Yeonjun was never loud, but he never had to be. He entered rooms like a memory, quiet, already familiar, and impossible to ignore. There was something about the way he carried himself, like he knew the ending to every story but still chose to stay for the beginning. People noticed him because he didn’t ask to be noticed. You noticed him because you couldn’t help it.

He had a voice made for late nights and half-truths, always saying just enough to make you think you understood him. But you don’t think anyone ever really did. He kept pieces of himself tucked away in places no one was allowed to reach, especially not you, not fully. And still, you tried.

When he looked at you, you felt like you mattered. When he left, you questioned if you ever did.

Yeonjun was all unfinished sentences and late replies. He made you feel like you were too much and never enough, all at once. He told me he needed time, space, clarity—but he never once asked what you needed. you don’t think he meant to hurt you. you think he just didn’t know how not to.

And yet, if he walked in right now, you don’t know if you’d walk away. That’s the thing about Yeonjun, he leaves, but he never really leaves you.

You flip off a taxi as it drives away, leaving you stranded and late to your job at Vogue, worst of all, you have a deadline. Sudden when you lose all hope you see that familiar car and hear that familiar voice

“Need a ride?” Yeonjun’s question lingers in the air as you feel your heart stop for a moment, you turn to his backseat and see him looking out the window with that smug smile