Archive of Our Own

When exactly does human connection start? 

Is it a voluntary agreement between individuals based on mutual understanding? Maybe, it’s being fully known—fully understood. A risk to take. Something to dive into; a lingering curiosity, something innocent. A fear of being hurt. Hurting others. To lose. It could be something akin to destiny, like a sense of familiarity that sways the strings of fate and weaves them together. Perhaps, it never really starts at all, and it’s some silly philosophy characterized by a person’s need to justify their loneliness.  

For Park Moondae, it begins when it finds him in the middle of a warm, sunny day on the set of an idol survival show he’d much rather call hell. It’s the catalyst for equal parts of sadness and happiness. It’s a reminder that this life isn’t his. It crawls its way around his body, laughing in his ears at his pathetic attempts at isolation. It whispers. It taunts. 

Because how would that be possible when he was destined to be loved? 

—

Park Moondae wakes up to the smell of something burning. And a few screams. 

“Cha Eugene, are you craz—”

“I didn’t do anything!” 

“...What are you guys doing?” Park Moondae slowly steps into the kitchen where smoke fills his nose, his eyes darting between Cha Eugene and what looks to be a lump of coal in a frying pan. 

“Oh! Moondae-hyung! Listen here,” Cha Eugene takes a deep breath before furrowing his brows with both of his fists clenched, “We were going to make pancakes, but it looks like something went wrong somewhere—” 

“He burnt them!” Kim Raebin quickly interjects, glaring at the other. 

“I wasn’t talking to you, idiot. As I was saying…”

It’s a normal scene to see: the two youngest bickering over nothing. What’s not normal is the fact that they were making breakfast. 

“Why?” Park Moondae murmurs in the midst of their fighting. After all, he always made breakfast. It’s no surprise considering the fact that he has the skills to put everyone else to shame. Even on the days when he slept past his alarm, there would always be a knock on the door followed by someone—Cha Eugene—looking at him like they’d been starved for weeks. 

Cha Eugene tilts his head and stares blankly as if Park Moondae had just asked the stupidest question. “‘Cause we wanted to! You’re always working so hard for us, hyung. Isn’t it nice to wake up to freshly made food? Right, Raebin?” 

“Yes! We wanted to surprise you since you’ve been looking down lately, so it’s unfortunate that Cha Eugene couldn’t do anything properly, leading to this mess…” Kim Raebin nods furiously while pinching Cha Eugene’s ear. “Ah, well, we just wanted to show you our reliable sides.” 

And it hits Park Moondae in the chest like an arrow.

It’s during times like these that the brief illusion of happiness fades away and he’s reminded that these people love him. They love him like it’s breathing, like it’s the easiest and most obvious thing in the world. It’s warm, too warm, and it’ll probably burn him altogether as it seeps through his skin like poison. It’s addicting, makes his stomach churn, makes him swell up, yet he can’t help but yearn for the tiniest bit more. He doesn’t know how much longer he can endure it. 

 It’s suffocating, he thinks, how they have so much trust in him without knowing the amount of lies he’s spouted to them. How one day, he might disappear entirely as if he never existed in the first place. Because he isn’t supposed to be here. 

He’s not Park Moondae. 

But… it would be okay, right? To live in this lie, indulge in it a little bit—to continue playing house. Even if it burns holes in his heart and alarms ring in his ears, if he could chase this fake sense of security for a millisecond and luxuriate in his delusions, maybe it would be enough. Enough to ease the evergrowing selfishness that exists within him. Enough to tell himself that he’s fine with how things are; how he isn’t sure if TeSTAR’s future will have him inside of it.

“Give them to me,” he says. There’s silence as the other two try to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. “The pancakes,” he sighs, pointing to the suspicious concoction in the frying pan with his chin. 

“A–are you sure?” Kim Raebin shouts a little too loudly, and it’s like his eyes are about to fall out. “You might die—I mean, you could get sick from them, hyung! We can order something, really.” 

“Kim Raebin, if Moondae-hyung wants to try them, then we should let him. Who knows? Maybe they’re actually good,” says Cha Eugene, a look of determination making its way across his face. It seems as though he wants to try them too, considering how he’s licking his lips. 

Before Park Moondae knows it, he’s ushered to the table with what seems like three chunks of rocks in front of him. Two pairs of expecting eyes are carefully observing his reactions across from him. It’s almost childlike. 

Park Moondae would never say it out loud, but it’s kind of endearing. Cute, even. 

Slowly cutting a piece and lifting it to his mouth, Park Moondae eats the so-called “pancake”. 

“It’s—” It tastes like shit. If he could spit it out, he would. But those eyes that carry so much excitement, so much innocence, were looking at him with so much expectance. “—good.” 

He watches the two youngest members light up and smile, and suddenly everything seems like it’s going to be okay. Because they love him, and he knows it. He knows it too well, and he wants to love them back too, but that would amount to catastrophe. All he’s known from love is that loss goes hand in hand with it. Because they’re inseparable. 

Instead, he smiles at them and watches them contently from afar. Like it’s a glimpse into another person’s point of view, like it’s something he’d watch from an old tape recorder that was found in a dusty attic from the previous owners of a house. Park Moondae is not a scientist nor a genius, but if he were, he thinks he would have discovered a way to immortalize memories by now. 

Maybe, just maybe, the act of wanting to be selfless is already selfish in itself. 

—

Life had never been easy for Park Moondae. 

Even as Ryu Gunwoo, it seemed as though he lived between the boundaries of life and death. He was a mosaic of the things he couldn’t achieve, couldn’t reach, couldn’t do. His loneliness was written on him, in big, bold, bright red ink, until it consumed him whole. There was no need to agonize over it. He was a mess built upon anger and grief. 

However, he had read somewhere long ago that loneliness was a disease; a consequence of the innate human desire for intimacy. He ignored it. Instead, he conditioned himself to believe that he lived in solitude. Because that sounded much better, right? There was nothing to be sad about in that peaceful, quiet life of his. He was not lonely. He was just alone, living in solitude. 

So even as he cried, he lived in solitude. When he couldn’t breathe, he lived in solitude. And when he took what he believed to be his last breath, he left in solitude. 

So what exactly was he supposed to do when he woke up in another person’s body with the threat of death roaming in front of his face? 

Fear. 

He was scared shitless. Who wouldn’t be?

But things always went his way. He debuted, won prizes, made a name for himself. He was TeSTAR’s Park Moondae, a man loved by all, the epitome of a perfect idol. Of course, it was something to be happy about. Except for the fact that the solitude he once believed in had turned into loneliness, and it increased tenfold at that.

He had learned the hard way that he was irrevocably a part of TeSTAR’s life as they were a part of his. Somewhere between wanting to distance himself and wanting to accept their love, maybe reciprocate it, he had doused himself in gasoline, and the warmth that was like sunshine had turned into a match, mocking him. 

When he was with them, he remembered tomorrow wasn’t promised. Death lingered around him and had him grasped between its claws whether he cleared his little status abnormalities or not. And perhaps what was even worse was that he might return as Ryu Gunwoo once everything was over. Wasn’t that the same thing as dying? To finally find happiness after who knows how long, only to lose it all in the blink of an eye—

“—ndae? Are you okay?” 

Park Moondae is suddenly jolted awake by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. 

He sits up immediately, his uneven breaths making their way into the air. He looks around to find the source of the voice only to be met with Ryu Cheongwoo’s worried eyes looking down at him. 

Right. They’re roommates. 

“Sorry, hyung. I’m fine,” Park Moondae chokes out, and he can feel his throat closing up. He probably looks like a fool right now. 

Ryu Cheongwoo glances down at Park Moondae’s hands, which are quite literally shivering. “What on earth are you apologizing for?” A pause. Another glance. A soft smile. “It’s okay.” 

Park Moondae hopes he wasn’t sleeptalking. He prays. Cold sweat drips down his back.

“I must’ve woken you up. Let me apologize for that, if not anything else,” Park Moondae mutters in embarrassment, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Ryu Cheongwoo hums in acknowledgment before speaking again. “Mind if I sit here for a bit?” He gestures to the edge of the bed.

It would be rude to push him away, Park Moondae thinks, after Ryu Cheongwoo had woken him up from a terrible nightmare, so he hesitantly obliges. 

Ryu Cheongwoo had found out his little secret a few months back: he wasn’t Park Moondae. With his personality, he calmly accepted it—the bullshit that came with it and the flaws in his words, just like he always did. Park Moondae would be lying if he were to admit that he didn’t feel just the tiniest bit of relief. It was a momentary reassurance before reality came crashing down on him again. 

“Where should I start?” Ryu Cheongwoo muses after a few minutes of silence. “I don’t mean to pry, especially when you might not want to share. I don’t want to say empty words either,” he takes a deep breath, fiddling with his fingers. “Something I can say—confidently, at least—is that I’m here. We’re here for you. Cheesy, right? But it’s something I think will stay true… for a long time. I hope—no, I know,” he chuckles. 

And there it is. 

This is the part of their love that Park Moondae hates. It’s overwhelming, too much, like nails on a chalkboard and empty promises. Because when he hears these words, he starts imagining a life where he isn’t chained down by a stupid, sci-fi movie-like system. He imagines a life where they have a fateful encounter in the middle of a busy street, where they’re meant to find each other. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. As things are now, didn’t he just force himself into a group for the sole purpose of survival? 

But of course, what he wants isn’t what he needs to do.

Here he is now, unable to breathe or think as the world caves around him. 

“...Yes. Thank you, hyung,” he barely manages to say. He wants to throw up. 

“It’s nothing,” says Ryu Cheongwoo as he stands up from the bed and stretches his arms. “Sorry for keeping you up. I’ll leave you alone now. Sleep well, Moondae.” 

“No, it’s alright. Goodnight, hyung.” 

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. 

—

“Moondae… are you okay?”

This time, it’s said by Seon Ahyeon in the evening the moment they had just arrived back to the dorm after a photoshoot. 

And it irks Park Moondae, the way they all seem to easily grasp that he’s lost his damn mind. He wonders if it's some kind of unspoken agreement between them to go up to him one by one and say sweet words until it throws him off the edge; until he grows addicted to the attention he’s getting from them; until he bathes and basks and laughs and cries in the love he’s been trying so hard to run away from in all its glory. It’s temporary, this is all temporary, he tells himself. It pisses him off, makes him want to dig his nails into his palms and scream into his pillow until he’s met with the cold realization of reality. 

He takes a deep breath. Holds it in. Lets it out. He isn’t sure what face he’s making right now, but it’s definitely not a pretty one after hearing the concern laced in Seon Ahyeon’s tone. 

“I’m okay. Is something wro—” 

“You’re lying,” Seon Ahyeon interrupts. His eyebrows are knitted together, and his bottom lip is slightly quivering. 

Under normal circumstances, Park Moondae would be using the silence to deduce what prompted Seon Ahyeon to have such an out-of-character reaction, but he knows. Park Moondae knows all too well why he’s being like this. 

He saw it as he looked in the mirror this morning. The bags under his eyes. His chapped lips. His pale skin. A stranger looking right back at him. It sounds silly because he did live in a stranger’s body, after all. But he had gotten to a point where he was used to it. Where it had become his normal. Yet, there he was, not quite sure what—or who—he was looking at anymore.

So, Park Moondae decides to do something he’s been pretty good at recently:

Playing dumb. 

“What makes you say that?” he strains while averting his gaze to his own hands. 

“You—you haven’t been eating as much. You’re even more quiet than usual. And you keep… staring off into space,” Seon Ahyeon replies firmly. Park Moondae had forgotten that Seon Ahyeon was particularly perceptive. How unfair. 

“I’ll fix it. I’m sorry for worrying you.” 

“You always apologize and—and say futile words. To get out of things. You’re always like that. But… you never really mean it, do you? Ple—please don’t lie to me. I want to understand,” Seon Ahyeon moves his eyes around Park Moondae’s face, trying to search for some kind of answer.  

For what felt like the hundredth time this week, the seams that are holding Park Moondae’s heart together slowly come undone yet again. He isn’t sure why he’s been groaning and grieving when he hasn’t necessarily lost anything—anything physical, at least.

“I’m trying,” his voice slightly cracks. Seon Ahyeon notices, and there’s something akin to somber in his eyes, but Park Moondae doesn’t want to ask, much less question it. “I’m trying to mean it. At least, I think I am.”

They’re both silent for a few beats. It’s unsettling in the worst way possible. 

Seon Ahyeon makes no secret of studying Park Moondae carefully. 

“...Okay,” Seon Ahyeon eventually says, lightly nodding his head as if he’s trying to convince himself of something as well. “I’ll remember that. And… I hope you remember it too, Moondae.”

I’m not sure if I can, he wants to say, but the words get caught up in his throat before they can come out. He mutters a quiet agreement in lieu before watching Seon Ahyeon leave with hints of reluctance in his steps—like there was so much more he wanted to say. He doesn’t look back. 

It’s not until Park Moondae turns around in an attempt to shut himself in the nearest bathroom that he notices Bae Sejin leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…” he coughs while the tips of his ears are visibly getting red. 

“It’s fine, hyung. We all live together,” Park Moondae responds quietly, biting the inside of his cheek. 

Park Moondae is aware that Bae Sejin knows the action quite well. It’s a habit he unconsciously does whenever he’s anxious, biting the inside of his cheek until all he can taste is metal. Bae Sejin has seen the sight plenty of times—much more than Park Moondae would like to admit—and when Bae Sejin was questioned about it, he said that it’s something that makes him remember that Park Moondae is still a child at heart despite him always acting big and brave. At the time, Park Moondae only clicked his tongue and said, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but now he wishes he indeed was a child. Then, he’d have some form of ignorance left. He’d place his own happiness first. Maybe it’d be easier to smile, a bit simpler to breathe, and his head wouldn’t be a blur of the things he could only wish for. 

And for some reason, Park Moondae had always found it difficult to look Bae Sejin in the eyes, because it felt as though he would spill his heart out to him, flaws and all. Just as any of the other members, he radiated a warmth that naturally pulled Park Moondae in; it was a feeling equal parts soothing and toxic. 

Bae Sejin does not say anything more and instead walks a few steps closer, giving Park Moondae an awkward pat on the back. His hand lingers there for a while, and Park Moondae is sure he feels curiosity from it. 

Still, Bae Sejin stays silent, creating distance between them after some time with his eyebrows scrunched.  

“Oh, um, the schedule for the next few days was canceled… because of, uh, reasons. Yes. Unknown. Unknown reasons. Do what you will with that information.” 

Park Moondae doesn’t get the chance to reply since Bae Sejin beelines straight to his room, shutting the door with a light click behind him, but, of course, not forgetting to give Park Moondae the tiniest of smiles followed by a forced thumbs-up beforehand. 

A laugh escapes him out of the sheer unbelievableness of it all. This attentiveness that had nested its way into his life naturally now seemed like a stranger pointing daggers at him. And perhaps it’s his fault that he had decided to filter the happy parts of his life out of the more devastating, vulnerable parts all this time. Pretending was easier than knowing; knowing that forever did not mean eternity but a fleeting memory he would never be able to fully grasp. He’s incredibly undeserving of their kindness—TeSTAR’s kindness—and it leads him to wonder if they would still look at him with stars in their eyes if they knew the kind of liar he was. 

Park Moondae did not know a love where despair did not trail behind. 

—

Lately, Park Moondae wonders if he would be okay on his own.

As he sits on a bench outside in the early morning taking in the view of the sunrise, he wonders. He wonders if the inevitability of being stranded would seem like a hug, warm and comforting. He wonders if it would look like the sun now as it peaks through the surface, giving way to a splash of light as it turns the geometric shapes and shadows surrounding him into something more, something tangible. 

He’s awake, he knows he is, but there’s a sentiment bubbling up within his chest that makes him feel like none of this is real.

Abruptly, Park Moondae’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out expecting it to be from a member telling him to come back in for breakfast, because it always is.

But it’s not. 

[shin cheongryeo sunbaenim]

what’s with that expression?

haha

what are you talking about

turn around ^^

what the hell

Park Moondae turns around skeptically and indeed sees a person wearing all black standing a ways off with what seems to be a dog in all his glory. He was slowly approaching Park Moondae, an annoying grin plastered on his face. 

Shin Jaehyun. 

“It’s funny seeing you here, hoobaenim.” 

“We live in the same complex, so I’m not sure if it’s really that funny.” 

“Haha. You haven’t changed, I see,” he mocks.

Park Moondae chooses to not reply, lips pursed in hopes that Shin Jaehyun would get the hint and leave—but he doesn’t. He sits down right next to Park Moondae, placing his dog on the bench as well. 

“What do you want,” Park Moondae finally sighs, partially turning his head to see the person sitting beside him properly. 

“You had on a foul-looking face. Who wouldn’t be curious?” Shin Jaehyun laughs happily as he pets the tiny ball of fluff between them rhythmically.

In an instant, Park Moondae nearly decides to stand up and storm off himself to maintain his calm, but he hears a voice in the back of his mind repeatedly whispering something. Maybe it’s because there’s something in the air telling him this is the only chance he’d get. 

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Are you lonely?” Park Moondae questions out of the blue, and he’s met with Shin Jaehyun’s subtle expression of surprise. In a way, Park Moondae is also surprised at himself. 

Shin Jaehyun does not say anything in response, probably lost in his own thoughts. His eyes are closed, head tilted, fingers tapping his knee. He doesn’t open his mouth until minutes later. 

“I’m not sure. Maybe it seems that way to you, hoobaenim?” Shin Jaehyun ponders. “I’ve grown used to it by now, so there’s no need to feel such bothersome things. But if I had another chance, I think I would still do many things differently.” 

Park Moondae’s eyes slightly widen. He wants to get him to elaborate, to know more about Shin Jaehyun’s oh-so-secretive remorses, but he can’t find the proper words to reply with. “Like what?” 

Instead of answering, Shin Jaehyun smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Truth is usually all-or-nothing when it comes to him, and Park Moondae is sure he wouldn’t be getting an answer to that today. It’s almost unnerving—that unreadable face of his—but he soon changes the topic and doesn’t leave space for Park Moondae to interrupt or point it out. 

“You’re looking for advice, but you’re just too embarrassed to label it as such, right?” 

No response. 

“I’ll your silence as a yes, then. Let’s see,” Shin Jaehyun leans back, resting his head against the back of the bench. “There are only so many things that you can keep secret forever. Especially in your case, since you seem to enjoy oversharing.”

Park Moondae knows exactly what the bastard means by this. 

A few weeks ago, he was met with a dissatisfied reaction when he told Shin Jaehyun that he had somehow disclosed to one of his members—yes, Lee Sejin—about the life he’d lived: the system, his threat of death, his real name, real body, real past.  

Of course, he had no desire to inform Shin Jaehyun that this friend of his very much did believe him without a doubt or called him insane. He had no desire to laugh in Shin Jaehyun’s face despite all the bullshit he had spewed and done to him. It would have been very rude, he knows, to tell his happy endings to a person who had only had their open endings, bittersweet and desolate. And it doesn’t take a genius to realize that it’s a luxury in itself to have a person who would trust him unconditionally, through gibberish and everything else. He’s much more fortunate than others, especially when the “others” in question is Shin Jaehyun. 

And yet, Park Moondae doesn’t want to pity him. He knows the other wouldn’t want that either. They had somewhere along the lines reached an implicit consensus that there would be no room for sorrow, and no need for unnecessary, miserable tears. They both had too much pride for that. 

Perhaps the regressions had made Shin Jaehyun a bit more tired and a lot wiser, because all he follows up with at that moment is: 

“Just… don’t do something you’ll regret.” 

—

On nights like this, when the moon is dim and the world smells of rain, Park Moondae usually finds himself standing on the balcony of the dorm. Perhaps a year and a half ago, he’d be nestled here with a can of alcohol in his hands, but those privileges had now been revoked for a plethora of reasons that would probably be better left unsaid.

It’s not like he’s isolated in the cold because he has something he needs to hide; rather, it’s because he’s come to learn that this is the optimal time for self-blame. Self-hatred. Desperation. With the universe on pause in the middle of the night, he’s left alone with his own thoughts, and that in and of itself is a dangerous game to play. 

It’s never really gotten better, the ache of knowing that there might not exactly be a future in which he exists. He thought that it would go away eventually, because he believed he could handle pain well. It seemed like a cut, a small wound that would heal itself if left untouched. It was supposed to be a tiny inconvenience in his life that only hurt if grazed upon. But it wasn’t. It tore his skin into pieces even when he didn’t want it to, making itself a home in the crevices of his brain. It’s a disease, he’s concluded, that would linger within the deepest parts of his soul whether he had the desire to treat it or not. 

Soon enough, Park Moondae’s spiral into insanity is interrupted by the sound of a door carefully clicking open behind him. 

“You’re not sleeping?” 

Park Moondae immediately recognizes the voice to be that of Lee Sejin. 

“Mhm,” he nods haphazardly, continuing to stare off into the distance. He scoots over a few inches, and Lee Sejin takes it as an invitation to join. 

It’s a comfortable silence, yet one that keeps Park Moondae on his toes since he has absolutely zero clue what would come out of it in the end—as is always the case when it comes to Lee Sejin’s ambiguity. 

“So,” Lee Sejin starts out of nowhere, “are you gonna say it first or should I?” 

“What?” Park Moondae has an inkling of what Lee Sejin means, but he doesn’t think he has the energy to give the guy the response he wants to hear. 

Lee Sejin scoffs like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard. “You’re avoiding us as if we all don’t live in the same dorm. Did you think we wouldn’t notice, or what?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is it because of that stupid whatever-you-call-it system? The fact you aren’t ‘Park Moondae’? Is that what this is?”

Oh.

Park Moondae had expected this, Lee Sejin being the first one to get on his ass about the way he’s been acting lately. 

Still, something inside of him snaps. His vision turns crimson red. 

“Stop it.”

“I won’t. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on with you, Park Moondae. And I’m not saying this as your coworker, I’m saying it as your friend.”

“I told you already. Stop,” Park Moondae lets out another plea, and he isn’t sure what else he would do if this conversation continued. 

“I refu—” 

“Okay. Do you really want to know?” Park Moondae spits out, his voice probably the most agitated it's been in months. 

Right now, nothing feels real. And that could either be a blessing or a curse, maybe both, because he’s sure he would rue whatever happens within the next few minutes forever. 

As soon as he opens his mouth, his somber from years spills out like a dam had just burst. 

“I’m tired. Of this. I’m tired of not knowing what exactly it is that I’m working my ass off for, Lee Sejin. I—” he thinks he’s going crazy at this point, his consciousness telling him to not accidentally say something stupid, but it’s impossible with the way his heart is being torn out of his chest simultaneously. “—I wish I was never reminded of what it’s like to have a home to come back to. Because then I wouldn’t be obsessing over it like a fucking idiot. And I…” 

He stops. He takes a long pause because, holy shit, it feels like his lungs are on fire, and if he didn’t have a railing to hold onto he would have fallen to the ground the moment they started this exchange. 

“I wish I never met all of you.”

It’s a lie. Lee Sejin knows it’s a lie. Park Moondae knows it’s a lie. It’s a horrible lie at that.

Because Park Moondae would choose to meet them in every universe, status abnormalities or not. He would choose them in a world where they were all condemned to suffer, over and over. He would choose them in a world where there wasn’t a constant threat of death lingering atop his head like a bounty. Even if they were scattered all over the planet, he would find them time and time again. In a life where he didn’t have to carry lies as baggage, where the universe chose to be kinder to him, where loving them would be the easiest thing he’s ever done—he would find them. And he would never regret it. Not once. Not ever. 

“You don’t mean that.”

I hate you. 

I want to hate you.

I can’t.

“What do you want me to do, then?” Park Moondae whispers while his fingers curl around the hem of his shirt. His eyes burn. His throat hurts like hell. It’s all too, too much, and he’s not sure if he’s frustrated or if he’s just terribly, embarrassingly, pathetically, sad. 

“I can’t dictate what you should and shouldn’t do—what you should feel. But, Moondae, you can’t keep running from us. I don’t want you to. And you don’t want to either,” Lee Sejin laments, lips pressed into a thin line.

Us. There had been some point in time where us had become synonymous with TeSTAR, like they were all a package deal. One couldn’t exist without the others. Stars in the sky that couldn’t be separated. Where Park Moondae was, there would inevitably be six others trailing behind. 

 Lee Sejin pauses. He waits for Park Moondae to respond, but he’s stood there motionless and quiet, mouth slightly agape.

“I know you. And it’s because I know you so well that I know,” says Lee Sejin, “no one loves us more than you do.” 

This is all it takes for Park Moondae’s perfect, carefully crafted equilibrium of loving in silence to fall apart. 

Lee Sejin’s words hang in the air, free for Park Moondae to do whatever he wants with them, whether he wants to skip over the subject completely or bear the weight of it. 

“Don’t act surprised. You knew already.” 

Park Moondae had probably imagined this scenario happening millions of times already. Nevertheless, he has never been able to imagine the ending—where his words would take him and what would come about him. And for the first time, Park Moondae cannot come up with an excuse. He’s utterly left speechless. 

And finally, finally, Lee Sejin says, “We don’t give a damn about who you are or what you are—whatever self-deprecating things you’ve been thinking. ‘Cause we’ll work something out together. Like we always do. That’s all.” 

There is a single, fleeting millisecond where Park Moondae’s sure he would cry, but the stinging eases, disperses, and disappears. He’s certain a part of him is gone now, and all that’s left of him now is a Park Moondae who’s much, much more vulnerable; a Park Moondae who’s more selfish and more annoying. 

Where did things go wrong?

It’s a question Park Moondae would never have an answer to, and he doesn’t think he wants it either. But he knows—he knows very well that there’s no use in moping around, basking in his own negativity. He can’t say he’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like everything will be okay, because being okay is a promise of eternity and he isn’t quite sure he’d be able to fulfill it.

Yet, he would promise a lifetime of loving. He’ll start slowly, ease into it, and free-fall into it completely. He would be happy—as happy as someone like him could be. 

Park Moondae still can’t find the words to say, perhaps because there’s so much he wants to let out and be known, but he starts off easy, with utmost certainty.

“Thank you.”

He would love, love hard, just as he had always wanted to. 

—

“Moondae-hyung is making that face again…”

“Oh my. We can’t have that, can we?”

“I’m not making a face.” 

“You just were!”

These days, loving is much more forgiving for Park Moondae. These days, he is loved; so loved that he takes it in slowly, lets it out a hundredfold. It’s sweet, it’s warm, it feels just right. There is something so very gentle about it, and he thinks he loves being loved, loves loving, loves to love, and all the good and bad in between.

Had someone asked him then why he was so afraid, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Now, though, he knows what he would tell them verbatim: It’s because his melancholy is a permanent, irreversible part of him. He knows what they have might be limited, and neglecting this newfound bliss was the most painless way to accept that this body wasn’t his to begin with; yet, he’s nowadays aware that there isn’t a need to dwell that far ahead when all he really needs to do is focus on what’s in front of him now —before they slip through his fingers piece by piece. Fate will work the way it wants to, and he will live the way he wants to. 

So, Park Moondae would pretend like everything was going to be alright. Pretend like he knows what he’s doing. Pretend to play the part. Pretend like he’s normal as if the world isn’t going to end the next day. He would not look back, not look forward. He would exist in the moment, mourning over all the could-haves and should-haves. He would keep pretending and pretending because he knows he has everything he would ever need already, and that in itself is a blessing that would have typically been unattainable. 

Park Moondae will continue to love, pretending.