Kpop Oneshots

If I Say I Love You - Taesan

The first time Sooah met Taesan, he had a scraped knee, a chipped tooth, and the widest smile she'd ever seen.

They were kids—just two small, curious lives drawn together by a shared fence and unspoken understanding.

He moved in next door during the last week of summer vacation. She was shy, clutching her favorite picture book as she watched the new boy kick a soccer ball around his yard. It didn't take long for that ball to end up in hers.

He climbed the fence to get it, stumbled into her mom's rose bushes, and came up laughing like it was the best adventure of his life.

They were seven. He had tried to climb the fence between their houses, determined to retrieve a soccer ball that had bounced into her backyard. She'd watched from her bedroom window as he tumbled over the edge, landed in her mom's rose bushes, and came up laughing like he'd just won a medal instead of a new set of scratches.

He waved at her with grass in his hair and a dimple in his cheek.

From that moment on, he was just... there. A storm that never scared her, a sunbeam that never faded. They built blanket forts in her living room and chased fireflies in the summer. On stormy nights, when thunder shook the windows, he'd sneak into her room and take her hand, whispering, "Don't be scared. I'm here."

She'd whisper back, "Always?"

He nodded, pinky raised. "Always."

It was easy then—love in the purest, most innocent way. Not romantic, not yet. But steady. Safe.

Sooah would later think, I didn't know when it started. Maybe it was always there. But loving him... it wasn't something I fell into—it was something I grew with. He was a part of her every chapter. Her loudest cheerleader, her greatest headache, her safe place, and her heartache all at once.

Years passed like snapshots—school lunch trays, shared earbuds, matching bandaids. It wasn't just friendship; it was a rhythm. He'd call her late at night to test lyrics, humming half-finished melodies while she listened with sleepy eyes and an open heart. She helped him practice vocals in her garage, holding up her phone flashlight while he danced on cracked pavement.

He talked about being a singer long before either of them understood what it really meant. When he found an audition, she stayed up with him editing his clip. When he doubted himself, she built him back up, piece by piece. They shared playlists, scrawled lyrics in the margins of notebooks, and dreamed out loud in whispers only they could hear.

Every demo he shared, she listened to with her whole heart—even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

He'd grin and ask, "You think the fans will like this one?"

She'd nod, never letting her smile falter. "They'll love it."

What she never told him: every song felt like a love letter she couldn't open.

And when he talked about ideal types or blushed at compliments from fans, she laughed along like it didn't ache. Like her heart wasn't quietly breaking beneath the surface.

She almost told him once. The night before his debut. They sat side by side on her front steps, watching the sky fade into stars.

Her hand was inches from his. Her heart was louder than the cicadas. She turned to him and opened her mouth—

But he looked at her, eyes lit up with the weight of dreams, and said, "I think this is really happening, Soo. I think I'm actually going to make it."

So she closed her mouth.

And said, "I know you will. I always knew."

"You'll still come to my shows, right?" he asked, eyes shimmering with dreams.