𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋   𝟦.   🧷 ♡ 𝖬𝗂𝗃𝗎𝗇
   𝒫 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍     𝒇𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋,    (...)    𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭     미준      ✿

˖　　⁺　　ꕤ　　‧　　₊　　˚ ˖　　⁺　　ꕤ　　‧　　₊

She hadn't meant for any of this to happen. She just wanted to keep this one thing to herself, but now her boyfriend was disappointed in her. Why hadn't she just told him earlier? She hadn't known his reaction would land somewhere between frustration and hurt. Now, she was stuck in this aching silence, wondering if she'd screwed up the best thing in her life by not saying three simple words: I'm debuting soon.

It was supposed to be exciting. Joyful. Her dream coming true after years of hard work. But instead of sharing it with the person she loved most, she'd held it close, afraid it would somehow complicate things. And maybe it had. They hadn't spoken in weeks—weeks—not since their last date at the café, the one where she'd clutched her scarf tighter around her neck and asked what he wanted for his birthday.

He'd laughed then, teasing her with over-the-top answers she could never deliver—"a yacht," "my own star," "a full week with no schedules"—but beneath all the playfulness, there had been a softness in his eyes, the one that always melted her.

She remembered that night clearly, like a photograph frozen in time.

Nami laughed as she tucked her hair behind her ear, still a little breathless from running down the street. The café was warm inside, the windows fogged up slightly from the heat. Across the table, he watched her with that same fond look he always wore when he thought she wasn't paying attention. It was a slow Thursday night, and she had managed to sneak away from training early just to see him. She stirred her hot chocolate absentmindedly, tapping her foot under the table.

It was a quiet evening when Nami handed Yejun the heart-shaped envelope, her fingers brushing over the soft, pastel pink paper. "Write down your wish for your birthday," she told him, her voice light, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It'll be my gift to you."

Yejun took the envelope from her with a nod, his eyes glinting mischievously. He unfolded the paper inside and quickly jotted something down in careful handwriting. He didn't let her peek, keeping the words hidden as he folded the paper back into the envelope, sealing it with a soft crinkle. Without a word, he handed it back to her, his smile just a little too knowing.

"Thank you," Nami said, taking the envelope from his hand. She tucked it away carefully, the soft thud of it settling into her bag. "I'll open it when your birthday comes."

Back in the present, Nami sat curled up on her bed, clutching Yejun's hoodie tightly against her chest. The soft cotton still smelled faintly like him—like the cedarwood shampoo he always used and the airy cologne that clung to the back of his neck. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the fabric tighter, pressing it to her face as if it could bring him back. The tears that had been threatening all day finally welled in her eyes, blurring the pale lavender walls of her new room.

She hated this feeling.

She wished she had just told him. One conversation could've spared them all of this distance and silence. She didn't blame Kami—her best friend had only been excited, had only wanted to share the song when it dropped. But Nami wished it hadn't gone down like that. Wished Yejun hadn't found out that way. Wished he hadn't sounded so disappointed.

A gentle knock at the door broke her spiraling thoughts, followed by the quiet creak as it opened. "Nami?" Eowyn's voice was soft, careful.

Nami didn't respond. She kept her face buried in the hoodie, hoping the tears would stay where they were and not fall.

Eowyn crossed the room without another word and sat at the edge of the bed before sliding in beside her. She wrapped her arms around Nami and rested her head against her shoulder.

Nami closed her eyes. The silence between them felt heavier than before—but in a comforting way now. Eowyn didn't ask anything. She didn't need to. The hug said enough.

And with her warmth, the memories came rushing back—sharp and clear.

—

It had been late that night. Nami had just finished packing up her things at the apartment she shared with Zola. Her room was completely bare except for a few taped-up boxes. She was moving into the D!TTO dorm the next day. Her life was shifting into something entirely new.

The soft buzz of her phone broke the stillness. She glanced at the screen and felt her heart lurch. Yejun. She hesitated, then picked up. "Hey."

There was silence on the other end for a beat too long. "Is that your voice?" he asked finally, and the sound of his voice cracked something in her chest.

She froze. Her fingers tightened around the edge of a box. He didn't sound angry. He sounded... unsure. Distant. Like he was trying to piece something together that didn't make sense.

"Yejun," she started, but she didn't even know where to go from there. "It's you, isn't it? The new song that dropped tonight—Ditto—that's your voice." His tone was soft but steady. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Nami's throat closed up. "I was going to... I wanted to. I just..."

"I thought we told each other everything," Yejun said softly. Nami's heart dropped at the way he said it—not accusing, just... disappointed. The kind that lingers.

"I know," she said, her voice cracking. "I should've told you. I wanted to. I just didn't know how." There was a pause. She could hear the faint hum of the city behind him, maybe from his dorm balcony, maybe a car passing by.

"I would've been proud," he said after a beat. "You know that, right? It's not about the song—it's that you didn't trust me enough to share it."

"I did trust you," she whispered. "I do. I was just scared." Another pause. Softer this time.

"I get it," Yejun said. And he did. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt. "Congrats... by the way. You sound amazing." Tears filled her eyes again.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I think... we both need some time," he added, gently. "But I'm here, okay? Even if I'm quiet."

"I'm sorry," she said again, barely able to get the words out.

"I know." And then, just like that, the call ended. He didn't hang up in anger—just quiet, resigned disappointment. He waited until she did, until the silence between them said all the things neither of them could.

That was the last time they spoke.

Back in her bed, wrapped in Eowyn's arms, Nami wiped her tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. Her chest ached, but her heart still held onto the memory of his voice, the sound of it saying he was proud.

And the envelope—that heart-shaped envelope tucked away in her drawer—suddenly weighed heavier in her thoughts.

Tomorrow was his birthday.

And she still hadn't opened his wish.

She lay there for a while, unmoving, letting Eowyn's steady breathing and the soft hum of the dorm settle around her. But sleep didn't come. Not really. It hovered, fleeting, like the echo of his voice in her memory.

Nami sat up slowly, careful not to wake Eowyn, who had dozed off beside her with one arm draped protectively around her waist. The moonlight slipped through the blinds, casting faint silver lines across the floor. Her room was still unfamiliar in a way—too neat, too new. It didn't smell like the old apartment with Zola, or like the café where she'd last seen Yejun. It just smelled like change.

Her bare feet padded across the floor as she made her way to the drawer by her desk. She opened it quietly, fingers brushing over sheet music, a few hair ties, a tiny Polaroid of Zola making a ridiculous face. And then... the envelope.

The pastel pink heart was still perfectly intact, its edges soft from being handled too many times. She'd stared at it more than once in the last few weeks, but tonight, she finally pulled it out.

Nami sat on the edge of her bed, heart pounding. She turned the envelope over in her hands, as if hoping it would give her a warning. A clue. Anything. But it was just paper. Just his handwriting on the back in small, curved letters that read: for Nami, to open when I'm a year older.

With a shaky breath, she peeled it open and unfolded the note inside. There were only a few lines, neat and deliberate, like he'd thought carefully before writing.

Birthday Wish:
I want you to cook for me—just for me. I want your kimchi fried rice, the cheesy omelet you always burn a little at the edges, that weird soup you made once that somehow turned out perfect. I miss all of it. I miss you. That's all I want. Just you and me, like it used to be. I love you, Nami. And when I get back from Coachella, I'm taking you to that spot in Jeonju you keep talking about—the one with the little rooftop café and all the cherry blossoms. I haven't forgotten. I'm proud of you. No matter what.

Nami's breath caught. Her throat tightened. He'd written it before the fight. Before everything.

And still, even then—he knew. That she'd change. That the world would shift. And that he would still love her through it. Her eyes blurred with tears. She read it again, and again. And again.

Then she stood up.

She had work to do.

—

By morning, the dorm kitchen smelled like memories. Nami had slipped out of bed before the sun rose, tied her hair up in a loose bun, and changed into a hoodie and leggings. The other members were still asleep, but she didn't mind. It made the moment feel quieter—more hers.

She spread everything across the small countertop. Japanese black and red bento boxes sat open beside her, glossy and pristine. The rice cooker steamed gently behind her. She moved with practiced grace, the kind that came from all the late nights cooking for Zola during university, or for Yejun when he visited their apartment, curling up on the couch and waiting for her to finish plating his favorite things.

Lychee went into the smaller compartments first—plump, pale, and sweet. Then came the chicken—golden brown, glazed lightly with sesame and soy, garnished with a tiny bit of green onion. She shaped the rice balls carefully, fingers damp, stuffing them with spicy salmon and cucumber before wrapping them in crisp seaweed and tucking them in.

Everything had its place. Everything was done with care.

At the very end, she added a small side of tamagoyaki—Japanese sweet egg rolls—cut perfectly, stacked neatly. They had been his favorite breakfast dish, though she used to burn them before getting it right. Now she made them with ease. The last touch wasn't edible, though it might've been the most heartfelt.

She reached into her bag and pulled out two tiny figures she'd spent the last week building in secret. Lego versions of them—one with Yejun's brown hair, a white shirt that read I heart my GF, and tiny red lips printed all over his plastic face. The other wore Nami's signature soft waves, her figure wearing a shirt that said I heart my BF, tiny musical notes on her sleeves.

They were ridiculous and adorable. Just like them. She placed them gently in a little clear case with a note inside that read:

You wrote your wish down. So I kept my promise.

Nami looked at everything again. Her heart ached and soared at the same time. She packed the bento carefully, double-checked the note, and slipped the Lego case into the side pocket of her bag. Then she grabbed her keys, shrugged on her coat, and headed out the door.

The streets were quiet—just a few early commuters, delivery bikes humming past. The wind was still cool, tugging at her sleeves as she made her way to the company building. It felt strange to be carrying something so personal into a space that usually demanded perfection. But this wasn't about debut stages or polished image training.

This was just for him.

She reached the practice room on the third floor, the one she'd claimed when no one else was around. She and Eowyn had decorated it earlier with colorful stickers—some hearts, some stars, a few inside jokes in pastel tape—and a printout of their group's logo stuck proudly on the mirror.

She set everything up quietly: the bento in the middle of the blanket, the Lego case beside it, and a tiny cherry blossom napkin tucked under the clear lid of a water bottle. Her hands moved quickly but gently, checking the angles, adjusting the placement like it might matter to him.

Then she sat. And waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Fifteen.

She checked her phone again. No messages. She'd texted him the room number, the floor, even added a little "if you want to come." She didn't know if he would.

But she was here. And if he didn't show... at least she could say she tried.

At least she could say: I love you. I'm sorry. And I never stopped choosing you.

The clock on the wall ticked softly in the background, barely audible over the dull thrum of Nami's heartbeat in her ears. She stared down at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve as the silence stretched on. Every second that passed made her chest feel tighter. Maybe he hadn't seen the message. Maybe he didn't want to come.

But then—

The door creaked open. Nami's head snapped up and there still the boy who made her heart race and her tears fall. Yejun stood there.

His hair was a little messy, like he'd run a hand through it a dozen times before working up the nerve to walk in. He had on a plain black hoodie and joggers, a mask pulled down to rest under his chin. His eyes met hers, and that was all it took. She burst into tears.

Not quiet ones. Not gentle ones. It was like the dam inside her cracked wide open, all the guilt and fear and heartbreak pouring out at once. She scrambled to her feet, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"I'm sorry—Yejun, I'm so sorry—" Her voice broke between sobs as she rushed toward him. "I didn't mean to—I didn't mean to keep it from you—I was just—"

He caught her in his arms before she could say another word.

Her fingers clutched at the back of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. "I didn't know if you'd come," she cried into his chest. "I thought I messed everything up—I didn't want to hide it, I was just so excited and scared and I didn't know how to say it without jinxing it—"

Yejun didn't say anything right away. He just held her tighter, burying his face in her hair as her whole body shook against him.

"I love you," she gasped. "I love you so much—and I didn't tell you because I thought if I said it out loud, it might all fall apart again."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him through wet lashes. "I came to Korea in 2022 for another company. They told me I'd be a trainee. I left everything for it. But when I got there, the building was empty. They'd gone bankrupt. No warning, no notice. I stood outside with my suitcase and just stared at this place that didn't even exist anymore."

Yejun's eyes softened, his thumb gently wiping a tear from her cheek.

"I didn't trust anything after that," she whispered. "Not until I found Cupid Netz. They didn't promise me the world. They just let me try. And I didn't want to tell anyone, not until it was real—not even you. I thought I'd wait until it was safe. Until I knew I wouldn't lose it again."

She swallowed hard. "But I was wrong. You should've known first. You're the person I love most. And I hurt you. I'm so, so sorry."

Yejun let out a slow breath, his hands still cradling her face. "You really made all this... just for me?" She nodded, her lips trembling. "You wrote your wish down. So I kept my promise."

For a moment, he just looked at her. Then he pulled her into him again, tighter than before, chin resting on top of her head. "I was never mad that you debuted, Nami," he murmured. "I was proud. I was just hurt that you felt like you had to carry that moment alone."

"I don't want to anymore," she whispered.

"You don't have to," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't say the words I forgive you, but he didn't have to. The way he pulled her into his arms said everything. The way he held her—not tightly, not possessively, but like someone who had missed her every single day of their silence—spoke louder than any apology could. His hand moved in slow circles across her back, calming her trembles, grounding her. It wasn't forgiveness through words. It was forgiveness through presence. Through warmth. Through the quiet ache in his chest easing as she cried into his shoulder.

And just like that, the silence between them finally broke. Nami stepped back, taking a shaky breath. She wiped her eyes, sniffing as she turned to the table where the bento boxes sat. "I... I made this for you," she said softly, her voice still thick with emotion. "Your birthday wish. I hope it's okay."

Yejun followed her gaze, his eyes softening when he saw the meal. The black and red bento boxes were neatly arranged, each one filled with care. The smell of warm, savory food filled the air, cutting through the tension between them.

"Lychee," he murmured, picking up one of the delicate, translucent fruits from the smaller compartment. "I didn't think you remembered."

"I remember everything," she whispered with a faint smile, her hands trembling as she set the boxes down in front of him. "Chicken—glazed with sesame and soy. Just how you like it. And rice balls with spicy salmon and cucumber inside. I thought it'd remind you of... of how we used to cook together."

Yejun reached for one of the rice balls, a small chuckle escaping him. "You always made the best ones. And... I see you've got the tamagoyaki in there, too," he said, picking up the sweet egg rolls, cut into perfect squares. "I think I've eaten more of these than I care to admit."

"I burned them a lot when I first made them for you," Nami said, sitting down next to him, still watching him with uncertainty. "But I finally got them right. I hope they taste okay."

"They're perfect," he replied, his voice gentle, almost teasing as he placed a piece of chicken in his mouth.

They ate slowly, the air still thick with the emotions of everything unsaid, but lighter now. Between bites, Nami reached over to a smaller box and gently pushed it toward him. "I also made dessert," she said, almost shyly. "It's something I came up with. I call them 'Make It Up To You' Mochis."

Yejun blinked, surprised, then grinned. The tiny mochi balls were delicately arranged in a toothless-shaped paper cup, each one painted with tiny hearts and gold dust. "Let me guess—they're filled with guilt and desperation?"

Nami laughed, cheeks coloring. "No, but maybe a little love and white chocolate raspberry. The pink ones have lychee cream. They're kind of cheesy, but... so am I."

He bit into one and let out a low hum of approval. "These are dangerously good. You should patent this." She smiled, proud and relieved.

After the last few bites of their meal, Nami reached into her bag and pulled out a small, clear case. Inside were two custom Lego figures—mini versions of themselves, dressed in tiny T-shirts. Yejun's wore a shirt that said "I ♥ My GF" and had lipstick kisses dotting his Lego cheeks. Nami's wore a matching "I ♥ My BF" top and held a mini microphone.

"And this," she added, pulling out a tiny Toothless figurine wearing a party hat, "is your emotional support dragon. He's the guardian of your desk now. Or your tour bag. Whichever comes first."

Yejun held the gifts like they were glass, completely still for a moment. Then he looked at her, eyes bright. "You did all this... for me?"

Nami nodded. "Because I missed you. Because I love you. And because I never want to mess things up like that again."

He set the gifts down carefully and reached for her hand. "You didn't mess it up. We're here now. That's what matters."

They stayed there, quietly eating together, the soft clink of their utensils the only sound. The tension that had haunted their silence faded with every bite, and Nami finally felt like she could breathe again because there, in the quiet of the room—bento boxes empty, dessert half-finished, and tiny Lego versions of themselves grinning nearby—they leaned into each other, full of something sweeter than anything she'd packed in the box: forgiveness.