𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄; boysnextdoor

lover ; woonhak

Y/N always the listener, never listened. Woonhak always the lover, never loved.

It was an unspoken rule in their friendship: Y/N sat on the worn-down bench by the school courtyard, listening to Woonhak spill stories like a river breaking through a dam. He talked with his hands, his voice animated, flitting between excitement and frustration. Sometimes, it was about his dreams of traveling to Paris, the way the city lights seemed to promise something magical. Other times, it was about how his math teacher gave him a detention for talking too much. He'd laugh, but there was always an edge to it, as if the punishment didn't sting any less despite his jokes.

Y/N nodded in all the right places, her gaze fixed on him, but her thoughts were always half a step removed. She liked watching the way his hair caught the light, the way his smile crooked to the left when he thought something was funny. But when it came to her turn to speak, when he'd pause and ask, "What about you, Y/N?" she always deflected.

"Nothing interesting," she'd say, shrugging like her life was too mundane to matter. And he'd let it go, launching into his next story, filling the silence she left behind.

Woonhak always the lover, never loved.

He had a reputation for being too kind, too open, the kind of boy who gave and gave until there was nothing left. He lent his classmates pencils he never got back, helped the lunch lady stack trays when no one else volunteered, and stayed up late on calls with friends who only ever needed him when they were sad.

"Why do you do it?" Y/N asked him once.

"Do what?"

"Care so much."

Woonhak tilted his head, his expression softening. "I don't know. I just... do. Doesn't everyone?"

No, she thought. Not everyone. Not her.

Y/N was quiet in ways that made people think she was aloof, maybe even unapproachable. She wasn't cold, not exactly, but she kept her walls high, her emotions hidden. She'd perfected the art of smiling just enough to seem polite but never enough to invite closeness.

Except with Woonhak. He didn't tear down her walls; he simply leaned against them, talking and laughing until she forgot they were there.

But even with him, she held back. She wanted to tell him about the way her chest ached whenever her parents fought, how the cracks in their marriage seemed to echo in her own sense of belonging. She wanted to tell him how lonely she felt in a room full of people, how she sometimes wondered if she'd ever be enough for anyone.

Instead, she listened. And he loved.

One afternoon, as they sat in their usual spot, Woonhak pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "I wrote something," he said, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Like a poem?"

"Kind of. More like... thoughts."