FRAGILE TRUTH | Kwon Jiyong

16

The morning after Y/N found out the truth, she woke up before Jiyong did.

He was still curled up on the couch beside her, arm slung over his eyes, as if the weight of his secrets had finally exhausted him. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable.

Y/N watched him quietly.

She remembered the first time she ever saw him sleep — years ago, backstage, after a long rehearsal. He was always "Kwon Jiyong" to everyone else, but that day, he looked like someone who just wanted peace.

And now she knew.

Peace wasn't something he ever really had. He fought for it. Buried himself in noise and stages and music and chaos. But underneath, he was afraid. Of the quiet. Of being seen too closely.

Of losing control.

She reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from his face.

"I'm not leaving," she whispered.

When he woke, he looked at her like she might disappear.

"You stayed."

She gave a small smile. "I told you I would."

Jiyong sat up slowly, wincing slightly. His movements were stiffer now. It didn't go unnoticed.

"Bad morning?" she asked gently.

He nodded. "My left hand's been acting up. Can't hold chopsticks anymore."

Y/N swallowed her emotions. "Then we'll switch to spoons."

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

That afternoon, they cooked together.

Or rather — she cooked while he sat on the counter, legs swinging lazily as he offered useless advice.

"You're cutting that wrong," he said, watching her slice tofu.

"You want to do it?"

He raised both hands, grinning. "I'm just here for vibes."

She gave him a look. "And what a vibe you are."

They ate quietly at the small kitchen table. It wasn't fancy, or dramatic, or cinematic. But it was real. The kind of quiet closeness they hadn't had in a long time.

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

Later, she helped him organize his studio. It was a mess — notebooks, USBs, unfinished lyrics, paint-stained hoodies, and a wall of unused canvases.

"This place is untouched," she said.

He didn't look up. "I haven't written anything in almost eight months."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Felt pointless. Like everything I wanted to say... already hurt too much to put into words."

Y/N picked up a tattered lyric notebook and flipped through the pages. Near the back, she found a torn-out sheet, the only thing written in fresh ink.

A song.

Unfinished.

Title: Untitled, 2014

It might be easier to just die
Than to earn your forgiveness
I sing this song, but I don't know
If my truthfulness will get through to you
"I want you to be happy"
I couldn't even tell that simple lie
I just pray that you'll come back, I'm sorry

Her throat tightened. "Is this about—?"

He nodded once.

"I wrote it the week I left you."

Y/N folded the page carefully and tucked it into her bag.

"Then I think we should finish it."

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

That evening, she drove him to his doctor's appointment.

He didn't ask her to.

He tried to argue. "You don't have to—"

She cut him off. "I want to."

The waiting room was bright and too quiet. He fidgeted beside her, fingers tapping his knee. She reached over and took his hand.

"Tell them everything this time," she said softly.

Jiyong looked at her.

And for the first time... he nodded.

On the drive home, he turned to her suddenly. "You know you don't have to stay."

Y/N kept her eyes on the road. "I know."

"But you still are."

She smiled faintly. "It's annoying, right?"

He laughed — a real, raw, warm sound. "A little."

Back at her place, she offered to let him stay for a few days.
Just to rest. Just to be with her.

He hesitated.

"Jiyong. Stop punishing yourself. You deserve someone beside you."

He looked at her — and for the first time in a long time, the walls in his eyes cracked just enough to let something soft in.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Just a few days."

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

Days turned into a week.

They watched old movies. He showed her new beats he'd been tinkering with. She left notes around the house: "Don't forget your meds, Lunch is in the fridge, I love you, idiot."

He started writing again.

She caught him one night, hunched over his laptop with headphones in, mouthing lyrics to himself.

When he noticed her, he grinned sheepishly.

"Working on something?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"Is it about me?"

"Everything is."

The story didn't need a perfect ending.

But maybe — just maybe — it could have an honest one.

And sometimes, that was even better.