.

My stomach drops like an elevator cable snapped. Because no it is not Beyoncé, it’s…

Him.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I become small and silent behind a closed door, as if that can erase me. I move a little bit sideways and silently eavesdrop.

From back here, I can’t see the counter. I can only hear it: the register drawer, the soft clink of a cup, my coworkers in smooth professional mode.

“Hey. What can I get you?” asks Shay, voice calm as if she didn’t see him chase me down in his Porsche.

A pause. A polite laugh that isn’t laughter.

“I’m… looking for someone.”

My throat closes.

“Where is she?”

Another voice—still calm, still trained. “We can’t share staff information.”

A beat.

“I’m not asking for a schedule.”

“You’re still asking.”

The words land like a door being shut.

He doesn’t push. He’s too smart to push when he doesn’t even know if I’m back here. Too smart to create a scene in a place built to stay quiet.

He tries to make it look normal.

“Just… an americano,” he says.

Of course. The safest order on earth. Something nobody questions. Something that lets him stand at the counter without making it obvious he’s waiting.

My heart slams hard enough to hurt.

I picture him out there—world-famous, perfectly controlled, pretending he’s here for caffeine while his eyes scan the room like a radar.

I hate myself for how my body reacts to him even now, even through a wall, even while I’m trying to become nothing.

I hear the cup set down. A quick “Have a good one.”

Footsteps.

Then a pause near the staff door—half a second too long, like he’s considering the line he could cross if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t know.
And because he’s learned what spectacle costs.

The front door chime rings again.

He’s gone.

I don’t feel relief.

I feel worse.

Because now I know the truth:

He will come back.

Why? Is it that amusing to play with me?

I slip out through the back exit instead of risking a chance to run into him. I slip into the narrow alley behind the café where we take breaks and toss boxes and breathe when the world is too loud. The air is colder than it should be. My hands shake like I’m coming down from something I never asked to take.

I lean against the brick and suck in a breath.

Another.

Another.

My chest aches like it’s bruised from the inside.

A shadow shifts near the alley mouth.

A voice—close enough to startle me, quiet enough to feel intentional.

“Hey.”

I whip around.

Lee Know stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, face unreadable in that way that makes you feel like you’re the one being read.

He must have come around the building. Because he doesn’t work here. He can’t just follow me into the back like I can.

He takes one look at my face and skips the small talk.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say instantly.

His eyes narrow.

“You’re lying.”

My laugh comes out sharp and broken. “Do you practice that? Or does it just come naturally?”

He doesn’t smile.

“What’s between you and him?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You lied again.”

Something hot flashes through me—defense, embarrassment, anger. “Oh my God. Because you know me so well?”

“I do,” he says.

I scoff. “You don’t even—”

He moves before I can finish. Not aggressive. Not gentle. Just decisive.

He grips my shoulders like he’s holding me in place so I can’t drift away from myself. His eyes lock onto mine—steady, close, terrifying in a different way than him.

And in a voice so low it feels like it’s meant for my skin, not my ears, he says—

“Don’t you know me, baby?”

My breath vanishes.

My brain goes blank.

And somewhere deep in my body, something answers him like it remembers.

I don’t know where it came from and I don’t know how to stop it but without much thought a name, his name, comes out of my mouth.

“Minho.”

Chapter 9: Dissociative

Summary:

A chapter in Lee Know’s pov.

She says it like it is an accident.

Like her mouth betrays her before her brain can stop it.

“Minho.”

One word. Barely a breath. But it hits me in the chest like a fist.

My name. The real one that she used to know. The real one that she used to use.

For a second, the alley behind the café goes silent in that special way only panic can create, when the world is still moving, but you are not inside it. You are just watching yourself stand there.

Her eyes are wide like she hates what she just revealed. Like she can feel the truth in her mouth and it terrifies her more than the lie ever could.

And I, stupidly, impossibly, look at her hands.

Because that is where I always used to look when she was trying not to shake. That face? Solid as a rock. But her hands? Gave everything away. Her fingers are bare.

No thin silver rings stacked up her knuckles. No thumb ring she used to twist when she was thinking. No little glint of metal catching the light when she moved like she belonged in rooms that doubled as a spotlight.

Just skin. Painted nails. And a slight tremor. The rings were long gone. Minho hadn’t seen any of the jewelry he thought was permanent but was now gone since finding her, again.

Like she took the last visible pieces of rings off and hid them somewhere she cannot reach.

She looks through me like she does not know me.

But her body sure does.

My name on her lips prove she’s not fully gone, just buried. Like a song you swore you deleted, still living in the drive.

I let my hands fall from her shoulders before she can decide I am another man trying to hold her in place.

She flinches anyway, like she is bracing for punishment.

That is the thing about people who have been erased. They start expecting it from everyone.

“Don’t,” she whispers, and I do not know what she means. Don’t what. Don’t leave. Don’t press. Don’t make her say it again.

I keep my voice low. Steady. Not soft. Not pitying.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s me.”

She shakes her head like that is impossible.

“No,” she says, but the word is weaker than she wants it to be. “I don’t… I don’t know you.”

I do not argue.

Because I have seen how her mind protects her. It does not just block pain. It blocks entire versions of herself so she can keep breathing.

And if she could remember me, she would have to remember why she needed me in the first place.

Three years ago, the first time she said my name, she was wearing silver rings.

I remember because her hands were everywhere, talking with her, drawing shapes in the air, tapping rhythms on her thigh, flipping a pen like it was a weapon. The rings caught the fluorescent light every time she moved. Little flashes of proof.

Proof she existed.

Proof she had style, and taste, and opinions. Proof she was not trying to disappear.

Back then, she did not look at herself the way she does now.

She did not act like she was a problem.

She acted like she was running out of time.

It started in a room that smelled like expensive leather and cheap coffee.

A writing room, technically. But not the kind with whiteboards and snacks and jokes. This one had glass walls and a sound engineer behind another pane like a judge.

A few people clustered around a table. A laptop open. A speaker playing a demo on loop.

And Mia.

Everyone looked at Mia like she was the sun.

Beautiful. Effortless. Voice like an angel even when she spoke, as if every sentence came with a built in soundtrack. The kind of person the industry loves because the industry does not have to work to sell her. She is already packaged.

And her, standing off to the side, not centered, not styled, not performing.

Just watching.

The creative in the room. The engine. The one nobody clapped for because nobody could see her on a stage.

She did not look jealous. Not once.

That is what people always get wrong. They think creators hate performers because performers get attention.

She did not hate Mia.

She feared Mia.

Because she recognized something before anyone else did.

Mia was holding a concept like it belonged to her.

A song idea.

A hook.

A title.

A whole angle, clean and sharp and painfully specific in a way you only get when it came from someone’s real life.

Mia smiled and said, “So I was thinking, what if we do it like this?”

And the room reacted the way rooms always react to beauty with confidence.

They leaned in.

They nodded.

They praised.

They did not ask where it came from.

I watched her face go still.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Still.

Like her blood temperature dropped.

Her gaze flicked to the laptop screen, then to Mia’s mouth, then to the producer’s hands scribbling notes like this was genius.

Like it was new.

Like it had not been said before.

And then she did the thing people do right before they break in public.

She smiled.

Too fast.

Too polite.

“Sorry,” she said, voice light as paper. “I need a second.”

Nobody cared. Nobody noticed. A writer leaving the room does not stop a session.

She walked out like she was not running.

I followed because something in my gut recognized the look.

The look that says, if I stay one more minute, I will explode. And if I explode, I will be labeled crazy. And if I am labeled crazy, I will never work again.

The stairwell door banged shut behind her.

By the time I pushed it open, she was already halfway down the steps, crouched on a landing like she had been pushed there by gravity. Her breath was coming in jagged bursts. Hands shaking. Rings flashing. Nails digging crescents into her palms like pain was the only thing that could keep her in her body.

She did not look up at first. Just stared at the concrete like it was safer than anyone’s face.

I did not touch her.

I did not say, “Are you okay?” because it is the dumbest question in the world when someone is clearly not.

I sat down a few steps above her so she would not feel cornered.

And I spoke like I was trying to talk to a wild animal without scaring it off.

“Breathe,” I said. “In. Out. Match me.”

She shook her head hard, like breathing was a betrayal.

“I can’t,” she rasped. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” I said, calm. Not commanding. Certain. “You are not dying. Your body is just panicking.”

Her eyes finally flicked up to me.

Recognition hit her like a second wave.

Not fangirl recognition. Not you are famous.

Just, oh. You are here. You are real. You are a person I can aim my fear at.

“Don’t,” she whispered immediately. “Don’t tell them.”

I did not ask who them was. We both knew.

The room. The producers. The people with power. The people who would turn this moment into a story about how she was unstable.

“I won’t,” I said.

She swallowed. Her rings flashed when she lifted a trembling hand to her mouth.

“I heard her,” she said, barely audible. “I heard her say it like it was hers.”

I stayed quiet, because if I said the wrong thing, I would turn it into something else.

She let out a broken laugh. “If I say anything, I’m jealous. If I don’t,” her breath hitched, “if I don’t, I’m nothing.”

That line is still stuck in my head three years later.

Because she was not nothing.

She was the one who built the thing they were all applauding.

But creators do not get protected. Creators get mined.

I wanted to tell her I would fix it.

I wanted to tell her I would make it right.

But back then, Stray Kids were not what we are now. We were climbing. We were still asking for rooms, not owning them. Still being told no. Still being grateful for crumbs.

Power was not a weapon I carried yet.

So I told her the only truth I could promise.

“I believe you,” I said.

Her gaze snapped to mine, sharp and disbelieving. “You don’t even know what it was.”

“I don’t have to,” I said. “I saw your face.”

She stared at me like nobody had ever said that to her before. Like nobody had ever looked at her and trusted the invisible work she carried.

Her breath slowed, a fraction. Not because I cured her.

Because she was not alone for ten seconds.

She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, furious at herself for letting moisture exist. When she moved, the rings caught the light again. Tiny, stubborn flashes.

“You can’t say anything,” she said. “You can’t, please. I can’t be, I can’t be the problem.”

“I won’t,” I said again.

Then she looked at me like she was testing whether I was safe enough to speak to like a human.

And she said my name.

“Minho, I’m serious.”

“Okay,” I said, like it did not knock the air out of me. “Do you want water or do you want space?”

“Water,” she whispered, then swallowed hard. “And space.”

So I got her water and gave her space. She called me back realizing that space was lonely. We stopped talking about Mia and the stuff that hurt her and went all in on her true love, music.

I took her back to my hotel. I held her, kissed her and proved that not all humans suck. We didn’t sleep together, because all I wanted to do was comfort her.

That is what I did. That is all I did.

I did not save her.

Because you cannot stop a theft that is already being justified in a room full of people who want the thief to win.

Over the next weeks, I saw it happen in smaller ways. A line repeated. A melody hummed like it appeared from nowhere. A producer praising Mia’s instincts.

Each time, her smile got thinner.

Each time, she wore her rings like armor.

Each time, she made herself smaller.

Until one day she stopped showing up.

Texts unanswered.

Calls that went to voicemail and stayed there.

A mutual contact shrugging. “Yeah, she’s not around.”

The industry moved on the way it always does. Fast, hungry, careless.

Mia’s star rose.

And she disappeared so completely that people started talking about her like she had never been real. Then they stopped talking about her at all.

That was the first time I understood the specific terror of being creative in a world that only respects what it can display.

Three years later, I have power.

Not infinite power. Not magic.

But enough.

Enough to get meetings. Enough to get her into rooms again. Enough to put her name back on work where it belongs. Enough to set fire to anyone who tries to erase her now.

I used to imagine what I would say when I found her again.

I used to imagine I would show up like a hero with a plan.

But then I found her across from the studio, wearing an apron, wiping tables, moving like she hoped no one would look at her.

And when she looked at me, her eyes slid right past my face.

Blank.

Like I was a stranger.

At first, I thought she was pretending. I thought it was her version of control.

Then I started noticing the details.

The way she never wore rings anymore.

The way her hands stayed curled at her sides like she did not want anyone watching them create anything.

The way she laughed at herself before anyone else could.

The way she flinched from compliments like they were traps.

It was not pretending.

It was survival.

So I became a daily regular.

Not to stalk her.

To witness her.

To keep a quiet eye on the fact that she was still here.

Because I have lived long enough to know that still here can change overnight.

Today proved it.

First, she vanished into the back, and something in my chest tightened because I recognized the pattern. Her trying to break somewhere nobody could see it.

Then Taehyung walked in.

Even disguised, he did not move like anyone else. The whole room adjusted around him without meaning to. Fame does that when it is big enough.

But this was not a man here to pretend he was normal.

This was a man here for one thing.

Her.

He did not look at the menu.

He did not settle.

He went straight to the counter and said it like it was casual.

“I’m looking for someone. Pretty sure you know who.”

The barista wearing the name tag reading Shay, kept her voice calm. Professional. That smooth, steady tone you only get after you have dealt with famous people long enough to stop caring.

“We can’t share staff information.”

“Where is she?” Taehyung asked.

Shay did not flinch. “We can’t share staff information.”

He tried again, softer, controlled. “I’m not asking for a schedule.”

“You’re still asking.”

A door shut. Not loudly.

But completely.

Taehyung adjusted. Ordered an americano like he was anyone. Like he did not come in here like a storm wrapped in skin.

He waited just long enough to see if the staff would slip.

They did not.

And he left.

Controlled. Frustrated. Contained.

Because he did not know for sure she was in the back. And even someone like him has to pick his battles when the wrong move becomes a scandal.

When he walked out, the café exhaled and pretended nothing happened.

I did not pretend.

I stood up.

I did not go into the back because I do not work here and boundaries matter, even when you are scared.

So I went around.

And I found her in the alley, shaking like she had been hit.

She tried to lie like always.

I called it like always.

And when I finally asked the question that mattered, when I finally held her shoulders and forced her eyes to stop running, she looked through me like I was nothing.

But then her mouth, her traitor mouth, said my name.

“Minho.”

Now she is standing in front of me, bare fingers, no rings, breath uneven, eyes furious with confusion.

Like her mind is trying to shove the memory back underground.

Like she is terrified of what happens if she admits she remembers anyone from before.

I keep my face neutral because if I look too hungry for it, she will shut down harder.

“I’m not going to force you to remember,” I say, slow and steady. “Okay?”

Her throat works. She swallows. She nods, barely.

I glance at her hands again, the absence loud as a siren.

I remember the silver rings. The way they flashed when she talked about a melody like it was a living thing. The way she used to look like she belonged to herself.

One day, she is going to put them back on.

Not because a man gave them to her.

Because she decided she deserved to be seen again.

But today is not that day.

Today is just proof.

Proof that somewhere under all the shame and the survival and the buried parts, she still exists.

I step back, giving her space like I did in the stairwell three years ago.

“I’m going to walk you back inside,” I say. “Not because you can’t handle it. Because I don’t trust the world not to take advantage of you when you’re shaking.”

Her eyes narrow. Defensive. “I don’t need… that.”

She almost said “I don’t need you.” I’m glad she didn’t say it because yes she fucking did.

“I know that you think that,” I cut in, gentle but firm. “That you don’t need me.”

That is the point. That is always been the point.

“So what do you need?” I ask letting the words hang between us.

Her mouth sets together in an expression that said she didn't need or want anything from me.

I said nothing but my face screamed, "Yes you fucking do!"

I tilt my head toward the café door.

“Come on,” I say. “And when you are ready, when you can breathe, then we talk about why your mouth remembered me even if your mind doesn’t want to.”

Her jaw tightens, but she moves.

Still stubborn.

Still fighting.

Still here.

“I’m not your baby,” she grumbled.

“Maybe not yet,” I tell her with a smirk that I know she hates.

And as we step out of the alley, I catch one last glint of sunlight on her bare hands and think, with a quiet kind of certainty that feels like vengeance and prayer at the same time.

She is going to wear her rings again.

Notes:

It’s my birthday so I wrote this! 🥰