Minjae finds out

It began with silence. At first, I thought it was nothing—Haeun often went long periods without texting when her schedule grew hectic. The demands of her life could swallow anyone whole. I told myself she’d reply when things calmed down, when the cameras stopped flashing and the crowds dissipated. But as the minutes stretched into a day, and then another, the unease began to creep in like a draft under a locked door.

I sent her a dozen messages, maybe more. Just the usual: "Hey, how are you doing?" "I miss you." "Call me when you can." Every one of them was marked as read—those faint, mocking blue checkmarks that stared back at me, confirming she’d seen my words and chosen not to reply. I tried not to think about it. I tried to convince myself it was her work. But even when Haeun was busy, she’d always made even the tiniest bit of time before. Even in her most exhausted moments, she would send a heart emoji or a simple "I’ll call soon."

I told myself not to panic. Yet, when I watched her perform on a live broadcast, looking radiant and untouchable as always, the weight of that silence pressed heavier. There she was, smiling for her fans, her voice carrying through the stage with perfect clarity. She looked fine—no, she looked more than fine. She was every bit the idol they worshipped. But why wouldn't she respond?

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe she was playing with me. Haeun started the game first after all—maybe this was her way of seeing how I’d react. The idea sent a thrill down my spine, a shudder that was both fearful and tantalizing. Would she really do that? Would she test my devotion in such a cruel way? The thought of being toyed with excited me, despite myself.

The silence became unbearable.

School had started again, which meant the return to classes, assignments, and the long days of routine. It was a small mercy—a distraction, though an inadequate one. Every free moment was consumed by thoughts of her. The texts she ignored, the calls she let ring through. Her absence was like a phantom limb, a missing part of myself that I couldn’t stop reaching for.

And then, one night, a message arrived. I had been sitting at my desk, attempting to study, though the words on the page refused to settle in my mind. My phone buzzed with a soft buzz, and I reached for it, hoping it was her. The number was unfamiliar, but the message was brief and chillingly precise:

"Hey cuck boy. You know who this is."

For a moment, I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat. Jihoon. It had to be. There was only one person who would know of our relationship, only one who would call me that. My fingers trembled as I typed a reply.

"What have you done to her? Where is she?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Don't worry too much though. She's fine. She 's just busy with other things."

A photo arrived. It was a picture of Haeun, kneeling on the floor, her lips wrapped around what looked unmistakably like a man’s balls. The angle was from above—Jihoon must have held his phone over her without her knowing, her eyes closed as she suckled on him. My heart skipped a beat, a mix of emotions surging within me: arousal, fear, jealousy.

"What are you doing to her? Why won't she reply?"

"I'm just teaching her new tricks for the next time you get to see her. You're welcome, cuck. As for why she hasn't been replying to you, that is simple. She gave me her phone."

My hands shook as I typed out my reply.

"Let me talk to her."

His response was swift and mocking.

"You will. But know that each time she messages you, her little pussy will be filled with my cum."

He stopped replying that night, leaving me with nothing but that picture and the implication of his words. What had he done to her—what were they doing? How much of it was consensual and how much was ****?

The image of Haeun was seared into my memory. I hated myself, hated my inability to save her, but above all else, I hated my arousal, my need to see more. But with nothing else to go on, that single snapshot became my obsession. I pulled it up time and again, looking for the tiniest hint of resistance in her face, of discomfort, of pain—anything that would justify my own rage and fear.

But each time, I found only passion and submission, a surrender so complete it sent a pang of jealousy through me. Her lips, wrapped around his sack, her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, her eyes closed in a look that seemed almost peaceful, blissful, content. It was everything I wanted for her and everything that terrified me.

When I dreamt of her finally reaching out to me that night, it was with Jihoon’s cock still buried deep inside her, his cum leaking from between her legs. When I woke, drenched in sweat and trembling, the sun was already peering over the horizon, a new day mocking my anguish.