Again

The tickets sit on your desk, undisturbed, their glossy surface catching the dim glow of your bedside lamp. You don’t even need to read the text printed on them anymore. The details are already burned into your brain.

A fan sign.

It was supposed to be special, you remembered. Something to look forward to for weeks, marked on your calendar with a little star. You were supposed to show up, tease her about messing up choreography, make her laugh in the middle of a serious performance, see that look in her eyes that was just for you.

Now, the tickets is a stain on the table.

Your phone is face-down beside them, dark screen hiding the messages you haven’t opened yet. The well-meaning texts from friends, the casual work notifications, all messages except from her.

Wonyoung.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The memory of your last call with her is still fresh, the words playing over and over like a song stuck on repeat.

“I just don’t have time for this anymore.”

“For us, you mean?” “Mhm.”

It was disturbingly calm, measured, like it was just another item to tick off on her to-do list. There had been no anger in her voice. No hesitation.

That…hurt more than anything.

You had wanted to say something, anything to make her stop. To remind her of the nights spent whispering over the phone until she fell asleep, of the rare moments when she let herself be vulnerable with you, of the way she would light up the second she saw you waiting for her backstage to take her to eat a whole cow together.

But you couldn’t mutter a voice, just sitting there, phone pressed to your ear, fingers gripping the fabric of your hoodie so tightly it threatened to tear.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

That was three days ago, by the way.

Three days of checking your phone too often. Three days of convincing yourself you were fine. Three days of staring at these damn tickets on the desk and trying to figure out why you hadn’t just thrown them away. You should sell them. Give them to someone who’d actually enjoy them.

But you didn’t do anything.

Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s the stupid and stubborn part of you that refuses to admit that she’s really gone. Whatever the reason, you find yourself gripping them tighter instead of throwing them away.

You decided that you will go.

Not for her. Not to see her. Not at all.

Just so you don’t have to sit in this room, drowning in thoughts of what used to be. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Mhm. Yep. That’s about it.

-

The venue is packed.

Fans shuffle forward in line, their chatter buzzing in the air like static. Excited whispers, rustling light sticks, the occasional squeal when a favourite member’s name is mentioned. Your fingers tighten around the album in your hands. (Ironically you still hold onto her album)

This is normal for them. For the fans around you, this is just another fan sign. A chance to meet their idols, to share fleeting moments, to walk away with a signature and a memory they’ll cherish for years.

You should feel the same, of course. Instead, you’re just… tired. But seriously, who could blame you, you’re about to come face-to-face with your ex-girlfriend and she has no idea you’re here.

Your grip on the album tightens as the line inches forward. The first few members greet you with polite smiles, their voices light and bubbly. You do your best to respond normally, but your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the inevitable moment that keeps creeping closer and closer.

You don’t need to look up to know she’s at the end of the table. And then, oops, there’s no more time left.

Your album slides across the table. Long, slender fingers stop it in place.

And then her eyes meet yours.

She looks the same. Still flawless, as always. Every strand of hair perfectly in place, makeup soft and ethereal under the bright overhead lights. And those sparkly boba eyes that you often got lost in.

But…she’s not yours anymore. Not at all.

Maybe there was some sort of recognition, surprise, and who knows what else that crosses her face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a carefully neutral expression.

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then…

“Hey.”

It’s awkward. Too awkward. You can feel the tension hanging between you.

“Hey.”

For a split second, she looks like she wants to say something else. Like she wants to break the script, ignore the rehearsed greetings and practiced smiles. She doesn’t. Which is obvious, she’s Jang Wonyoung.

Instead, she picks up her pen, the mask slipping back into place. Her expression evens out, and in a voice so perfectly professional it almost stings. She says, “Thanks for coming.” Just like she would to any other fan. Your stomach feels like it will belch out all the depressing episodes out.

You should’ve known. Of course, she wouldn’t acknowledge it. Not here. Not in front of all these people where her image is so pristine.

Still, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. “Of course. Would’ve been a waste of money if I didn’t.”

She presses her lips together, nodding slightly. “Right. Can’t have that.”

She signs her name, her handwriting as neat and practiced as always. But there’s a hesitance in the way she moves, a slight delay before she lifts the pen from the page. When she finally pushes the album back toward you, her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. Then…

“Take care, okay?”

She’s looking at you now. Really looking at you.

And for a moment, just one fleeting moment, she’s not the Jang Wonyoung, the IT girl, the global superstar.

She’s just…Wonyoung.

The girl who used to call you late at night just to hear your voice. The girl who used to lace her fingers through yours under the table when no one was looking. And the girl who also told you she didn’t have time for you anymore.

The words stick to your throat. You genuinely don’t trust yourself to say anything.

So you just…don’t.

You just take the album, stand up, and walk away. And even as you disappear into the crowd, you can still feel her eyes on you. You will be fine. Should be.

Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

It’s been a few days since the fan sign, and you’ve buried yourself in anything that keeps your mind occupied: work, games, mindless scrolling through your phone. Anything to keep yourself from replaying the look on Wonyoung’s face at the fansign. From remembering the way she hesitated before handing your album back. From thinking about the way her gaze kept flickering toward you as you walk away, as if she was looking for something. Or someone.

But that’s not your problem anymore. You told yourself that the moment you left the venue.

Which is why, when your phone starts ringing at an ungodly hour, you almost don’t check the caller ID. The second you see her name flashing on the screen, you groan immediately.

Jang Wonyoung.

The ringing continues, each second stretching unbearably. You should let it go. Turn off your phone. Pretend you never saw it.

But you don’t. Because deep down, you know you still want to hear her voice. So you answer.

“…Hello?”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment, followed by a breathy and drawn out giggle. Aiya, why is she being weirdly affectionate again? It only happens when she is drunk.

“Dummmyy!” she hums, stretching your nickname like it’s some sweet, familiar melody.

Ah, she is drunk. “Wonyo. Are you drunk?” You sigh, ignoring the way your nickname for her easily rolled out of your tongue.

She giggles again, the sound loose and unguarded. “Mmm… maybe.”

“Goddamn it.” You rub your temples. “Where are you?”

A rustling noise filters through the receiver, followed by the distant hum of traffic. “Somewhere,” she mumbles. “Some bar, I think. The girls took me out.”

Figures. You shift in bed, propping yourself up against the headboard. “It’s late.”

“I know,” she says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “But I wanted to call you.”

“Why?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, there’s a soft exhale before she says, “Because I miss you.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone. “Don’t do that, please.”

“Do what?” “Say things you don’t mean.”

“But I do mean it. I do miss you.”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. “Well, that’s not my problem anymore, is it?”

She goes quiet.

For a moment, all you hear is the faint sound of music in the background, the distant chatter of people. She’s probably in the back of some high-end bar or a private lounge that someone of her status often went. You can picture it too easily—her long hair falling over her shoulders, her lips painted red, the glow of the city lights reflecting in her eyes.

Your heart beat rapidly at the image.

“You came to the fansign.” she says suddenly, cutting into your thoughts.

You rub at your temple. “Mhm.”

“Why?” “You already know why.”

“Say it anyway.”

You sigh. “Because I had the tickets. It would’ve been a waste.”

She lets out a humourless laugh. “Right. Can’t have that.”

There’s another long pause. Then, almost hesitantly. “Did you feel anything?”

Your eyes widened. “Feel what?”

“When you saw me again.” Her voice is quieter now. “Did you feel anything?”

Your jaw clenches. You want to lie. Want to say no, not at all. That it didn’t matter. That she doesn’t matter. But you can’t.

Because the truth is, you felt everything. The way your heart clenched when she looked at you. The way your stomach twisted when her fingers hesitated over your name. The way your mind screamed at you to move on, to stop letting her affect you, to stop caring.

But you don’t tell her any of that. Instead, you settle for, “Who cares anyway.”

“Why not?” “Because we’re done, Jang Wonyoung.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, you wonder if she’s about to cry.

“You-” She stops, swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is unsteady. “You didn’t even try to fight for me.”

Your grip tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white. “You were the one who ended things. On the phone, may I remind you.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And I thought it was the right choice. But now I just—” She breaks off, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t know anymore.”

It would be so easy to give in. To tell her that you don’t know either, that you still think about her, that you still wonder if maybe this wasn’t supposed to end like this.

But what’s the point? She made her choice. And you’re tired of being the one left picking up the pieces nor being the second choice.

“You’re drunk, Jang Wonyoung,” you say, voice carefully even. “Go home and go to sleep.”

“Wait—” “Goodnight.”

And then, before she can say another word, you hang up. The silence that follows is deafening.

Thank fuck, you can finally breathe.

Or at least, it should be.

You did the right thing, you tell yourself. Cut it off before it could spiral any further. Before you let yourself believe, even for a second, that anything has changed.

But still, the weight in your chest lingers.

The room feels too quiet now, the kind of silence that presses in from all sides, making it impossible to ignore the thoughts creeping into your head. You lie back down, throwing an arm over your eyes, willing yourself to sleep.

You don’t know how much time passes before you hear it.

A knock.

Wait what the fuck?

At first, you think you’re imagining it. Sleep-deprived, emotionally drained, and still reeling from that damn phone call, your brain must be conjuring things that aren’t real. But then, the knocking got more insistent. Erratic, yet insistent.

Your brows furrow. You sit up, straining your ears.

“Who the hell…?”

It’s almost 3 AM. No one in their right mind would be visiting you at this hour. Then again, you just got a call from a drunk girl not in their right mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s louder this time, clumsy and uncoordinated, like whoever’s on the other side can barely keep their balance. A sinking feeling settles in your stomach. You begrudgingly throw off your blankets and push yourself up, padding toward the door. Your hand hovers over the handle for a second before you sigh and pull it open.

And there she is.

Wonyoung.

She’s standing there in the dim, flickering hallway light, wrapped in a thin coat that does nothing to protect her from the cold. Her long hair is slightly tousled, the glossy perfection from the concert gone, strands falling loosely over her shoulders. She sways just the slightest, a delicate wobble on unsteady feet. Her lips are slightly parted, eyes glassy. And most likely not just from the alcohol.

You blink. She blinks back, like she’s just now processing that you’re standing in front of her.

Then, with absolutely no warning, she wobbles forward, collapsing against your chest.

You barely manage to catch her. “Jesus—Wonyo.” You gently hold her arms, steadying her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Surprise, hehe~”

You let out a sharp breath. “Surprise? You’re seriously—” You stop yourself, jaw clenching. “How did you even get here?”

“I took a taxi,” she announces, like that justifies her showing up at your door past midnight after breaking up with you.

“Alone?” “Mmhmm.”

Your stomach twists. “Wonyoung, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

She just hums, leaning more of her weight onto you. Her forehead presses against your shoulder, and you can feel the slight tremble in her body.

You sigh, tightening your grip. “You’re freezing.”

“I was walking.” “Walking where?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she tilts her head back to look at you properly. Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something she’s probably been holding in for too long. But then, she hiccups.

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “You’re so out of your mind.”

“You hung up on me,” she murmurs.

You pull back slightly, just enough to see her properly. “Yeah. I did.”

“That was mean,” she says, pouting. “I was talking.”

“You were drunk.” “Still talking.”

You shake your head, adjusting your grip on her. “Come on. You need water. And sleep.”

She hums, letting you guide her inside. “Only if you let me stay.”

You pause. She sounds very sober just then… before the giggles come back, burying her face in your chest, and you decide that you’ll deal with that in the morning. But for now, you just hold her close.

You sigh, pressing your lips into a thin line as you shift your grip on her. She’s barely standing at this point, practically melting into you like she has no bones in her body.

“Alright, come on,” you mutter, wrapping an arm around her waist and leading her inside.

She stumbles slightly, her fingers gripping at your shirt as she giggles under her breath. “You smell nice,” she mumbles.

Ignoring that, you close the door behind you with your foot, guiding her toward the couch. She flops onto it with zero resistance, her coat slipping off her shoulders. The moment she’s down, she tilts her head back, blinking up at you like she’s expecting something.

She doesn’t hesitate. Stumble inside like she belongs here.

And maybe that’s the problem. She did belong here. Now? Now you don’t know.

Her eyes lazily drift across the apartment, lingering on the things she still remembers—the half-empty cup of coffee on your desk, the hoodie she used to steal draped over the chair, the faint indent in the couch where she used to curl up next to you.

Then she noticed your desk, the same desk where the fansign ticket sat just days ago. The same one she saw in your hands at the fansign days ago.

“You really came,” she murmurs, not looking at you. “I didn’t think you actually would.”

You shrug. “Like I said. Would’ve been a waste.”

She flinches. Just the tiniest bit. Then she exhales slowly, arms wrapping around herself. “It was weird.”

“What was?”

“Seeing you there. But not… There, you know?” She fully looks at you now. “You didn’t smile. You didn’t tease me like you usually do. You barely even looked at me.”

“What did you expect?” you ask quietly. “You dumped me, Wonyoung. You can’t just expect me to act like nothing happened.”

She presses her lips together, fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve. “I know.”

You wait. Give her the space to say what she came here to say. But she doesn’t. Not right away.

She defeatedly sighed, tucking her knees under her chin, looking smaller than she ever has before. She stares at her hands for a long moment before mumbling, “I don’t know why I came here.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you drunk-called your ex, then showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night without a plan.”

She frowns. “I do have a plan.”

“Yeah?”

She huffs. “Step one: get inside. Step two…” She falters, looking away. “…I didn’t think that far.”

You shake your head. “Pff, ok princess.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken.

“Do you hate me?”

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to say no. Because of course you don’t hate her. You never could. But that’s not the right answer, is it?

So instead, you tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I want to. But I can’t.”

She looks up at you then, eyes searching. Hopeful and afraid all at once. “I messed up, didn’t I?”

“Yea. Big time.”

She swallows. Lowers her gaze again. “I thought breaking up would make things easier. For you…for both of us.”

“Did it?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I was scared,” she says, and her voice is so small, so unlike the confident idol the world knows, that it almost hurts to hear. “I thought I was being selfish, holding onto you when I barely had time to see you. I thought you deserved more than stolen moments and rushed phone calls.”

Your jaw clenches. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted.”

“I know, I thought I was making the right choice.”

You sit down across from her, legs spread, elbows on your knees. “And now?”

She meets your gaze, vulnerability laid bare. “Now… I just miss you.”

Your heart leaped a mile. This was the Wonyoung you always see. Not the glamorous and model-esque Jang Wonyoung everyone always see on TV. Not the well-spoken and powerful public figure everyone knows. Just…a gentle yet bubbly girl who snuggled up next to you on the couch at the end of the day.

But your brain should tell her to leave. To sleep it off, to sober up and think about this when her mind is clearer.

Then she reaches out just the slightest, her fingers brushing against yours on the couch. And you don’t pull away.

“You’re drunk,” you remind her, though your voice lacks conviction.

She smiles faintly. “Thanks…Mr. Obvious.”

Silence. Then, tentatively, she pleads: “Can I sleep here tonight?”

You already know your answer, aren’t you? Look down at how your hand already intertwined with hers.

“Go get a blanket. Wonyo.”

She doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like she’s memorising you all over again like the first. Then, with a small, almost relieved nod, she gets up and stumbled into your bedroom as she dragged you along. You know, the same bedroom she used to slip into after long schedules, the same one she used to call ‘ours’.

And just like that, the distance you tried so hard to create crumbles.

Again.