Work Text:
The worst part about being over someone is realizing your body never really got the memo.
Jay lies on his back, staring at the ceiling that he's memorized down to the faint crack near the corner. His bedroom is dim, lit only by the warm, tired glow of the lampshade on his bedside table.
Everything else is a shadow—his jacket draped over the chair, the half-open closet, the pitch-black night beyond the window, barely visible through the sheer curtains drawn to one side. The speakers hum softly, volume low, looping the same song that's been on repeat for hours now.
Calling you late at night
Talking 'bout nothin'
But we're always laughing
Jay exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like that'll keep something from breaking open in his chest.
It doesn't. It never really does.
It's late. Too late to be spiraling. Too late to pretend it's not one of those nights—the kind that ache like an old wound, like a cut that never quite heals and bleeds again when you least expect it. He'd gone the whole week fine. Better than fine, actually. Jay had kept himself busy, distracted, and normal that he'd even thought, stupidly, that maybe he was past this part. Past the nights where silence pressed in on him until it felt unbearable, until the void swallowed him entirely.
Then the grocery store happened.
Earlier today.
Jay hadn't been looking for him. That's the cruelest part. He was standing in the produce aisle, phone in hand, basket in the other, mentally debating whether he really needed apples. That was when something in his chest went tight for no reason at all.
He looked up.
And he knew.
It was only a glimpse across the aisle, almost obscured by shelves and people moving between them, but Jay would've recognized him anywhere. The familiar profile. The same slope of the nose. The same way Jungwon always leaned slightly forward as he walked and read labels, like the words might run away if he didn't pay attention. Even the sweater—the one he wore everywhere, like it belonged to him more than anything else ever had.
Memories embedded in the back of his mind came flooding back to the front. Jay froze. Actually froze—feet locked, breath caught, heart slamming so hard it made him dizzy. Jungwon was right there. Alive. Real.
And then he was gone.
Jungwon turned into another aisle without ever glancing up, disappearing between rows of shelves, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his presence. No pause. No hesitation. No chance for Jay to decide whether he would've wanted to be seen.
God, it hurt more than it should've.
These dumb conversations
They raise my affections
The song drifts through the room, soft and cruel, and Jay squeezes his eyes shut. He can still hear Jungwon's voice, clear as day. He could never forget the sound of it—low at night, a little slurred when he's sleepy, always asking if Jay was still there even after he'd already answered.
It's been a long time since they broke up. Long enough that Jay has learned how to function around the empty space Jungwon left behind. Long enough for him to know that he shouldn't be lying here, alone, without another weight beside him, the mattress dipping under someone else's presence.
Long enough that he still remembers the nights Jungwon used to sneak out to spend it at Jay's. The shoes left by the door, the jacket draped over a chair, Jungwon slipping under the sheets like he belonged there. Like it was theirs. He remembers how Jungwon would press close, still smelling faintly like outside and streetlights, whispering about nothing and everything until exhaustion won. How Jay would stay awake longer than necessary, just to feel him there, just to make sure he was real.
Jungwon used to leave before morning sometimes. Other times, he didn't.
Jay's bed used to be warm because of him.
Now it's just cold.
And after that encounter at the grocery store, all he can do now is replay the way Jungwon's hands had looked wrapped around a basket of groceries like they used to wrap around Jay's wrists, gentle and thoughtless.
What makes it worse is realizing it was the same grocery store—the one they always went to together without thinking twice. Jay holding the basket like it was his role, Jungwon drifting ahead, picking things up, turning them over in his hands, and placing them inside. The weight would build gradually in Jay's arm, unnoticed until it wasn't—until Jungwon laughed and asked if he needed help, until Jay insisted he was fine.
He remembers the way they argued over brands like it mattered that much: cheese slices versus blocks, chocolate cereal or honey-coated, cookies and cream or rocky road ice-cream, grape juice or apple juice. Mundane things. Ordinary things.
Seeing Jungwon there alone, basket in his own hands, felt like walking into a memory that hadn't been meant for him anymore.
Those were the good times
And I miss the old times
Jay lets the words sink into him, sitting heavy in his chest. The song keeps playing, unfazed, like it doesn't know it's reopening something Jay spent months teaching himself how to live around.
He rolls onto his side and reaches for his phone before he can think better of it. The screen lights up the room in a white wash, contrasting the lamp's warmth. For a second, the sudden brightness makes him squint. Notifications, the time—nothing matters. His thumb moves anyway, muscle memory more than intention.
Contacts.
He scrolls. Slowly.
And there it is.
Jungwon.
Still saved. Still there. Always has been and probably always will be.
There's no heart next to his first name only. No nickname. Jay had erased those on a night just like this, fingers shaking, telling himself it was necessary and that it meant something—moving on—like moving on needed confirmation that he was actually doing it, like he owed recovery. So he set everything back to default in settings.
As if that helped.
Have I told you lately?
That I miss you badly?
He stares at the name until it blurs.
All it would take is one tap. One press. He can already imagine it—the ring on the other end, Jungwon's voice when he answers, warm and familiar and devastating all at once that his whole world would come crashing down. Jay almost laughs at himself for how easily his body leans into the thought, for how quickly it responds to the idea of being heard by him again.
His thumb hovers over the screen, trembling just enough that he notices.
Sometimes I wish that I could still call you mine
But that's the thing. He can't. Not anymore.
Jungwon isn't his anymore.
What would he even say?
Hey, it's been a while.
Hey, I saw you today.
Hey, we haven't talked in a long time.
Hey, I never really stopped missing you.
Jay swallows hard. His grip tightens around the phone, knuckles going pale. The silence stretches thick, as if the room itself is holding its breath along with him.
Then he locks the screen.
The light disappears quickly. The room sinks back into dim light and dark shadows just like that. Jay presses the phone to his chest like that might quiet the ache, even though he knows it won't and he knows it doesn't. This isn't the first time.
He sets it back on the bedside table, face down this time, as if it'll stop tempting him again. Jay stares at the ceiling once more—at the crack in the corner similar to the crack in his heart—at the things that haven't changed.
Now all I've got is the stain on my blue jeans
The only way I could remember
That you were once mine
Jay blinks, and suddenly he remembers.
The blue jeans. The ones buried in his closet, on the top shelf, almost hidden behind his darker shirts. He hadn't thought about them in months, but now the memory comes rushing back, jagged and exact. The faded denim. The splotch of deep red wine near the thigh. The night he had promised he'd take care of it. That he'd do the laundry. That he'd make it right.
He'd spilled it on Jungwon, of course. Jay had laughed nervously, apologized a thousand times, and insisted he'd washed it. Jungwon smiled anyway, had shrugged as if it didn't matter, had let Jay touch him then, soft and patient.
But he never did.
He never washed them. He never returned them.
Because by then, it had been a week later when they broke up.
The memory tastes bitter in Jay's mouth, like he'd swallowed it raw and held it down all this time. Yet, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to throw them away. Not even now. Not after all this.
The blue jeans turned fragile. After the breakup, Jay treated it like the most delicate thing in his bedroom, folded them neatly, and placed them on the top shelf with deliberate care. He refused to clean the stain. Decided it was better left as it was. A permanent mark. Proof. Evidence. A little rebellion against forgetting. A little way to say—he had been here, he had been mine, even if it was just for a while.
He can't stop thinking about it.
Does Jungwon think of it at all? Of the jeans, of the spill, of the way Jay had promised to take care of it and failed? Of the touch he let linger, of the nights before, of the week after? Does Jungwon remember it the way he does, vividly, all too well?
Your voice were lullabies
I would be listenin'
'Til I was sleeping
Jay swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He stands slowly, almost reluctantly, and crosses the room to the closet. He knows exactly where the top shelf is, where the blue jeans have been resting for months, untouched and unmoved. And yet, tonight, he can't stop himself. He needs to see them. Needs to confirm they're still there. That they still exist. That nothing, somehow, has completely erased what once was.
He reaches up, fingers brushing the folded denim, pulling it down carefully. The fabric is heavier than he remembers, stiff at the edges where it's been stacked, the faded stain sharp and stubborn against the deep blue. Jay holds it in his hands, close to his chest, and inhales.
The scent hits him before anything else. It's subtle but unmistakable—the faint trace of Jungwon clinging there, the way he always smelled after a day out, after a long shower, lingering on the clothes he touched, the hair he tucked behind his ear, the skin that had brushed against Jay's.
It still smells painfully like Jungwon.
It's awful in a way that makes his throat tighten, and his chest crumble all at once. It's like the jeans are holding on to him instead of him holding on to them. It refuses to let Jay forget.
Jay presses the denim against his face. He lets the smell wash over him, lets himself be swept into memory—the way Jungwon used to lean against him, the way his head rested on his shoulder like habit, the way his voice sounded exhausted in the early mornings. He hates how it hurts, but he can't stop. Can't turn away.
Jay wonders—does Jungwon still wear the same fragrance? The one he loved so much, the one Jay would catch on the collar of his jacket and remember for days? Even after all this time, Jay wants to believe that at least one thing about Jungwon hasn't changed. That somewhere, a trace of who Jungwon was with him, still lingers in the world exactly as he remembered it.
But he doesn't know. He has no idea. Jungwon could be anywhere. Learning anything. Laughing at someone else's jokes. Touching someone else's hand. Jay doesn't know if he's changed, or grown, or found a new favorite café, a new book, a new routine that doesn't involve Jay at all.
Because as for Jay, nothing has really changed.
He's still the same. Still who he was—who he once was with Jungwon.
Jay is still the same person since the day he lost Jungwon.
The blue jeans are heavy in his hands. The scent is there. The memory is there. The ache is there. He lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, it's still enough to keep Jungwon alive in his own room, in his own chest, even if the rest of the world has moved on.
Jay refuses to let it go. Not yet. Not tonight. Not when it feels like a lifeline, like a piece of Jungwon left behind. He smooths the denim, the faded lines of the fabric with his fingertips, making sure it stays folded just the way it was, intact. The stain catches the lamp's dim glow, and he lets his eyes linger on it for a beat longer than it should.
Then, with care, he lifts it back to the top shelf of his closet. He doesn't shove it in, doesn't let it fall into the darkness among the other clothes. Jay places it gently, exactly where it's been lying for months—upright, folded, a ghost of something he once held.
Not Jungwon's. Not anymore. It belongs to him now. To the memory he can still touch, can still reach, but cannot live in.
Jay steps back and stares at it for a long moment. His bedroom feels quieter somehow, as if the jeans themselves had absorbed all the tension in his chest. He exhales, but the weight doesn't leave.
For a second, he imagines Jungwon reaching up there, fingers brushing the denim. Jay smiles faintly at the image of it—and then shakes his head lightly, letting the thought slip.
Jungwon isn't coming back. Never like this.
Some loves leave marks you can't wash away.
Jay learned that the hard way.
The blue jeans remain there. A ghost, yes, but one he refuses to discard, because it's evidence. Proof that once, he was not alone. Proof that once, someone had been his, and had let him be theirs.
Jay turns back towards the bed, the lamp throwing long shadows across the room. He sits at the edge, legs dangling, gaze downcast on the floor. The song loops again, like an emotional loop, like nights repeating, thoughts recurring, like being stuck in a cycle. The lyrics have become overly familiar now. He allows it to settle fully in his chest anyway.
He's alone. The apartment is silent. The jeans are silent. And yet, somehow, the ghost on the top shelf feels enough to keep Jungwon alive in here—for now, at least—in Jay's memory, in the smell of fabric, in the ache he can't avoid, can't ignore.
He lies back down, hugging the pillow tight against his chest. Jay leaves the lamp turned on, casting soft, warm glows on the ceiling, over the crack, over the cold sheets, over the bedroom.
But our situations
It stopped our relations
Why did we end it?
Don't want to believe it
Jay knows exactly why.
It happened here—right here, in this apartment, in the kitchen.
Jay had been standing by the sink, one hand braced against the counter, the other gripping the edge like it might keep him steady. Jungwon was across from him, leaning against the island, arms crossed, eyes tired. It was late—past midnight, when the overhead lights drooped low and yellow, soft shadows over the counters and the floor. They were both drained from the day, voices already exhausted and worn thin before the argument even started.
Jay can't remember what they were fighting about anymore. Something small, probably. Something that turned into something else. It always did. One point led to another, then another—rebuttals stacked on top of counterarguments, old frustrations and unrelated things dragged to the surface. There was always a reason, always something to say back.
What he remembers is the moment it shifted.
The exact second his words landed wrong.
He said something he shouldn't have, words that slipped out too sharp, too careless. Jungwon had flinched that night, just slightly, but it was enough for the silence that followed, enough for the way Jungwon's eyes had looked at him afterwards—hurt, distant, and guarded. Jay had tried to apologize, fumbling and stammering over the right things, but the damage was done.
The kitchen never really let it go.
Even now, it feels mildly wrapped in that night, as if the walls remember the fight. Jay avoids standing there for too long, avoids the moments when the lights hum overhead and when the room feels too big for one person. It's like the argument soaked into the floor, into the counters, into the space between appliances—unseen, but lingering.
The rest of the apartment moved on.
The kitchen didn't.
It's haunted in every corner.
He hates himself for it. Hates when the memory intrudes again without permission. Hates that one careless moment—one stupid, selfish thing he said—became the wedge between them. He has to live with the fact that he is the reason Jungwon is no longer here, the reason he can't reach him, the reason the blue jeans on the top shelf of his closet are all that's left of what once was.
He closes his eyes, lets the song wash over him again and again and again.
And for the first time tonight, Jay allows himself to quietly feel it all: longing, regret, love, and loss, all folded neatly together, just like the blue jeans on the shelf.
Still there. Still here.
Always has been.
Probably always will be.