Yang Jeongin Scenarios - Tumblr Posts

POLY!PAIRING - JEONGIN + BANGCHAN

|Bangchan| |Lee Know| |Seo Changbin| |Hwang Hyunjin| |Han Jisung| |Lee Felix| |Kim Seungmin| | YANG JEONGIN |

• JEONGIN + BANGCHAN

Definitely very playful as well. Bangchan of course is the caretaker in this relationship though Jeongin likes to do it too. You and Jeongin often have to try and pry Bangchan out of the studio to eat and rest for at least ten minutes before going back to work. Bangchan usually takes you two out just to spoil you guys even though Jeongin has more than enough to spoil both you and Bangchan. The black card is always used for you two only. Bangchan for sure takes pride that he can take such good care of you too, even if you sometimes do fight against it. It can be a little overwhelming sometimes with how protective he is but he means good. Jeongin likes spending time with you too even if there's not a lot of talking. He helps cook food and you three cook together at least two times a week. I can see this relationship being so balanced with maturity and childishity that they take you seriously. They both are too mature to even think about overstepping a boundary of yours or each other's. Maybe leaning a little more to the mature side? But barely. Bangchan always makes sure you and Innie are fed first before himself, and sometimes let's you and Jeongin feed him if it really makes you guys so happy too. Your relationship would be described as Responsible, Loving, Empathetic & Considerate.

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"I Would've Loved Her Right"

Broken! Jeongin x Dead! Reader(fem)

Part-1

Jeongin stood at the edge of his new apartment, surveying the scene before him. Cardboard boxes were piled high around him, like miniature mountains threatening to topple, each one marked with black ink scribbles indicating their contents. The scent of fresh paint clung to the walls, mingling with the cool, crisp autumn air that slipped through the cracked window, bringing with it a distant hum of city life. It wasn’t much to look at—just a modest one-bedroom unit tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where the nights were still and the mornings were slow. But it was his. It was a new beginning, a fresh canvas. After months of his life being nothing but fragmented pieces, scattered and disordered, this move felt like the first step toward stitching the chaos back together.

At twenty-one, he hadn’t imagined starting over would be part of his plan. And yet, here he was, standing in a space that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

The breakup had been hard. No—brutal. The kind of heartbreak that left you breathless, hollowed out, with sharp edges where soft feelings used to be. Her words still echoed in his mind, playing on a relentless loop: “You’re not enough, Jeongin. I need more. I need someone who knows what they want.”

He couldn’t shake the sting of it, the way those words had carved into him. But a part of him wondered if she really knew what she wanted. Or was it just easier to push him away with that excuse? Jeongin had loved her. Maybe not in the perfect, all-consuming way people talk about in songs or movies, but in his own quiet, steadfast way. He had loved her deeply, or at least he thought he had. But clearly, it hadn’t been enough.

The past year had been a blur of confusion and soul-searching, trying to pick up the pieces of his identity after she had left. He thought he’d come further by now. He thought moving to this new place would finally make him feel whole again. But now, standing in this empty apartment, the loneliness seemed to press in on him from all sides, an invisible weight that was hard to shake.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath, the silence almost deafening. Maybe this apartment was a symbol of something more. Maybe it wasn’t just the walls that needed to be filled—it was him too.

“I’ll get used to it,” he muttered, running a hand through his unruly hair, the strands sticking up at odd angles. His voice bounced off the bare walls, filling the room for a moment before being swallowed by the empty space. Aside from the occasional groan of the old wooden floorboards beneath his feet, there was nothing but silence—a silence that almost felt alive, watching him, waiting for something.

The day had been long, the hours spent unpacking stretching endlessly. Every box he opened seemed to remind him just how much of his past he was carrying with him, both physically and emotionally.

Finally, Jeongin let himself collapse onto the old leather couch he’d painstakingly dragged up three flights of stairs. It groaned under his weight, the worn cushions sagging slightly, but it was the only piece of furniture that felt even remotely familiar.

The rest of the apartment had come furnished, a detail that had seemed convenient at first. But now, sitting among the mismatched, outdated pieces, it felt a little unsettling. The furniture was old, fraying at the edges, and the entire place seemed as if someone had lived here once and left in a hurry, abandoning more than just their belongings.

The eeriness of it gnawed at him, a faint unease settling in the pit of his stomach. There was a story here, lingering in the dust, in the creases of the worn upholstery. Who had lived here before him? And why had they left so abruptly? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers to those questions.

Kicking his feet up onto the rickety coffee table in front of him, his eyes fell on something he hadn’t noticed before. A small drawer tucked underneath the table, its handle crooked, as if it had been pulled too many times. It caught his attention like a whisper in the dark, urging him to look closer. Curiosity piqued, he leaned forward and gave the handle a gentle tug. The drawer slid open with a creak, revealing something unexpected.

Inside, nestled in the dusty interior, was a small, leather-bound book.

"Huh..." he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he reached into the drawer and carefully lifted the small book from its dusty resting place. It was heavier than he had expected for such a compact object, the weight of it somehow amplifying the sense of mystery that surrounded it. He turned it over in his hands, the worn leather cover soft under his fingers, smoothed by time and use, as though it had been held and handled countless times before. Its deep brown surface was cracked in places, like the lines of an old map, hinting at a long history. The texture, though weathered, felt oddly comforting—like the embrace of something familiar despite being unknown.

There were no markings on the cover. No title, no name, no decorative embossing. Just the plain, unadorned leather, worn and faded, offering no clues as to its contents or origin. He ran his thumb along the spine, where the stitching had frayed just slightly, evidence that it had been opened and closed many times, its secrets shared and sealed again. The pages, however, were a different story. Though yellowed slightly with age, they seemed remarkably well-preserved, untouched by the passing of time that had left its mark on the cover. He could feel the smooth edges of the paper beneath his fingers as he fanned them lightly, a faint, musty scent escaping—a smell like old libraries, full of forgotten stories and hidden memories.

His heart skipped a beat. It looked like a journal, the kind people pour their thoughts into when no one else is listening. But something about it felt... different. More personal. Almost sacred, as though it held more than just mundane daily entries. It was as if this little book, so unassuming in appearance, contained pieces of someone’s life—fragments of their soul—trapped between its pages, waiting for someone to discover them.

For a moment, he froze, fingers hovering over the edge of the cover, unsure of whether or not to open it. A strange sense of reverence washed over him, making him hesitate. This wasn’t just some discarded item, left behind carelessly with the rest of the furniture. This was someone’s diary, someone’s private thoughts, written down with the intent of being hidden, or at least kept secret. Whoever had lived in this apartment before him had probably filled these pages with their most intimate feelings, things they hadn’t been able to say out loud, things they couldn’t confide in anyone else. Maybe even things they hadn’t admitted to themselves.

Was it wrong to read it?

The question buzzed in his mind, a moral dilemma he hadn’t anticipated. His first instinct was to close the drawer, to put the journal back where he’d found it and leave it untouched. It wasn’t his to read. These weren’t his memories, his experiences. It felt invasive, like he was crossing a line, stepping into a space that wasn’t his to occupy. He imagined someone reading his own thoughts, the vulnerable words he kept buried inside himself, and a knot formed in his stomach.

But then again, the person who had written this was long gone. Whoever they were, they had left the apartment, left this life behind, and hadn’t bothered to take the journal with them. Maybe they had forgotten it, or maybe they had meant to leave it. Maybe, in some strange way, it was meant to be found.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the previous tenant. Who were they? What had their life been like here, in this same space where he now stood? Had they been happy? Lonely? Had this apartment held the same weight of solitude for them that it did for him? Or had it been filled with warmth, with love, with laughter, before something changed? Jeongin felt an odd connection to this unknown person, someone he had never met and would likely never know. Their presence lingered here, in the worn furniture, in the faint smell of something sweet that still clung to the walls. And now, in this journal.

The more he thought about it, the more his curiosity grew. What kind of person leaves behind something so personal, something that surely held significance? Maybe it wasn’t just the apartment that carried a story—maybe this little book did too. And maybe, just maybe, it was a story he was supposed to uncover. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of starting over? To find meaning in the things that had been lost? To rebuild not just his own life, but to make sense of the world around him? Perhaps this journal, left behind in the empty shell of an apartment, held a piece of that meaning, waiting to be discovered.

Jeongin exhaled slowly, his decision made. He wasn’t sure if it was fate or just happenstance, but he couldn’t resist the pull of the unknown. The temptation was too strong, the mystery too compelling to ignore. After all, wasn’t this what he had wanted—a fresh start, a way to move forward? Maybe this journal, with all its secrets, could offer him some kind of clarity, or at least a distraction from the thoughts that had been circling in his own mind for too long.

He swallowed the lingering hesitation, his fingers tightening around the edges of the book. Slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping a delicate gift, he opened the cover.

He flipped open the first page, and his eyes skimmed over the neat handwriting.

“There are some things I’ll never say aloud, some truths that stay buried because they’re too heavy to carry. I’m tired of pretending to be whole when I’m rotting inside...”

Jeongin blinked, his breath catching in his throat. It was just ink on a page, but the weight behind it felt like a punch to the chest. This wasn’t the casual doodling of someone passing time. No, this was a confession, the kind you only make to yourself when the world has turned away and left you alone with your thoughts.

He found himself reading the sentence again, letting the words settle in his mind. I’m tired of pretending to be whole... That line stuck with him. It wasn’t dramatic or over-the-top, but it cut deep, the honesty of it almost too sharp. Whoever wrote this—whoever lived here before him—had been carrying something heavy, something they couldn’t share with anyone. It was a loneliness he recognized too well.

For a second, he thought about closing the book, about putting it back where he found it and walking away from the private pain hidden in its pages.

But instead, his fingers tightened around the leather cover.

He knew he wasn’t done reading. Not yet.

He flipped the pages, as if to get an overview of the whole thing, and his eyes landed upon this sentence:

“I loved him, but love isn’t enough. Not when you’re broken. Not when every ‘I love you’ feels like a lie because you don’t love yourself.”

He cried. It was too relatable, it was too painful, he set it aside and looked at it as if it slapped him in the face.

It felt like the book looked back at him, with an intense gaze, a gaze that was too painful, begging to ease the burden it has to bear, with the painful words written on it.

He carried that book with him wherever he went now, as if it had become a part of him. It wasn’t just a book anymore; it was a place he could retreat to, a source of unexpected answers hidden within the questions scribbled across the pages. The questions she wrote were sometimes the very ones he found himself asking, though he never quite put them into words. And when he read those questions, it felt like, in some strange way, he received answers too, as if the act of reading her thoughts gave clarity to his own.

The book had become his constant companion, the one thing he couldn’t leave behind, no matter where he went. It wasn’t just a collection of someone else’s thoughts anymore; it was a lifeline, a whisper of understanding in a world that often felt indifferent. Each page was like opening a door to another world, another mind, another soul. There, tucked between the messy handwriting and tear-stained pages, was a person—someone raw and real, someone who hurt, laughed, and raged, just like him.

The questions she wrote haunted him. They weren’t just idle musings, they were the kind of questions that circled in his own mind late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.

"I'm in the kitchen now. Everyone's asleep. I'm hungry, but I don’t want to eat anything from the fridge. I don’t even know what I want anymore. Do I want to eat? Do I want to sleep? Do I want to wake up tomorrow?"

It wasn’t just hunger she was talking about. He could feel it in the words—the deeper, unspoken craving for something more, something that would fill the emptiness gnawing at her. He recognized it because he’d felt it too. That nameless ache that made you feel like you were missing something essential, something that everyone else seemed to have.

"My mother wants me to become a lawyer. She thinks it’s a respectable job. But how do you explain to someone that you can’t even imagine living long enough to pick a career?"

That line had hit him hard the first time he read it, and it hit him again every time he went back to it. He didn’t know how to explain that kind of heaviness either—the weight of expectations that pressed down until you couldn’t breathe, until the future felt like a foreign concept, like something that didn’t belong to you.

"Why is the hair on my legs so much healthier than the hair on my head? Maybe even my body knows it’s a waste of time to take care of the parts that matter."

Her humor was sharp, biting in a way that made him smile despite himself. But underneath it all, there was always that thread of pain, of uncertainty, as if she didn’t even believe in her own jokes.

"These relatives... she told me I was too young to be having back pains. Well, alright, you rotten chicken fungus of an aunt, you're too old to be alive, but here we are, aren’t we?"

Jeongin had laughed out loud the first time he read that. It was such a strange, unexpected combination of words. She was angry, frustrated, but instead of letting it consume her, she twisted it into something absurd. It was her way of fighting back against a world that didn’t make sense. And maybe that’s why he felt such a strong connection to her.

She was like him, trying to make sense of things that couldn’t be understood.

But then there were the moments when her humor cracked, when the weight of everything she was carrying bled through the pages.

"Even the shrimp in my soup looked at me like it was disgusted to be eaten by someone as useless as me. Maybe that’s why I threw up when I got home. Maybe my body is rejecting me, just like everything else does."

Those lines made his chest ache. He didn’t know her, but he could feel her pain as if it were his own. And in some ways, it was. They were strangers, but their experiences overlapped in ways that were impossible to ignore. She wrote about her feelings of worthlessness, her moments of self-doubt, and it mirrored so much of what he had felt in his own life.

"I bled too much this month. I honestly got scared, thought I might die. And for a second, I hoped I would. Isn’t that pathetic?"

Sometimes, he felt like he was trespassing on something sacred, like he had stumbled into the most private parts of someone’s soul and wasn’t supposed to be there. But he couldn’t stop. The more he read, the more he understood her, and the more he understood himself.

She had written about love too, though it was clear that love had never been kind to her.

"I think the worst part of being in love is realizing that you’re not worth being loved back. I waited for him to notice me, but I was invisible. I gave everything, but it was never enough. I’ll never be enough. Maybe no one will ever love me."

"I think about him all the time. What he’s doing, where he is, why he hasn’t called. And when he finally does, it’s like I’m waiting for scraps of his attention, begging for something that never comes. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for loving him."

"He’s always busy, always tired, always has an excuse. But when he needs something, I’m the first person he calls. And I always go. I always show up. I can’t say no, even when I know I should. I think I’m scared he’ll leave for good if I stop trying. But why do I care? Why do I care about someone who doesn’t care about me?"

"I told him I needed more. That I was tired of feeling like an afterthought, like I was always chasing him. He laughed. Laughed. Like I was being ridiculous, like I was overreacting. He said I was being clingy, that I was too emotional. He made me feel like I was asking for too much, even though I knew I wasn’t. All I wanted was for him to care about me the way I cared about him."

"I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I’ve become this person who waits around for someone who doesn’t care if I’m there or not. I feel so small, like I’ve disappeared into the shadows of his life, and he doesn’t even notice. I’m losing myself, and I don’t know how to get me back."

"He never even said he loved me. Not once. And I think that’s what hurts the most—that I gave him everything, and he couldn’t even give me those three words."

Those words stayed with him long after he closed the book, hanging in the air like a ghost he couldn’t shake off.

He traced his fingers over the blotchy ink, smudged from what he could only assume was a tear that had fallen while she wrote. It was old now, the paper yellowing around the edges, but the pain still felt fresh. His own tears fell onto the page, mingling with the remnants of hers, creating new blotches, new marks of shared sorrow.

It reminded him of his own heartbreak, the nights he had spent lying awake, wondering what he had done wrong, why he hadn’t been enough. At least he had experienced it, love, even if it had been fleeting and unreciprocated. He had felt it, even when it was small, even when it had hurt. She, on the other hand, seemed like she had never even had the chance. She had never known what it felt like to be truly loved, to be held, to be seen. And that, more than anything, broke his heart.

And sometimes, in those quiet moments when the world felt still and all he had were her words, Jeongin couldn’t help but think:

If I had met her, I would’ve loved her. I would’ve loved her the way she deserved to be loved. I would’ve held her, told her she wasn’t invisible. I would’ve loved her right.

It was a strange thought, irrational even, to love someone he had never met, someone whose face he couldn’t even picture. But it wasn’t about that. It was about the way she made him feel, the way her words spoke to the deepest parts of him. They were both broken in their own ways, both wandering through life with pieces missing. But together, even if only through the fragile connection of ink on paper, they were whole. At least, that’s what he told himself.

In one of her final entries, she had written something that had stayed with him longer than anything else:

“I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared. If I just...faded away. Maybe it’s better this way. No one gets hurt when you’re invisible.”

He had gone to the kitchen that night, seeking out the spot she had described. It was cramped, barely enough room to stand, let alone sit and write. He had pushed the table aside, just a little, and squeezed himself into the space. It was uncomfortable, awkward, nothing like the peaceful image her words had painted. Yet, as he stood there, the cool air brushing against his skin, he understood why she had chosen that spot. It was a place where she could be alone, but still feel connected. A place where she could write her pain into the world and, in doing so, release it, even if only for a moment.

He stood there for a long time, just reading her words, feeling the weight of them settle into his bones. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel so alone.

In that moment, he felt closer to her than ever, connected by this strange, unspoken bond through the pages of her diary.

Months passed, and Jeongin had read the diary so many times, he could recite some of the entries from memory, it was like some kind of faith, like some kind of devotion.

Everytime he reads it, he finds something new.

It was only after the 6th read he was able to figure out that her handwriting was actually bad, she wanted to maintain her diary well.

Only after the third read he found out that she had siblings, and she was the eldest.

Yet, no matter how many times he read it, the ending always left him haunted. The last page she had written on was almost too painful to bear.

“I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared. If I just...faded away. Maybe it’s better this way. No one gets hurt when you’re invisible.”

After that, the pages were blank.

She had stopped writing, and no matter how many times Jeongin flipped through the journal, hoping for just one more entry, there was nothing. No final thoughts, no explanation, not even a hint of what might have happened to her. The silence in those empty pages gnawed at him, as if the story had been abruptly cut off, leaving him suspended in a web of unanswered questions. Each time he opened the journal, his fingers traced the edges of the worn paper, yearning for some kind of closure, but it never came.

It had been a long time since Jeongin had written anything of his own. In his younger days, he had filled countless journals with his thoughts, feelings, and the trivial moments of everyday life. But somewhere along the way, as the years passed, life became too overwhelming—too fast, too chaotic, too painful. The words that once flowed easily from his pen had dried up, like a river dammed by the weight of reality. Yet now, as he stared at the blank pages in front of him, something deep inside began to stir. It was a faint, almost forgotten feeling—a quiet urge to express, to release. The silence of her journal, the unanswered questions, seemed to call out to him, beckoning him to fill the empty space with his own words once again.

He grabbed a pen and began to write.

The journal had become a lifeline for Jeongin. Every day, he’d write. Sometimes it was a response to something she had written, just beside or above and near the empty spaces of the page, with a different colored ink—other times, it was just his own thoughts, the things he couldn’t say to anyone else. The pages that had once been hers were slowly becoming his too.

The breakup didn’t hurt as much anymore. The scars were still there, of course, but they had faded. He had begun to move on, even if the world felt a little lonelier without her words to guide him.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About what might have happened to her after she stopped writing. The thought gnawed at him, and after a year had passed, after his graduation and the start of his new job, Jeongin made a decision.

He was going to find her.

Jeongin spent weeks searching for her, digging through old records, asking neighbors and looking for any clue as to what had happened to the woman behind the journal. It was difficult, especially since the diary hadn’t given any specific details about her life—no name, no address, no family.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he owed it to her. She had shared so much of herself with him, even though she hadn’t known him. The least he could do was find out who she was.

Eventually, after much frustration and countless dead ends, Jeongin found his answer.

She was dead.

The news hit him like a punch to the gut. He sat in the small, local library where he had been doing his research, staring at the old obituary. There was no photo, just a brief mention of her passing, no cause of death listed. It was as if she had simply vanished from the world, just as she had written about.

Jeongin felt tears burn at the back of his eyes. All this time, he had been reading her words, connecting with her, hoping that maybe she had found peace. But she hadn’t.

She was gone.

The funeral had long passed, but Jeongin found the grave—a small, unmarked stone in a quiet corner of the cemetery. It was so unassuming, almost like no one had cared enough to give her a proper place of rest, as if she were some kind of dead fish, no, a fish would've had a better funeral.

“I would have loved you,” he whispered, kneeling by the gravestone. His fingers traced the cold marble, his heart heavy with all the words he wished he could say to her. “I would have loved you right.”

The wind blew softly, as if the universe itself was listening, but no answer came.

Jeongin stayed there for a long time, just sitting with her, feeling the weight of her absence. When he finally stood, he pulled the journal from his bag, the pages now worn from his constant reading. He had one last thing to ask.