Work Text:
Morning light spills across your bedroom floor, stretching slowly toward your desk where your laptop waits. The room feels smaller these days. Your bed has become a break room. Your dining chair has become your office chair. Every surface holds reminders of emails, deadlines, and the endless cycle of virtual meetings.
You roll over and reach for your phone before you are fully awake. His name is at the top of your notifications.
Beomgyu.
Your chest tightens the moment you see it.
You answer the video call, and his face fills your screen. His hair falls over his eyes in soft waves, slightly messy in a way that makes your heart ache. He looks warm and real, framed by the small box of your phone.
“Good morning, baby,” he says, voice still husky from sleep.
You try to smile. “Morning.”
He studies you quietly. “You worked late again.”
You shrug. “Meetings ran over. Everything blends together now.”
He nods slowly. He understands the feeling of long schedules and exhaustion, though his world looks different from yours. Rehearsals, recordings, endless preparation for his upcoming online concert. He told you about it last week with excitement shining in his eyes.
“You’re watching, right?” he asks softly.
“Of course I am,” you say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
His lips curve into that familiar grin. “I’m going to look at the camera that feels closest to you.”
The thought makes your throat tighten. The distance between you stretches across cities, regulations, and uncertainty. The screen holds his image, yet your arms remain empty.
“I miss you,” you admit quietly.
His smile fades into something softer. “I miss you every day.”
The call ends when he has to leave for practice. You sit at your desk afterward, staring at your reflection in the dark screen before your next Zoom meeting begins. Your apartment feels silent again.
Days pass in a blur of muted microphones and shared screens. You sit upright in video calls while your heart drifts elsewhere. Sometimes you catch yourself wondering what your boyfriend was up to, imagining the rehearsal hall where he stands under bright lights, running through choreography with the other members.
He sends you short updates between practices. A selfie with sweat-damp hair. A quick video of him strumming his guitar. A whispered “I wish you were here.”
You reply during breaks between meetings.
“I wish I could see you on stage in person.”
“I wish I could see you in the audience.”
The online concert arrives sooner than expected. You request time off from work that afternoon so you can prepare without rushing from a spreadsheet to a livestream. Your manager approves with a polite message, and you close your laptop with relief.
You clean your apartment even though no one will see it. You change into comfortable clothes. You arrange your laptop carefully on your coffee table and connect it to your television so the screen feels bigger.
The countdown begins.
Your heart beats faster with each second.
The screen lights up with the familiar group logo. The stage appears, glowing under dramatic lights. When Beomgyu steps into view, your breath catches.
He looks beautiful.
His hair is styled carefully, every strand thoughtfully placed. His outfit fits him perfectly. Confidence shines in his expression as the music begins.
You press your hand to your chest while he sings the opening lines. His voice travels through your speakers and fills your apartment. The sound feels intimate despite the scale of the production. Cameras glide around the members, capturing every detail. When the lens focuses on him, you lean forward instinctively.
During an upbeat song, he grins brightly at the camera. He winks, playful and mischievous. You laugh out loud, alone in your living room.
“Show off,” you whisper.
In the middle of the concert, the lights dim for a slower performance. The atmosphere shifts. He steps closer to the camera during his part, eyes steady and full of emotion. His voice softens, and every lyric carries a weight that settles into your chest.
You imagine him thinking about you.
You imagine him remembering all the late-night calls and the way you used to sit beside him while he played his guitar for your in his room.
Tears blur your vision as he holds a note, eyes shining under the stage lights.
The concert continues with energy and laughter. The members speak to the audience between songs. He waves enthusiastically at the camera, cheeks flushed from dancing.
You clap along in your quiet apartment.
When the final song ends, the screen fills with confetti and smiling faces. The members bow deeply.
Your living room falls silent once the stream ends.
The silence feels heavier than before.
Your phone rings within minutes.
You answer immediately without hesitation.
He appears on your screen, still in stage makeup, hair slightly damp from sweat. His smile is wide and tired at the same time.
“Did you watch me?” he asks.
“Every second,” you reply.
“How did I do?”
“Baby, you were incredible,” you say honestly. “I’m so proud of you, you know?”
He exhales, shoulders relaxing while he walks down the backstage hallway. “I kept wondering where you were watching me. I tried to picture you.”
You swallow. “I was on my couch. Crying during the slow song.”
He laughs softly. “You cried?”
“Yes.”
His expression grows tender. “I was thinking about you while singing it.”
The confession settles between you.
“I wish I could have been there,” you say quietly.
“I wish I could have walked off the stage and hugged you,” he answers.
The connection flickers for a moment, and his image freezes before returning. The unstable internet mirrors the frustration in your chest.
“I hate that this is how we see each other,” you say, voice trembling.
He leans closer to the camera. “We’re doing the best we can. This won’t last forever.”
You nod, though the uncertainty of the world makes it hard to believe.
Weeks stretch on.
Your workload increases. Projects pile up. Some days, you even forget to respond to his texts for hours because you are buried in paperwork and virtual presentations.
One evening, he calls while you are still in a meeting. You decline, intending to call back soon. By the time you finish, another rehearsal has begun on his side.
You finally reach him later that night.
“Sorry, baby,” you say. “I really had a lot to work on today.”
“I wanted to tell you something after practice,” he replies quietly.
Guilt twists in your stomach. “You can tell me now.”
He hesitates. “It’s fine.”
Silence lingers. You sense disappointment in his tone.
“I’m trying,” you say, voice rising despite yourself. “Work feels endless. I stare at a screen all day.”
“I know,” he responds gently. “I stare at just cameras all day.”
The tension grows because both of you are exhausted.
“I miss how things used to be,” you whisper.
“So do I,” he says. “But we are still us.”
The argument dissolves before it grows. You both understand that the frustration comes from distance rather than anger towards each other.
A few days later, you receive a video file from him with no explanation.
You open it immediately.
He sits alone in a rehearsal room, guitar resting against his knee. The stage lights are dimmed, and the space feels quiet.
“Hi,” he says softly into the camera. “I had some time before heading home.”
He begins to play.
The melody is gentle. His voice carries warmth and sincerity. There are no backup dancers, no dramatic lights, no cheering fans. The performance feels personal and raw.
He finishes the song and looks into the camera.
“I’m counting the days until I can see you again,” he says.
Your vision blurs again.
You replay the video three times before calling him.
“I loved it,” you tell him.
He smiles shyly. “I love you.”
Months pass. Restrictions ease gradually. Travel becomes possible again with careful planning and mask wearing.
You stand outside your apartment building, heart racing. The air feels different today, lighter somehow.
A familiar figure appears at the end of the street.
Beomgyu walks toward you with a small bag slung over his shoulder. His hair moves in the breeze. His eyes search the area until they land on you.
The moment your gazes meet, everything else fades.
He breaks into a run.
You run toward him too.
When you collide, the impact steals your breath. His arms wrap around you tightly, lifting you slightly off the ground. You bury your face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent you missed for so long.
“I missed you,” you whisper into his jacket.
“I missed you every single day,” he replies.
You pull back to look at him. He cups your face with both hands as if confirming that you are real.
“You’re here,” he says softly.
“I’m here.”
He presses his forehead against yours. The world feels steady again.
Later that evening, you sit side by side on your bed. Your laptop perched on his lap as you both watched the replay of the online concert.
This time, he lays beside you, with an arm around your shoulders while his stage self dances across the screen.
“You cried here,” he says, nodding to the slow song.
You laugh. “You noticed?”
“I know you,” he replies.
You lean your head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around you naturally.
The months of distance feel like a storm you survived together. The memory still lingers, yet warmth fills the space between you now.
“Thank you for staying,” you say quietly.
“There was never a question,” he answers.
The screen glows softly in front of you, but your attention stays on the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He leans in to press a soft kiss on your lips, hugging you closer to him.
For the first time in a long while, your heart feels complete again.