Chapter Text
The door finally slams shut, the sound reverberating around your apartment until it fades out.
The silence is deafening.
You’re panting, unsure of if it comes from how much you’d yelled and screamed for the past hour or from the way tears are just now beginning to slip down your cheeks, your throat closing up, breath becoming harder and harder to find.
Your hands tremble- they’re shaking ridiculously hard as you gasp in breaths, staring at the door as if he was going to walk back in at any moment.
You stare for a while.
You give up on waiting for him quicker than you thought you would.
Your eyes flit over to the glass on the floor just a few feet away. His blood is still on some of the shards, a few drops pooled on the tile next to the shattered picture frame. Your hands are still shaking as you force yourself to walk to the cabinet under the sink and pull out something to sweep up the glass with.
As you’re brushing the remains of your frame into the bin, you feel a little piece get stuck in your pointer finger. It stings, but you don’t mind. The pain distracts you momentarily from the way your chest feels entirely empty. The pain feels like something, and that’s new for you.
The frame is gone, but the photo that had been inside is still lying on the ground, blood splattered across your figure within it. You pick it up, gently, brushing the now dry liquid over with your thumb. You touch your smiling cheeks, and then pass over his. It’s so foreign now, seeing a smile on both your face and his at the same time.
But you guess you won’t have to consider how to make that happen anymore.
You know there’s more to clean. The vase in the living room is broken, too. He hadn’t meant to break that one, at least. Still, the water from the lilies inside had probably seeped into the carpet and would most likely either stain or be damp for the next few days. Not to mention rotting flowers strewn across the floor in between pieces of china glass.
You know there’s more to clean, but you feel so empty. So, so empty. And your emptiness draws you to your bed, where you lay down, shut your eyes, and escape from your reality.
You run the argument through your head day in and day out, since you can’t bring yourself to leave the house. Sometimes it’s too difficult to even leave your bed.
You think back to how it started; the same way your fights always do- did… did. Did. There won’t be any more.
They always started with him coming home later than he said he would. They always started with you sitting on the couch, a book in your hands but none of the words processing because you were so paranoid about where he’d been. They always started with a lack of hellos, a lack of I’m sorrys, a lack of how are yous. They always started with that drumming feeling of heartbreak you’d have pounding in your chest when he would walk in and drop his keys on the table, then ask you why you were still awake.
It was obvious to you, it always was. Why wouldn’t you be awake? You were waiting for him. You were trying to be a good fiancee and wait for your husband-to-be to come home, to kiss him a welcome back, to bring him gently to bed you could fall asleep together instead of on your own.
It seemed the opposite to him. He always tried to tell you he wanted you to go to sleep and rest, since he didn’t know when he would get home. And you tried, a few times, to do what he wanted you to do. But then you’d hear him on the phone when he thought you were asleep, and you’d hear him coming home later and later, and you’d end up waiting for him anyway, panic in your eyes and tear stains just under them.
That argument had started the same way all the others did. But all the others stopped at some point- stopped because you cried and he hated seeing you cry, or because he would tell you he was too tired to fight and would go to bed, or because you had something prepared for him to eat and the two of you could steep in your frustration in silence while having a very late dinner.
That one didn’t stop, though. You were too tired to cry. He was too awake to go to bed. You had no energy to make food. And you wanted to hurt him.
The desire had been so strong, then. You still feel remnants of it- that burning want to watch him crumble, watch him cry like you had so many times. You wanted him to feel like you felt all those nights waiting for him- hopeless, alone, sad, frustrated. You wanted him to hurt because then maybe he’d finally see your side of things and understand why you were the way that you were.
But all that had happened were hundreds of nasty words being thrown back and forth. You were embarrassed of some of the things you’d said to him, now. Other things you stood by. Regardless, nothing had ever felt worse than watching him rip the ring off his finger and throw it somewhere you couldn’t see. Nothing felt worse than watching his face contort in pain and tears well up in his red eyes as he shouted, gripping onto your wrist in hopes that you would listen.
Nothing felt worse, but you’d forced yourself not to shed tears, to rip your hand away from his, to tell him that you didn’t want any more excuses, to tell him that… that you just couldn’t do it anymore.
He had been in pain. He was hurt, just like you wanted. It didn’t feel good, though. It felt like the pain that had been pulsing through you for months was just burning fiercer.
The words he yelled resonate in your head over and over. You hear them as soon as you wake up, at random points throughout the day, before you drift off to sleep.
“It’s not like you ever loved me, anyway.”
They’re the only thing that hurts you more than all the sleepless nights, than all the missing texts and calls, than all the cancelled dates, than all the listening to phone calls praying they really were just to a coworker. They’re the only thing that makes you regret the decision you’d come to about the relationship.
“It’s not like you ever loved me, anyway.”
Where had he gotten that idea? Where in all the things you said to him had he gotten the idea that you never loved him? All your suffering, all the loneliness you had put yourself through just to be with him for (if you were lucky) an hour a day, had come from your love. You love him more than you love yourself. You love him so incredibly, so drastically, and so terribly, that you put up with suffering for months and months just because you had some kind of hope that his love would come back.
Shouldn’t it have been you saying those words?
A week passes and you hear a knock on your door.
You’re groggy as you get out of bed, having stayed in the whole day once again, and as you open the door, you’re met with a handsome face that you know all too well.
“Baekhyun,” you greet, and he wordlessly pushes into your apartment, looking around with a disappointed expression.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asks, skipping the hello. Just like he used to do.
“Doing what?” you ask, but you know exactly what he’s referring to. He’s talking about the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, the wrappers of unhealthy food strewn about the kitchen, the way you’d thrown out the rotting flowers but the broken vase is still in pieces on your living room floor.
“How are you living like this?” Baekhyun asks, shaking his head.
“You know how,” you say, your voice weak. He must know how, or he wouldn’t be here at all.
His head snaps towards you, a stern look on his face. “Y/N,” he says, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “You need to talk to him.”
You shake your head immediately, hands beginning to shake just at the thought of it. “No, Baek, I’m not doing that-”
“You need to.” he says harshly, and takes a few quick steps forward until his hands are on your shoulders. “He’s just as devastated as you. He’s been drinking himself into a fucking depression, he misses you so much. You know him, you know he needs you and you need him just as much.”
“Why didn’t he miss me a couple weeks ago?” you ask bitterly, the empty feeling in your heart all to present. “Why didn’t he need me then?”
Baekhyun sighs, teeth running over his lower lip in exasperation. “Listen, he was busy with work. He loved you then and he loves you now and a few busy months shouldn’t ruin your relationship Y/N, you’ve worked so hard to be together-”
“You don’t know shit, Baekhyun,” you snap, your hands still shaking violently. You pull away from him, turn your back to him to lean on the counter. “I was used to him being busy with work, but I should never have gotten used to him coming home at two in the morning yelling at me to go to sleep so he could make phone calls. I shouldn’t have gotten used to falling asleep crying and alone while he was in the other room. Or spending weeks wondering if he was going to try and talk to me at all outside of a few minutes at home. How could he say I never loved him when he abandoned me like that, Baek?”
He’s quiet.
The silence is loud, like it always is to you.
“He loves you.” Baekhyun finally says. You don’t move. You don’t even flinch. “He loves you so much.”
“If he ever loved me at all he wouldn’t have done what he did.” you say, voice ever so slightly shaky as you talk. You grit your teeth. “He left me far before I told him to get out.”
Baekhyun sighs. You hear the sound of something being left on the table, and soon after, the familiar sound of the door closing.
Your mom comes to visit you three weeks after the end.
She strolls in holding a pot of soup and a plate of your favorite desserts stacked on top since you told her you’re sick rather than telling the truth.
The truth is that you don’t know how to tell anyone you know that isn’t in contact with… with him, that it’s over. You two had been together for four years- four years don’t just go away in one night.
You yourself know it wasn’t just one night, but you also know that your mom and your friends will wonder how it all went down with a single fight.
“Oh, sweetheart,” your mom says as she sees the state of your apartment. You’d forced yourself to wash the dishes and throw out most of the wrappers and clean up the vase, but somehow, everything still looked wrong. Maybe it’s the way all your photos with him are flipped around, or the way the house has no scent since he was always the one who lit candles, or maybe the emptiness of your heart had leaked into your living space. “You must be really sick, huh?”
You nod, pathetically, brushing a hand through your hair. “It’s been rough.”
Your mom smiles, presses her hand to your cheek. “I’ll heat the soup up, you go lay down on the couch.”
You nod again, following her words and walking past the kitchen where your mom goes to slump onto the couch. Your hair splays underneath you, and suddenly you felt too hot- your heart is racing and you know exactly why.
Sitting here, looking towards the door, reminds you of all those sleepless nights. Reminds you of praying, begging God to send your fiance home for once. Praying for him to love you back.
“Has Yeol been home to take care of you the past few weeks?” your mom calls innocently from the kitchen.
You freeze. The pain that’s barely started dulling fires up again. Is it even pain? It feels like a hurricane that’s just ended in your chest; the storm is over, but you’re broken all over, and you have no idea where or when to start fixing yourself.
“No,” you reply weakly. You don’t know how you’ll make this whole visit without spilling to your mom about the fight. “He’s busy with work.”
She tsks, and you can picture her expression clearly. “That boy… always working! He’s very passionate, at least, but he should be here looking after you! Ah, I should give him a call… sometimes all it takes is a call from the mother-in-law…”
“No, no!” you exclaim, maybe a little too frantically. “It’s okay, mom. You don’t need to call him.”
There’s a pause where you panic and think your mom is definitely going to ask you if the two of you broke up.
Instead:
“Ah, my Y/N, always so independent, doesn’t even need her mom to interfere!”
She walks out with a bowl of her special soup on a tray, placing it on your lap before sitting across from you in the armchair, leaning her hand on her hand.
“How’s dad?” you ask after a few sips, feeling a little awkward, although you know it’s only you and it’s because you’re so tense.
“Good!” your mom pipes up. “The doctor says he’s improving, actually.”
“Oh, great,” you say, and the conversation continues on.
You don’t know how you thought your mom wouldn’t catch on at all. Especially when you’d forgotten about the turned around photos. Why couldn’t you just have thrown them all away as soon as you’d had the energy?
You’re standing by the doorway saying your goodbyes as your mom needs to drive home before it gets too late, when she notices.
“Ah, Y/N, where’s the picture of you and Chanyeol from the day he proposed?”
She’s touching the bare space on the counter where the frame had proudly posed before. You opened your mouth to reply- ‘it’s right here, I knocked the frame off accidentally and it broke, but here’s the photo’-
“Why are the pictures turned around?” Your mother rounds on you with furrowed brows. “Are you two okay?”
The words are on the tip of your tongue. It would be easier to lie, to put it off until you’re better. To tell her you’re fine, and that they were just really dirty… or some other bad excuse. But you find yourself tearing up, hands shaking again, feeling raw, harsh, wet emotion unlike anything you’ve felt recently.
All your pain has been empty so far.
Now it feels like after the hurricane, you’re being hit with tidal waves of memories, and all the regret that comes with them.
“No,” you whimper, and your mom’s face falls. “We’re not okay.”
“Y/N,” your mom says, taking your hand. You break into sobs, trembling, as she takes you into her arms.
Your mom spent the night that night, since she wanted you to tell her everything. She was calm, asking why you had never said anything about the frustration you’d been feeling about your relationship. She told you that yes, he was in the wrong but you should try to see things from his perspective too. She told you, the only time you could see that she was hurt too, that she desperately wanted to see you and Chanyeol under a wedding arch with smiles on your faces. She thought the situation was reparable.
You’re just not sure if you want to repair it.
Can you do it? Try again?
You think about it the entire next day, knowing your pain is no longer the pain that Chanyeol’s actions caused, but rather what his absence has.
You miss him, and that scares you.
It terrifies you really, and so you push the thought out of your head and force yourself to forget about it.
You also force yourself to go back to work, leaving your ring on because you know you won’t be able to explain if you take it off.
It’s the fifth week after, when you get a text that surprises you.
<<Other Mama^^
Y/N, Yeol told me about your fight. He was upset before, but now he’s just angry. He won’t tell me the full story, and I know his side makes you seem worse than you are. Please tell me what happened, why you decided to end it. Please know that we all continue to love you despite this.
The message breaks your heart, because Chanyeol’s mom has always been like this. Kind, good-hearted, just like Chanyeol. Or at least, you thought he was the same. He had been, the first three years of your relationship.
>>Other Mama^^
I can call you tonight, if that’s okay? Thank you for asking about my viewpoint, I love and miss you dearly
Your conversation with your mother-in-law… well, not so much that anymore… your conversation goes well. She sighs deeply when you explain how alone you’d been for months, and she grumbles to herself when you tell her that he’d get mad when you would stay up late to wait for him. “His father did that to me, too,” she told you. “They get over it, of course. I hope that you’ll talk to him, Y/N. Everyone will miss you too much… please talk to him.”
You tell her that you’ll think about it.
On the seventh week, you’re considering calling Chanyeol. It’s been nearly two months, and the pain isn’t as bad anymore. It still hurts. It hurts when you see the framed pictures by accident, it hurts when you scroll past an instagram photo that he’s tagged in, it hurts when you’re awake at night in the bed that you shared and you realize you haven’t smelled his cologne in so long.
You find your fingers hovering over the call button on his contact picture a few times, but you can never stomach the effort it takes. You’re terrified- you’re terrified that if somehow, you end up together again, you’ll be happy for a few months, and then things will spiral down all over again. Life is not happy now, life is boring and repetitive and ordinary, but at least it’s not tears and heartbreak everyday. You would rather this life than go through everything again.
You’re considering it, until you scroll past a picture that has your heart stopping.
It’s from Baek’s instagram. He’s in the edge of the picture, beside him Kyungsoo, Sehun, and at the back, Chanyeol. Only draped around Chanyeol’s neck are feminine arms, and a girl’s lips pressed against the corner of his mouth, her hair falling across her face so that the camera can’t capture her appearance.
It’s not the kind of pose you do with a friend. It’s more intimate than that, and you know Chanyeol well enough to know that he wouldn’t do that with a friend anyway.
Quickly, you text his older sister to ask if she’s hung out with Chanyeol, Baek, and Kyungsoo lately, but she replies that she hasn’t, as she’s been busy with her own friends and work.
You feel like throwing up. Here you were, considering trying to make things work with Chanyeol, thinking of if you could find some way to repair things, to explain to him when you weren’t tired and upset that you do love him, you love him so ridiculously much that the image of another girl with her arms around him makes you panic, heartbeat erratic, eyes squeezing shut.
You let out a strangled sound, the kind of sound someone makes when they’ve been kicked while they’re down. You push your phone away from you, pressing your hands against the table, bile rising up in your throat, before a devastated cry rips from your throat, and you’re crying.
You cry and sob until you’re left heaving, no tears and no breath, your cheeks wet and your eyes dreadfully red.
>>Baek
Can I bring you the stuff that Chanyeol left here tomorrow? Since he hasn’t come to get anything
<<Baek
Have you talked to him yet??
>>Baek
No and I don’t see why I would need to. Clearly he does not want to try, so I won’t either
<<Baek
He hasn’t picked up his stuff yet because he doesn’t see this as the two of you being over for real
>>Baek
Sure, that’s why he told me that he thinks I never loved him.
<<Baek
Y/N.
>>Baek
I’m bringing his stuff tomorrow. And don’t do something stupid like invite him over when I’m coming. I’m serious.
<<Baek
Fine bring his stuff do whatever you want
He loves you and you love him and you’re making a mistake by trying to end this over something so small
>>Baek
It’s not fucking ‘small’, Baekhyun. It’s not small if I was in tears every night for months on end. He did this to himself. Stop defending him.
<<Baek
Goodnight, Y/N
You sigh deeply, tossing your phone onto the couch where you won’t see it for another few hours, depending on if you can fall asleep tonight.
You do your hair and makeup and choose a put-together looking outfit before going to Baekhyun’s apartment, since you want him to think you have your shit together at this point and you’re no longer a mess. You are. You are still a mess, but if Baekhyun thinks you’ve moved on, he might stop bugging you about talking to Chanyeol.
It feels wrong- taking Chanyeol’s clothes out of the dresser and the closet, packing up his headphones and knick-knacks, pair of shoes by the door you hadn’t had the heart to move before. You end up with four boxes of his stuff, and struggle considerably getting them down to and into the car. Once you get on the road, you text Baekhyun that you’re on your way and that you’ll need help bringing them up to his floor since Baek’s complex doesn’t have an elevator.
The drive to Baekhyun’s place feels shorter than usual. You think it’s because for some reason you feel nervous, halfway expecting that Baekhyun has something planned.
Regardless, you pull into the parking lot and park as close to the entrance as possible, knowing you should try to make it as easy as you can.
And as your eyes glance over the rearview mirror, you realize that you were right. You knew he would pull something like this. You knew it.
Because hovering tensely by the entrance to the building is Park Chanyeol- his tall frame enveloped in a hoodie and jeans, hair mussed and lazily swept over his forehead. He’s staring at your car, you can tell that at the very least, but he’s too far away for anything else to be assumed.
You sigh, throat closing up. You can already feel emotions sweeping through your chest, your head, everything. What the fuck are you going to do? You don’t want to talk to him. You’d rather not speak to him ever again. He is the only person in your entire life who has caused you so much pain and so many tears. He is the only person you’ve loved who has broken your heart so deeply, to the point where you know if there is ever anyone else, you’ll be a much more careful lover than you had been before Chanyeol. He is the only person you can look at and know you’d do anything for him, and yet the only person you can look at and know you’re tragically, pathetically, afraid of. Afraid of what he might do to your heart if he ever holds it again.
That’s why you want to stay away from him. You don’t want more broken picture frames with drops of blood everywhere. You don’t want dead flowers on your living room floor. You don’t want shattered memories and emptiness in your apartment, in your bed, in your soul. You love him above all else, you know you still do, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He hurt you too bad to get you back, and you suppose that that picture on instagram proves that he doesn’t want you anymore regardless.
You pull out your phone, tapping on Baekhyun’s contact and typing out a furious, long message wherein you tell him your friendship is over.
And then you glance back at Chanyeol, still looking at the car, hands in his pockets. And you delete the text.
.>>Baek
I’ll call you later to talk about this.
Your friend’s reply comes in just a few seconds.
.<<Baek
I’m just trying to help you
You choose not to respond, instead steeling yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing slowly for around thirty seconds to try and calm your beating heart. You won’t cry. You won’t show that you’re upset. He won’t ever know how much you’re hurting.
And then you open the car door, stepping onto the asphalt of the parking lot, your heeled boots clicking as you shut the door and walk to the trunk, opening it without so much as a glance behind you.
You can hear his footsteps approaching, but all you do is lift up the first box, the lightest one with the little knick-knacks he kept around, and set it on the ground to the left of your car.
“Y/N,” he says, and you think your heart stops.
You haven’t heard his voice since that night, since the very last thing he said to you almost two months ago.
“It’s not like you ever loved me, anyway.”
You know you’ve paused a little too long, probably long enough that he thinks you’re willing to talk to him, because suddenly his hand is on your shoulder, and the familiar weight of his fingers nearly touching your skin has your breath completely gone. You hate this feeling. You hate what he does to you, how it’s so painfully obvious how much you love him even if you desperately wish you didn’t.
“Y/N, turn around,” he says, and his voice is low, quiet. It sounds tired, it sounds sad, it sounds like he’s on the verge of giving up.
You ignore him. You can’t do what he’s asking. You won’t.
You pick up the second box, flicking his hand off your shoulder as you hoist it onto your hip and then stacked on top of the first one. This one has a bunch of his clothes in it- hoodies that stopped smelling like him, basketball shorts, tees, dress clothes that he rarely ever wears. The next one is full of more, because he has a ridiculous amount of clothing.
“Please.” his voice cracks. You pause again, back turned to him, hands on the next box, waiting to pick it up. You don’t know what to think, or what to do. Why did you think you could do this? It would have been easier to just drive to one of Chanyeol’s other friends’ house and leave his stuff there instead.
“Why?” you ask, barely above a whisper. You grab the box without waiting for an answer, and bring it over to the other two, setting it on top and turning ever so slightly to walk back to the car. He grabs your wrist before you have a chance to react, and pulls you so that you’re facing him.
You can’t help but scan his face- it’s only natural. It’s something you’d done everyday for so long.
His eyes are the first thing you notice. You can’t look into them, but you can look at them, and you see right away the exhaust within them- not only the way there’s dark purple half-moons under his lower lashes, but the way he’s looking at you with a deep, drained countenance.
His skin is sallow, his cheeks look less full than you remember, his hair looks like he hasn’t brushed it or even touched it in way too long. His eyebrows are drawn together, downturned, and the corners of his lips are turned down as well.
He reminds you of yourself. If you hadn’t put makeup on today, if you hadn’t actively tried to look normal, you’re sure you and him would be reflections of each other right now.
“Don’t ignore me. Please.” he says, words clipped and tight. You stare at him, knowing your hands have begun shaking, knowing being this close to him, is wearing down on your ability to stay removed from the situation.
“Let go of me,” you say, voice coming out in a shudder, your eyes falling to the ground, watching the ground between your feet and his.
“Please,” he repeats.
“Chanyeol,” you say, sharply, and he stills, his grip on your wrist loosening, his breath stopping. You feel the lack of it on your face.
A few moments pass in silence, and you’re ready to turn around and leave with the last box still in your trunk, but Chanyeol’s voice bleeds into your ears again.
“I miss you,” he says, and you think your heart is breaking all over again.
He must see the change on your face, because he scrambles to hold onto you as you begin to pull away, sliding his grip on your wrist to your hand and pressing his other hand to your shoulder, holding onto you with a desperation that you’re fighting to get away from.
“Please, Y/N, don’t leave, don’t ignore me, I know you feel the same way,” he breathes, fingers digging into you to keep you in place.
“Do you?” you respond, refusing to look at him. “Why would I miss you if I never loved you?”
You know it’s a bitter and petty thing to say, but you are bitter, so you say it.
Chanyeol reels back like you’ve hit him, though he doesn’t let go of you.
“What?” he asks, and you scoff, feeling the burning of tears in the corners of your eyes. You need to leave quickly, you don’t want him to see you cry.
“That’s what you said. That I never loved you anyway.” you say, although your voice is choked. You rip your hand out of his, pivot and hand him the lack box before he can try to grab you again.
“No, Y/N, I didn’t-” he starts, sounding more desperate as you shut the trunk. He practically throws the last box next to the others, grabbing your wrist again before you can get the car door open. “I didn’t mean that, I was just angry, and upset, of course I know you love me, and- and you said things like that too! I know we both said things we didn’t mean, and I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry, but I just… I just-”
“Stop it,” you snap, turning around and meeting his eyes, really meeting his eyes, for the first time today. He freezes, seeing the tears that you can’t keep from falling. “Stop trying to do this. Please.”
“I need you,” he murmurs, leaning forward, leaning into you. His hands come up to rest on the junction between your neck and your shoulders. You can see that he’s crying too, now, as he presses his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me.”
You shake even harder at those words. It’s the kind of thing you wanted to hear months ago, when you thought things could be saved. It’s what you wanted him to say when he would slip into bed after snapping at you to stop waiting up for him.
All you can think about now is the way that other girl has her lips on his skin, her arms around his neck. She was touching him, holding him, just like you used to, and he let her. He felt her warmth and he enveloped it, he didn’t push her away.
What had he been doing these two months? Was he just trying to get you back because some kind of fling failed? Is she the same girl you were always paranoid he was on the phone with at night?
“Stop,” you say once again, and push him off with all your strength. He stumbles back, tearstained cheeks and wide eyes staring at you in shock.
You take the opportunity to get in the car, shutting and locking the door before he can get to you. You see him out of the corner of your eye, hear him shouting your name as you back out of the parking spot, but all you do is wipe your tears and try to breathe, hands shaking as you turn the wheel.
Park Chanyeol has ruined you.
You can at least be sure of that.