Out Of Love | Kth

out of love | kth

pairing: idol!taehyung x reader

warnings: angst, mild smut

word count: 1.0k

note: my first time writing for this cursed website lol. enjoy ~

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I know you’ve fallen out of love with me—we’re just too scared to say it.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because you stopped finishing the coffee I make for you in the morning. You leave at odd hours. The sun isn’t quite up, the air is still hazy with sleep, you roll out of bed dutifully anyway. I feel your side of the mattress dip and roll and it jolts me awake, too, but I keep my breathing even because I know how you hate it when you disturb my sleep. Or used to, anyway. So I roll out of bed, too, and while you’re in the shower or brushing your teeth, I boil water, hand-grind your favorite roast, pour over into the mug we bought in Jeju on that one trip we took last summer. Do you remember how the green tea farm smelled after a light August rain? I do. I remember walking through the fields and thinking no moment could be more perfect than this. I set the coffee out on the counter with a little note to wish you well for the day’s activities, and then I go back to bed and pretend to be asleep. You begged me not to go to such lengths for you on the first day, thanked me the second day, and then it became habit to down the mug on your way out by the fifth day. You start to drop a kiss on my forehead as you leave our shared bedroom because you know I’m awake, and you know I’ll feel it. It’s our exchange of love. Today, the coffee ran cold. Untouched.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because in the morning, when you leave for the studio or set or office or flight at 3 or 4 or 5 AM, you don’t try anymore to tiptoe through the room, turn the knob on the bathroom door so it doesn’t click shut, steal around like a thief in the night, in silence. Your feet land on the marble with a thump, you brush your door with the teeth open, you’ll let the light bleed openly over my sleeping form. You teased me once about being a light sleeper and held me while I drifted off, promising you’d never wake me up again unless I asked for it. Those days feel like a long gone memory, now. This morning, I woke to the sound of the dresser door slamming shut but I kept my eyes closed, as always, until you left. You ghosted your lips against my temple. You never even broke your stride as you walked out of the room.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because you’ve stopped finding ways for us to enjoy the world together. We used to love sneaking around in the open like that, all for just the smallest moment with nature. We slip on masks and bucket hats, oversized and nondescript track suits, take a late taxi to the Han River. I spread a picnic blanket on the patchy grass while you jog over to buy an obscenely large bowl of ramen from the nearby stand. We feed each other the steaming, coiled noodles and complain about how swollen we’ll be in the morning. It’s cold, but you rub my icy hands between yours, pull me under the flap of your parka, and suddenly the bitingly cold wind isn’t so biting anymore. We talk about everything that comes back to this river. Our first date, our first kiss—on that bench, over there, at 11 PM on a Wednesday, do you remember? We joke that we’ll have to get married here someday. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been there. The last time you took me there.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because when you spent late nights at the studio, out to drinks, or at midnight tapings, my phone used to light up with a message at 9 PM. Sometimes you’ll forget, or you can’t reach your phone because you’re busy, but it’ll come in before 10. You’re on that phone whenever you get a chance. You’ll take a selca in your makeup chair or dressing room. On top of a prop car, once—that made me laugh out loud. Just for me. I leap to my phone and tap the notification and I dwell on every character. I miss you. I love you. Home soon, my love. I’ve never felt as special as I do when I read those words from you. The last message you sent me was telling me that you were going to your parents’ for a few days. That was last week. You’re back now, but there’s nothing left to say.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because you used to revere my body. You whisper my name like the most desperate of prayers as you thrust into me, savoring every time our bodies connect. I always feel alight with you inside of me. I’ve never let anyone else in before—you were, you are, my first. You whisper chaste and dirty things all at the same time. I love you, angel. No one can fuck you like I do. Your heart-shaped lips press to my temple, my cheek, my jaw, my ear. You know exactly where your hands and your pianist’s fingers should land to ruin me. I’ve always admired what your hands can do. I unravel you, you unravel me. Afterwards, you reach to tuck the loose strands of hair behind my ear and look at me with those tender eyes, half-hidden by your fringe. You kiss me one last time like you’re sealing a letter. Like you’re branding me yours. The bed has been cold these days. When it’s not, it feels like a chore. Have you realized that you don’t even look at me anymore?

I don’t know exactly when it happened—I guess I was just forced to notice one day. The light has burned out. The stars have died. And yet we hold on because we’re too afraid of the alternative. Of holding a melting candle in the dark.