AN: I’m working on Vagarious. School’s been super super busy, and even though I do update on my main blog, all my writings have been left in my journal and it’s really hard to copy them down on Word without my parents knowing. T^T Thank you for sticking around! :D <3

I’d also like to add that it’s better to give than receive on birthdays, and my birthday’s not til Sunday, but this is my birthday and apology present to all you lovely readers that put up with my tardiness. T^T <33333333

It’s autumn, which means comfortable hoodies and steaming mugs of hot chocolate with three fluffy marshmallows slowly melting in chocolatey goodness and basically, autumn is the best season all year round.

You’re twelve and he’s thirteen, and you’re full of flaws and he’s perfect, but he doesn’t seem to mind being best friends with someone so unworthy of him. Or at least, that’s what you think.

He likes how he always sees you writing whenever he decides to hop over the fence and into your backyard during the day or through your window at night. Your smile is what caught his eye in the first place, but after three years of getting to know you, he likes your eyes and calloused hands the best while other guys look at your hips or your lips or your rear end and he hates that.

To you, sitting outside with said cup of hot chocolate and a blanket wrapped tightly around you as you stick your hands out to write is the best feeling ever. Everything around you is absolutely perfect; the flashes of city lights, the crisp cool air, the dead, crimson leaves, everything.


Your pen flies out of your hand and lands on the edge of the balcony as you scramble out of your cotton comfort and swat him with as much strength as you can. You can see the twinkle in his eyes as he sounds his “pain” because your strength doesn’t compare to his, and just by seeing that, you automatically stop and sit with your body huddled back in the blanket and away from him to show that, yes, you’re a little angry at him.

“Yah, I’m sorry, okay?”

You ignore him and take a spare pen out of your hair, a habit of always having two writing utensils that’s become mandatory in the past few years, and resume writing that story you’ve been working on for the past hour or so. Time doesn’t make sense when you write.

A weight lands on your shoulder and arms constricting around your waist as a warm breath tickles your ear in a strange contrast with the cold wind. “I’m really sorry, don’t be mad at me.”

You can’t think right now, much less put words on paper because he’s always had this mind-melting effect on you and you wish you could personally damn him for making his way into your cold heart.

“Fine, you’re forgiven.” You sigh and relax into his arms.

Contrary to popular belief, the two of you are not dating. His fangirls are simply ecstatic about that and you can’t say anything about your fanboys because you don’t have any, but there’s always that one imbecile that questions your relationship with him.

You wish you could say, “Yes, he is my boyfriend, and I love him.”

He’s quite touchy-feely with you at the age of thirteen, but maybe it’s because you’ve known each other since you were nine and he was ten and childish arguments do usually end up in forgiveness and everlasting bonds.

“Are you ever going to let me read your writing?”

“You ask me this every week, and my answer is the same.”


“You either shut up and let me write or make your way back home with no hot chocolate.”


“I asked her out and she said yes.”

That’s the first thing he tells you the minute he steps into your room through the window. He’s fifteen and you’re fourteen and you’re expecting this because who wouldn’t go out with this perfect person, but the stabbing pain in your heart is starting to become a little too much.

His sudden outburst had caused you to draw a long line across the paper and intersecting with the other strokes, but the little frustration in your brain isn’t functioning over the sadness.

“__________? Did you hear what I said?” he questions confusingly.

“C-come again?” Your voice cracks pitifully and you hope he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t, as he’s too excited with his new relationship status, and happily repeats his words. “I asked her out and she said yes.”

Your hair hides the side of your face, and when you say, “Good for you,”, he can tell you’re smiling.

But what he doesn’t know is that your smile is fake and broken.


It’s three months after that when he crawls through your window and his eyes are slightly red as if he’s been trying to hold back from crying and you know he has because everyone in the school knows what happened.

You put down your journal and pen to scoot closer to the wall on the bed so he has enough room and lift up your arms in a gesture that says, “It’s okay, I’m here.”

He’s strong, but you’re the only person he can ever break down in front of without feeling like a wimp, and he chokes a sob and hugs you around the waist and buries his face into your stomach as you wrap your arms around his head and run your fingers through his blonde-dyed scalp to calm him down.


He only stops by your window every few days now as his nights are consumed by dancing and singing.

You know his goal to be a professional singer and dancer, and he talks about how he’s singing for you, and only you.

No, you guys still aren’t dating, just the best friends with the female side holding unrequited love.

“I got in, _________. I made it.”

“You made what?”

“I passed the audition. I’m going to finally sing and dance.”

Passing the audition means no more nightly visits, no more hot chocolates during autumn and winter, no more eating ice cream straight out of the tub, no more macaroni and cheese at three in the morning, no more this, and no more that.

“I’ll miss you.” You give a watery smile and the tears break before you can hold them back.

He smiles and walks over to envelop you in a tight hug, burying his head in your hair.

“I’ll miss you, too,” he shakily breathes.


When he leaves, you’re not there to say goodbye, and he’s a little disheartened about that.

But you’re secretly watching from the window and crumbling into a mess as his figure disappears in the car with his luggage.


In the beginning, when there were hardships or his trainer yells at him for not doing well enough, he stands back up by remembering that he’s doing this for you, his sister-like friend.

But deep down inside, he knows he loves you much more than that.


You never forget him.

How could you, when all you do in your spare time, is write about him?


As the years go by, he slowly forgets the girl with calloused hands and perfect eyes and a perfect smile.

He slowly forgets the foundation of his dream.

But he goes ahead anyways.


“Annyeonghaseyo! We are ____________!”

Crowds of hormonal teenage girls yell and scream their voices out with biased posters and lightsticks as they do their formal introduction.

The concert goes by a flash in his eyes and before he knows it, he’s sluggishly trudging off stage with a tired smile and into the makeup room as the coordi noonas wipe off the pounds of oil off his face.

He loves it, really. He loves the lights, the fame, the songs, the dances.

But why did he do it in the first place?


“I love your scenarios!” the message reads.

You got a blog about a year ago after his group debuted and published all those stories you had written. Your followers are amazing, and there’s always that one person that hates on you for the most random reasons and tells you you’re wasting your time, but it’s nothing big.

Everybody gets it.

This is the only way you feel truly connected to him, besides watching videos of their songs and interviews.


When he looks at his hyung’s laptop over the latter’s head, he sees that it’s opened on one of those fanfiction pages for their group.

“Why do you even read these? They’re never true.”

“It’s interesting to see what our fans think. Oh, but there’s this one girl. She writes really well, and all her stories are about you.”

He looks flabbergasted because he’s considered one of the less popular members in the band.


“Dude, it’s like she knows you in real life or something. Everything you do in her stories would be something you would do now.”

“Shut up.”

His hyung spins around in his swivel chair and gives him a pointed look.

“I know you very well, and you haven’t really changed much since trainee years, and these stories are just…wow.”

Before he can say anything, the latter rips off a sticky note from his desk and scribbles the URL down and sticks it on his outstretched hand.


Every cup of hot chocolate mentioned in her stories gives him a nagging feeling; a sign that says, “You’re forgetting something very important.”


“It’s really you!”

He’s decided to discretely stop by his house and when he entered the house with his spare key that got hidden under all his crap in his “home” labeled box, his mother started crying and glomped in a tight hug.

His father comes and joins the family hug because he hasn’t seen his son in a very long time and it’s about three minutes later when they all decide to let go and eat some lunch.

“Will you go visit _________-ah?”

He frowns. “Who?”

His mother looks at his father with a horrific look because how could their son not remember her?

“____________. The girl who lives across the street from us,” his mother hesitantly says.

Long hair, calloused hands, almond eyes—

Hot chocolate—


“There was a girl that lived across the street from us?”


“He doesn’t remember you, and we know he doesn’t have amnesia or anything. Do you mind bringing some old photos you guys took?”

Those are the words that his mother told you through the phone, away from his sensitive ears.

Fate likes to play with you in ways like this.

“Sure, I’ll bring some now.”

“Thank you.”


You fish the box of photos out of your closet and lightly blow the dust out the window.

You forgot that your old writing journal is in there.


His mother can see the broken expression in your eyes as she somberly takes the box from you.

“I…I hope he remembers, ahjumma.”

“I hope so, too, dear.”


“Here. You don’t have any schedules, right?”

He shakes his head as his eyes are glued onto the dusty box. “Are those the pictures?”

“Yes. Take all the time you need.”

The box lands in front of him on the bed and his mother leaves his room to give him the privacy that’s so hard to find in his current life.

He takes out the first photo album.


An hour and thirteen minutes later, he’s remembering the girl.

The girl that always writes whenever he sees her, the girl with the perfect smile, the girl who’s so insecure about herself, the girl who made him hot chocolate whenever he came over—

But most of all, she’s the girl that his career is all for.

“I’ll sing for you. I’ll be famous one day and sing songs for you.”

“You’ll be singing them for fans, not just me, silly boy.”

He’s perused through all the photo albums and about to bash his head against the window because how could he forget the girl that he loved so dearly?

But there’s a single journal that lies on its back in the box, and he automatically wonders if this is her old writing journal.


You’ve never let him read your writing and he wants to know why because your stories are beautiful.

They’ve all been posted on the Internet, but he’d rather read them in your own handwriting.


These stories. In the journal and on the blog. The fanfiction. The striking fact that you know what he would do.

You’ve never forgotten him.

He tosses the journal away and sprints out the door to your house.


You’re writing again when your window slides open and he pops in like all those times four years ago.


“I finally get to read your writing.”

This isn’t how the reunion played in your head.

“After all these years,” he continues in a shaky voice, “I finally get to read what you write.”

You’re still completely frozen on your bed when he crosses the room in two long steps and wraps his now muscular arms around your stick figure.

“I didn’t mean to forget you,” he breathes in your neck. “I really didn’t, I’m so sorry—“

You shush him gently and run your fingers through his hair in a comforting gesture, just like all those years ago.

“You know, I like it when you do that to my hair. It makes me sleepy.”

His lips touch your neck, then your ear, and then ghost over your cheek before rising to your forehead.

“I love you,” his lips move on your forehead.

You know that troubles will ensue when it comes to dating an idol publicly. You know that fangirls will get mad; you’ll be constantly threatened; you’ll be within the paparazzi’s radar; the two of you won’t be able to see each other much.

But it’s okay because all that matters is that he loves you, you love him, he trusts you, and you trust him.

He’s perfect, you’re full of problems and cracks, and you definitely don’t deserve someone as wonderful as him, but for once in your life, you’re going to be selfish and—

“I love you, too.”