Chapter Text
Hong convinces himself it doesn’t matter.
That whatever he and Nut had—if it could even be called that—was shallow, temporary, and easily forgettable. Something that slipped into his life without permission and left just as quietly.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Not even a final message to overanalyze.
Just absence.
And somehow, that silence says more than anything Nut could have written.
The first few days feel unreal.
Hong keeps opening their chat out of habit, his thumb moving on instinct rather than intention. The last message is still there—something mundane, something unfinished.
“Did you eat?”
It doesn’t look like an ending.
It looks like a pause.
And that’s what traps him—the illusion that maybe, at any moment, Nut will come back and continue the conversation as if nothing happened.
But he doesn’t.
Hong learns quickly that silence is louder on social media.
Because Nut isn’t gone.
He’s just… gone from Hong.
Still posting.
Still online.
Still existing in a world Hong can see but no longer be part of.
Instagram Story: @nutnutt_
A blurry night drive. City lights stretched into streaks.
“some things don’t work out, and that’s okay.”
Hong watches it once.
Then again.
And again.
His chest tightens, because it feels intentional. Like a message disguised as something vague enough to deny.
Is that about me?
He hates that his first instinct is to assume it is.
He hates it even more that he hopes it is.
He doesn’t react.
Doesn’t reply.
Doesn’t exist in Nut’s notifications.
But he keeps watching.
At 2:17 AM, Hong finds himself back on Nut’s profile.
It’s almost mechanical now.
Click.
Scroll.
Pause.
Nut looks the same. Smiling in photos, surrounded by people Hong has never met, living a life that continues effortlessly without him.
There’s no sign of loss.
No hint that anything is missing.
And that realization stings more than being left.
Twitter/X: @hongwrites (private)
“I wish I never met you.”
He posts it knowing no one will see it.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.
But there’s always that small, irrational part of him that wonders—
What if he checks?
What if he still cares enough to look?
Hong starts building a version of Nut in his head.
One that hesitates before opening his stories.
One that lingers on his posts a second too long.
One that wonders, just like he does—
How is he doing?
It’s comforting.
It’s pathetic.
It’s entirely imagined.
Because reality is simple.
Nut treats everyone the same way he treated Hong.
The same casual kindness.
The same easy attention.
The same words that felt special until they weren’t.
Hong notices it in the comments section.
Nut replying to someone else:
“take care, okay?”
“don’t stay up too late.”
The exact same phrases.
Copy-pasted affection.
Nothing personal.
Nothing unique.
That’s when it starts to sink in.
There was never anything to lose.
One night, Hong stares at his ceiling, phone resting on his chest, screen dim but not off.
“I don’t even know you,” he says quietly.
And it’s the most honest thing he’s admitted to himself so far.
He doesn’t know Nut.
Not really.
He knows fragments. Conversations. Carefully curated moments that felt deeper than they actually were.
He knows the version of Nut that exists in late-night vulnerability and soft laughter through voice notes.
But he doesn’t know the whole person.
And maybe he never did.
Instagram Story: @hong.mp4
Black screen.
No caption.
He watches the viewer list longer than necessary.
Scrolling slowly.
Searching.
There’s a part of him that expects to see Nut there. That still believes—
For some reason, he must be keeping tabs too.
But the name doesn’t appear.
Not that night.
Not the next.
Not anymore.
It forces Hong to confront something he’s been avoiding.
All this time, he thought the feeling was mutual.
That somewhere, in some quiet moment, Nut was thinking about him the same way.
Missing him. Wondering about him.
But there’s no evidence of that.
Only assumptions.
Only projections.
Only the desperate need to believe he mattered more than he did.
Twitter/X: @hongwrites (private)
“you’re not thinking about me. i just needed you to be.”
This time, he doesn’t check the views.
He doesn’t need to.
Days pass.
Then weeks.
The urge to check fades slowly, like a habit breaking itself down piece by piece.
He stops opening Nut’s profile before sleeping.
Stops replaying old conversations in his head.
Stops searching for hidden meanings in posts that were never meant for him.
It doesn’t happen all at once.
But it happens.
Until one night—
A notification lights up his screen.
nutnutt_ started following you.
Hong stares at it for a long time.
His heart reacts before his mind can catch up, a sharp, involuntary response he thought he had already outgrown.
He opens the app.
Sees the follow.
Sees the possibility.
And for a brief, dangerous moment, all the old thoughts return.
Maybe he missed me.
Maybe he was thinking about me too.
Maybe—
Hong exhales slowly, forcing himself to stop.
Because he knows better now.
Knows how easily he can fall back into something that never existed in the first place.
He doesn’t follow back immediately.
He sets his phone down.
Lets the moment sit.
Lets the silence stretch.
“I need to get over you,” he says, more firmly this time.
Not as a wish.
As a decision.
But when he picks his phone up again—
His thumb hesitates.
Just for a second.
Before pressing:
Follow back.
No message.
No conversation.
No attempt to fix what was never broken.
Just two people—
existing in the same digital space again.
Watching, maybe.
Or maybe not.
And this time, Hong doesn’t assume.
He doesn’t build stories where there are none.
He doesn’t convince himself of things he cannot prove.
Because if there’s one thing he’s finally learned—
It’s that sometimes, the hardest part isn’t letting someone go.
It’s letting go of the version of them you created in your mind.
And choosing, finally—
to stop keeping tabs.