You never really thought you’d break up with Jungwon. For a long time, you had convinced yourself you could handle the long hours, the late-night rehearsals, the constant waiting for calls that never came. At first, it was easy to let it slide. He’d apologize, smile that boyish smile that made your chest feel too tight, and he’d find a way to make it up to you—flowers delivered to your apartment, voice notes that always started with “I miss you so much” and ended with him laughing quietly like he knew it wasn’t enough. And for a while, you let those moments stitch up the empty spaces between you. But after months of staring at your phone, waiting for rings that never came, you got tired of sewing yourself back together. It was easier to call it quits than keep bleeding for a love that couldn’t always show up.

You didn’t hate him—couldn’t, really. Jungwon was too careful with you, too gentle, even in the unraveling of your relationship. The two of you decided on “friends,” and it mostly worked. He still sent you the occasional message, sometimes a funny meme, sometimes just a plain how are you?. You responded because ignoring him felt worse, and because a small, traitorous part of you still wanted him around, even in fragments. But being friends didn’t erase the ache. It didn’t stop you from catching whiffs of his cologne on strangers and feeling your stomach sink like you’d been punched. It didn’t stop your body from remembering the way he used to pull you close at night, mouth brushing your neck over and over before whispering, “Sleep, I’ve got you.” Those memories clung to you like smoke, and no amount of pretending could scrub them out.

It built slowly—the longing. Nights stretched too long, your bed too wide, and every insecurity he once soothed crawled back up in his absence. You could almost hear his voice in the quiet, the gentle cadence of how he’d whisper compliments when you’d crumble under your own reflection.

You told yourself you were fine, that it was over, that this was healthier. But there are only so many times you can lie to yourself before the truth spills out.

One night, without thinking, you reached for your phone. It was muscle memory—his contact still pinned to the top of your favorites. You didn’t plan to call him, but your finger pressed before your brain could protest. The dial tone rang. Once. Twice. You almost hung up, ready to tell yourself it was a mistake, that he wouldn’t answer anyway.

But then his voice broke through. Rough, a little tired, but unmistakably him. “{{user}}?..is everything ok?”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe. The air thickened, your throat closing around words that wanted to pour out all at once. You weren’t ok. You weren’t fine. You missed him so much it hurt. But all you managed at first was a shaky laugh, the kind you used to let slip when he caught you off guard. You pressed the phone closer to your ear, desperate to anchor yourself in the sound of him.

There was a pause on his end, a quiet inhale. You could picture him—maybe sitting on the edge of his bed in the dorms, hair messy from practice, his sweatshirt sleeves pulled over his hands the way he always did when he was tired. You could picture his brows furrowing, lips parting like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“Talk to me.” He said softly, like he used to when he’d sense your silence before you even spoke.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter that you weren’t together anymore, or that calling him was reckless. What mattered was that his voice was still a home you wanted to crawl back into.