Work Text:
jongseob’s keys jingled in his pocket as he trudged up the steps to his apartment, each step heavier than the last. the air in the hallway felt stale, thick with the weight of another long, suffocating day. the kind of day that left a knot in your chest, a tension in your shoulders, a desire to just… disappear for a while.
he didn’t even bother to flick on the lights when he entered his apartment, letting the dim glow from the streetlights outside spill in through the windows. the silence of the room wrapped around him like a blanket, familiar and cold. his shoes thudded softly on the floor as he walked toward the kitchen, his hand already reaching for the kettle.
a cup of tea. that’s all he needed. just something small to settle the edge of his mind. the day had been a blur of meetings and endless emails, a parade of fake smiles and pretended enthusiasm. he didn’t mind the work itself—it was the feeling of being too much , and never quite enough . His coworkers often said he was “quiet,” “reserved,” even “cold,” but Jongseob knew the truth: he was honestly just tired of pretending .
the kettle hissed as it heated up, sounding almost too sharp after the silence. he moved mechanically, finding the mug he always used— it was simple, and kind of chipped at the edges, but it was his. the warmth of the tea didn’t help much, but it was something. he could feel it in his hands as he closed his fingers around the mug, the heat seeping into his skin, and for a moment, it was like he was finally starting to feel something other than exhaustion.
his eyes drifted toward the window, and he caught sight of the rooftop, just visible through the haze of streetlights. he didn’t need to think about it; he never did. the roof had always been his quiet place— no expectations , no judgment . it was the only spot where he could escape everything.
he stepped over to the door, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his jacket. the elevator would feel too confined, too closed-in. so, he took the stairs, one step after another, feeling the thrum of each footfall, letting the physical act of climbing ground him.
when he reached the top, the door to the roof creaked open with a familiar groan, the cool air hitting him like a truck. he stepped out into the night, greeted by the soft, almost comforting hum of the city below, its noise muffled by the distance. the air was crisp, almost refreshing , and the quiet settled over him like a blanket. the skyline stretched out in front of him, lights twinkling, but it was the sky above that captured his attention—the vastness, the emptiness.
he stood there for a while, mug still warm in his hands, watching the dark outline of the city against the starless sky. there was something about that view—more accurately, something about the quiet—that made everything feel a little less heavy. he could breathe up there.
for a moment, jongseob forgot about the smiles he had forced at work, the people he had tried so hard to impress. on the roof, in the quiet, he didn’t have to pretend.
the sounds of the world below seemed to fade away, and the only thing that mattered was the stillness around him, the soft warmth of the tea, and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. here, he was just… him. no expectations, just peace.
shota’s perspective.
the apartment was quiet, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator in the corner and the distant noise of the city filtering through the thin walls. it was the kind of quiet shota had come to rely on after a long day—a silence that wrapped around him like a blanket, comforting in its stillness.
He stood by the window, watching the city lights below flicker in the distance, the glow casting faint shadows in his small living room. the night was still young, but the city felt already far away, muffled by the weight of his own thoughts. shota couldn’t quite place what had been bothering him all day, but something in the pit of his stomach told him that he needed to be alone tonight. he didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to pretend to be interested in the things he wasn’t. he just wanted to be left alone.
the sound of the wind outside swirled through the open window, the rush of it like a reminder of all the things he wasn’t saying.
he turned away from the window, pacing slowly through his living room. the place was sparsely decorated—just the basics. a worn couch, a coffee table cluttered with books he never read, a few plants that barely seemed to survive the lack of sunlight. he didn’t mind it, though.
shota made his way to the small kitchenette and opened the cupboard. the clink of the cup against the shelf echoed through the apartment. he wasn’t hungry, but the routine of making something to eat after work felt soothing. the hot water hissed as it came to a boil, and he stared at it, the steam rising and swirling in the air. he knew it wouldn’t solve anything, but sometimes, the act of doing something ordinary was enough to distract him from the weight of everything else.
he placed some instant ramen in a bowl, pouring in the boiling water. its gentle aroma filling the air. shota leaned against the counter, waiting for it to cook, his mind drifting.
it wasn’t that his day had been terrible—it was just… tiresome. another series of small talk, forced smiles, nods in all the right places. the pressure of trying to be someone he wasn’t, of being something he couldn’t live up to. he had spent the whole day pretending to care, pretending to smile, pretending that everything was fine when it honestly wasn’t.
all shota wanted was to be seen. he felt trapped in his own mind, a swirling storm of thoughts and feelings that he could never seem to put into the right words. people always labeled him as “strange” or “quirky,” brushing off the things he said with an awkward laugh or a casual, “oh, that’s just shota being shota.” but they never really listened. they never tried to understand.
it wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say—on the contrary, his mind was full of ideas, questions, and insights he desperately wanted to share. the problem was finding the right way to explain them. no matter how hard he tried, his words always seemed to come out jumbled or out of sync with what he truly meant. and instead of showing interest, people just dismissed him, their expressions vaguely amused but distant, as if he were some harmless oddity.
it hurt more than he wanted to admit. shota knew he was smart. he knew he had things to offer, thoughts that could surprise or inspire if someone would just take the time to hear him out. but the constant dismissal wore him down, each shrug or laugh chipping away at his confidence.
so eventually, he gave up. he stopped trying to explain himself. instead, he smoothed out his edges and pretended to be what everyone else expected: normal, predictable, easy to understand. he kept his deeper thoughts and feelings locked away, hidden behind a mask of politeness and small talk. it was safer that way, but also lonelier.
because no one knew the real shota. And sometimes, he wasn’t sure they ever would.
the truth was, he didn’t know how to stop pretending.
shota was snapped out of his thoughts by the timer going off on his ramen. he stirred in the seasoning and wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic. the heat soaked into his skin, and for a moment, he let the feeling fill the space in his chest, that familiar sense of solitude that only the quiet of home could provide. it was easy to forget how exhausting the world could be when you were constantly pretending. but in moments like this— alone —he could almost breathe again.
shota took a bite of his food, savoring the warmth that spread through him. his gaze shifted to the corner of the room, where his guitar rested, gathering dust. it had been a long time since he picked it up. playing had once been his escape, but now, it felt like another thing he was too tired to try. there were too many things in his life that didn’t have room for him anymore. too many parts of him that didn’t feel like they fit anywhere.
shota set the bowl down on the counter and went back to the window, staring out at the city again. the people below were like ants, scurrying around in a hurry to get somewhere, to be someone. and yet, up here, he was just… here . not really a part of anything. shota’s convinced that he could just disappear into the night, and no one would notice.
he briefly wondered about the other people in the building while he was eating. He barely knew anyone, but sometimes, in moments like this, he couldn’t help but wonder. were they like him? did they ever feel the same weight pressing down on their shoulders, the same urge to escape? or were they happy, all content in their routines?
he had only spoken to one of his neighbors, the one from across the hall— jongseob . he’d seen him in passing, caught glimpses of him in the elevator or near the lobby. all shota really knew about him was that they were born in the same year, and that he works in an office job, but he seemed the type who fit in, who could talk to people without trying.
shota wasn’t like that. he didn’t know how to be like that. he didn’t even know if he wanted to be. but there was something about that neighborbthat made him think, just for a moment, that maybe they were more alike than they seemed.
the thought lingered in his mind as he stood there by the window, the cool air brushing against his skin. he had never felt the need to talk to jongseob, never felt the urge to reach out. but sometimes, when the silence stretched too long, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to share it with someone. just for a few minutes. maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to not be alone for once.
but tonight, he didn’t want to find out. not yet.
with a soft sigh, shota finished his dinner, rinsed the bowl, and set it aside. he sat down on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest, and let the quiet wash over him again. there was a kind of peace in being alone, but it was a fragile peace. a peace that sometimes felt too empty, too hollow. it was the only kind he knew.
the apartment felt smaller as the night stretched on, but shota didn’t mind. he closed his eyes and let the sounds of the city drift in, the faint hum of life continuing outside his window.
tomorrow would be another day, and he’d pretend again. But tonight, he could just be here .
jongseob’s perspective.
the next night, the weight of the day pressed down on jongseob’s shoulders again. it had been happening more often lately. the dull murmur of voices, the click of keyboards, the heat of forced small talk—it was all the same.
his tea was already steeping by the time the last email of the day dinged in his inbox. he ignored it, grabbing his jacket and slipping out the door without hesitation. he didn’t even need to look at the clock—he knew that the quiet of the night was already settling in.
the elevator doors closed behind him with a soft ping. as he reached the top, the quiet creak of the door to the roof greeted him as he pushed it open, and the rush of cool night air instantly met him with the familiar embrace of solitude.
he took a deep breath, eyes closing for just a moment. the sky tonight was clearer than usual—dotted with stars so vivid, they looked like freckles against the dark. the city lights flickered below, soft and muted as if they understood his need for stillness.
jongseob glanced around, hoping for the usual emptiness. the roof was his place. he didn’t mind the silence, the loneliness. for him, it was better that way.
but tonight was different.
from the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow— someone else . for a moment, jongseob paused, heart skipping slightly in his chest. he wasn’t alone, not entirely.
it was his neighbour, shota. he was sitting on the far edge of the roof, near the low railing, his legs drawn up to his chest. the way his head was tilted, as if looking at something in the distance—maybe the city lights, or maybe the same stars jongseob had been staring at just moments ago.
jongseob froze, unsure of what to do. he didn’t know Shota very well. he didn’t even know if the guy was someone he should talk to, let alone someone who’d want company. shota seemed… distant. almost like he was a ghost, caught somewhere between the real world and this strange, silent space.
but Jongseob couldn’t deny the curiosity gnawing at him. what was Shota doing up here? did he come here to be alone, too?
he stayed quiet, almost instinctively. he took a few steps forward but not enough to intrude. he had come here to be alone , to let his thoughts unravel in peace, not to share it with anyone else. but Shota was there, and somehow the space felt different now.
jongseob settled down a few feet away from shota, careful not to make any noise. his tea had gone slightly cold, but he held the mug between his hands anyway. he watched the other boy from the corner of his eye, trying not to make it too obvious.
shota hadn’t acknowledged him. his gaze remained focused on the sky, lost in whatever thoughts ran through his mind. there was something strangely comforting about that—about the fact that they could share the silence without any pressure to speak.
the night stretched on, the only sound between them the faint hum of the city, the occasional rustle of fabric as shota shifted. neither of them spoke, and yet, in some way, it felt like they understood each other’s need for this silence.
after what felt like hours, jongseob finished his tea, the warm liquid now long gone, replaced by the cold bite of the air. he glanced at shota again, wondering if he was going to leave soon. was this an unspoken agreement between them—that the roof was a place for solitude, not conversation?
but still, shota stayed, unmoving, staring out into the distance. there was a stillness in his posture, in the way he was lost in the night. It was… familiar, somehow. Like a mirror.
jongseob didn’t move, didn’t speak. he felt an unfamiliar urge to stay, to not break the fragile calm of this moment.
eventually, Shota stood, and with a soft nod toward jongseob—barely noticeable, like a passing thought—he turned and made his way toward the door.
jongseob lingered for a while longer, staring at the spot where shota had been. he didn’t know why he felt so unsettled by it. maybe it was the brief connection—the unspoken recognition of something shared between them.
but tonight, jongseob didn’t have answers. all he had was the feeling of his hands starting to go numb, and tiredness settling behind his eyes. he stood as silently as he’d arrived, going to retire to his warm apartment.
shota’s perspective:
the day had dragged on, the noise of constant chatter and deadlines settling heavily on shota’s shoulders. his fingers ached from typing, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton from all the words he’d had to say to people who barely noticed. sometimes, he wished he could escape from the pressure, from the expectation of who he was supposed to be. tonight, he didn’t want to pretend.
he slipped out of his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him, and walked toward the stairs that led to the roof. the stillness of the hallway was oddly soothing. it felt like the world outside had already muted itself, as if the city’s hum was far away and he could finally breathe.
the wind was crisp as he pushed open the door to the roof, a breath of cold air rushing in to fill his lungs. the sky above him was dark, the stars less clear than the previous night. the city lights flickered below, too far away to touch, casting a soft glow that barely reached him. it was quiet. just how he liked it.
he made his way to his usual spot, near the edge of the roof, and sat down with his knees drawn to his chest. the familiar weight of his jacket kept him grounded, and he pulled it tighter around his shoulders. here, no one could see him, no one could ask questions. up here, he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone.
he hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. the roof was his space, his escape. but then he heard the door creak open, and the sound of footsteps on the gravel.
shota didn’t look up immediately. He had learned long ago that it wasn’t necessary to acknowledge everyone who passed by. the roof was big enough for both of them, and it wasn’t like anyone ever stayed up here long enough to matter.
but then, he caught the faint outline of the other person’s figure— jongseob , his neighbor. after he was here yesterday, shota didn’t expect him to be back. does he come out here every night, or something? shota asked himself. he’d seen him around, but they had never really spoken. just the occasional glance in the hallway, a few small conversations here and there. jongseob always seemed quiet, as if he was trying to blend into the background. shota was no different.
shota tilted his head slightly, still not wanting to acknowledge the other person just yet. he didn’t mind the presence, but he wasn’t in the mood for talking. the quiet of the night was enough. it was everything .
he could feel jongseob’s eyes on him from the corner of his vision. maybe it was the way jongseob moved—carefully, like he didn’t want to intrude. or maybe it was the fact that, for some reason, shota could feel the weight of his gaze even without looking. jongseob wasn’t like the other people shota usually ran into on the roof. there was something different about him, something quieter. he seemed to need this space, just as much as shota did.
for the second night in a row, neither of them spoke. shota didn’t know if jongseob was waiting for something—an invitation, maybe, or some kind of acknowledgment. shota wasn’t ready for that. he wasn’t sure why, but the quiet felt fragile, like it would break if either of them tried to fill it with words.
he shifted a little, folding his arms tighter around his knees, and allowed himself to just be . the night stretched on, and the silence between them didn’t feel awkward. it felt like an understanding , something unspoken that didn’t need to be named.
but as time passed, the sense of stillness between them became almost too much to bear. the night felt too thick with meaning, and shota started to feel like he was suffocating in the quiet. something inside him shifted—a pressure building in his chest, a need to leave before it became too much.
with a soft exhale, he pushed himself to his feet, standing slowly, making sure not to disturb the fragile peace. he glanced at jongseob for the briefest moment—his eyes flicking over him, actually looking at him for the first time. there was something about jongseob’s presence that felt familiar, even though they had barely spoken.
and that was enough.
shota turned toward the door, feeling the weight of the moment settle between them. he didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. he wasn’t used to sharing space with someone—especially not someone like jongseob, who didn’t seem nearly out of place in this world as he was.
before he walked out, he gave one last glance back over his shoulder, the outline of jongseob’s figure barely visible in the dim light. for a moment, shota almost expected him to say something— but nothing came. no words. just the quiet hum of the city and the soft echo of his own heartbeat.
without a second thought, he pushed the door open and stepped back into the hallway.
he didn’t know why he felt the need to leave so abruptly, but it wasn’t like he’d be able explain it anyway.
the night air still felt sharp on his skin, and he let out a breath, unsure of what exactly he was walking away from.
jongseob’s perspective.
jongseob hadn’t meant to keep coming back to the roof. at first, it was just a place to escape—the one spot in the building where the noise of the world couldn’t follow him. but now, it had become something else. a place where he could feel a strange sort of peace, a silent kind of connection to someone he barely knew.
the more he came up here, the more he noticed the small things . it was almost imperceptible at first, these little habits and routines that shota had—things he didn’t even seem aware of. shota would always arrive around the same time, just as the light in the sky started to fade. he’d sit at the same spot by the railing, his legs tucked under him, and pull out a small book from his bag. there was an elegance in the way shota turned the pages, like he was lost in some world of his own. he brow would furrow slightly, a small crease forming on his forehead, as if he were thinking deeply about what he was reading.
jongseob had always been more of a visual learner—he needed to see things to understand them, so he was more into games and movies than book—but the way shota immersed himself in books intrigued him. there was a depth in shota’s stillness, a thoughtfulness that seemed almost too much for someone so quiet. sometimes, he would catch himself wondering if shota was aware of the weight of the silence around them—or if he, too, found it comforting in the same way.
it wasn’t just books. shota also had this tendency to bring his music with him. on some nights, jongseob would hear the faint hum of a song drifting through shota’s headphones, something soft and melodic, but always with a certain melancholy undertone. sometimes it was the gentle strumming of a guitar, other times the distant hum of piano keys. whatever it was, it seemed to match the quiet rhythm of the nights they shared.
jongseob had never spoken to Shota, not directly. the moments when they shared the roof together were always so fleeting, so fragile. neither of them ever broke the silence. they simply existed beside each other—two souls, alone together.
and yet, every night when he walked to the roof, it was impossible not to notice how his mind was drawn to the same place, to the same figure. it was like he couldn’t not check if he was there.
it wasn’t just the way shota seemed to drift through the night like he didn’t belong to the world below. it was the way he always seemed to disappear, just when the air grew too thick with unspoken words.
the first time Jongseob noticed it—really noticed it—was on a night when the roof felt even emptier than usual. he’d arrived earlier than he expected, carrying his own cup of tea, hoping for the usual unspoken company. and there shota was, sitting by the railing, as always, but this time, there was no book. no music. just a quiet figure lost in thought, his eyes on the horizon, barely even moving. jongseob stood still for a long moment, not sure whether to approach or just leave him be.
something about the way shota sat there—so still, so small —pulled at him.
as usual, they didn’t speak, but they stayed longer than usual. he found himself watching shota in a way he hadn’t before, tracing the lines of his figure as the city below hummed. it was strange, this feeling of wanting to be near someone without knowing why. any yet, it didn’t feel strange at all. it felt, somehow, right .
the night had stretched on, and soon, the moon rose high in the sky, the only light they had up there. shota eventually stood, his movements slow, deliberate. as he turned toward the door, he cast a glance at jongseob. It was barely a second, just a flicker of recognition between them, but it felt heavier than any words could have been.
and then he was gone.
jongseob sat there for a while longer, the silence now filled with the weight of the moment. it wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. but it was unsettling in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain. the quiet was no longer just the absence of sound to him— it felt like something shared, something he and shota had experienced together without acknowledging it.
the next night, as usual, Jongseob made his way to the roof. the doors creaked open, and the cold night air hit him immediately, rushing to fill the spaces inside him that felt too full of unspoken things. he didn’t know if shota would be there tonight, or if their silent encounter had meant anything. but as he stepped onto the roof, he found himself immediately searching for the familiar figure.
shota’s perspective.
shota had never liked to think about his days, especially the ones that stretched on without end. they always felt like the same routine—another day of walking through the motions, wearing a smile that didn’t quite fit, answering questions that didn’t matter. it was always the same. always expected. and tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
the city outside his window was already starting to quiet down, but the noise in his mind seemed to be getting louder. it was the pressure—the constant feeling that he was running out of time. running out of chances to do something more than just exist. everyone saw him as a broke college student, a part-time worker at some café, a nobody. they saw him as nothing .
shota didn’t want to be just another face in the crowd, blending in with everyone else. he didn’t want to be ordinary . he wanted to be known . to be seen for something more than what he was— not by a list of jobs he hated, a list of responsibilities he barely had the energy to carry. he had dreams, sure, but no one really cared about them. no one ever saw him.
all of that weight was too much. it pressed down on him, sinking into his bones. his mind spun with the same thoughts—why wasn’t he more? why couldn’t he stand out? why couldn’t someone just look at him and see all of who he was?
he stood at his window for a while, staring out into the city below, listening to the quiet hum of life outside. the lights twinkled like little pieces of hope—so far away, so out of reach. he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the frustration building in his chest.
he needed to get away from it all. He needed to feel something different, something outside of the chaos of his life.
the roof.
it was the one place where he could breathe. the sound of the wind, the faint hum of the city, and the endless sky above him. no one judged him up there. no one expected him to be anything he wasn’t.
shota grabbed his jacket, not bothering to bring anything else with him this time. no books, no music. he didn’t want distractions. he needed the silence tonight, needed to just be with his thoughts. he soul felt raw, like it had been scraped open, and he didn’t have the energy to fill it with anything else.
the elevator doors pinged shut behind him as he made his way up. the familiar creak of the roof door felt like the world shifting into place as he stepped out into the cool night air. it hit him instantly, the way it always did, as if the roof were its own universe, separate from everything else.
for a moment, he simply stood there, feeling the wind tug at the edges of his jacket, listening to the distant murmur of the city far below. but even though this had helped him numerous times before, he didn’t feel the peace he usually found here. the silence stretched around him like a thin thread, fragile, ready to snap at any moment.
he walked to his usual spot by the railing, but this time he didn’t sit. he just stood, staring out into the distance, watching the city twinkle below him like an endless sea of lights. he fingers gripped the cool metal of the railing as he leaned forward, his mind still racing.
it was stupid, really. the whole idea that he should stand out. that he should be more than he was. he already knew how the world saw him, how everyone else saw him. but that feeling of insignificance—it lingered in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at him.
he didn’t want to be invisible. he didn’t want to be this masked version of himself anymore. he wanted to be seen . he wanted to be understood.
and there was something about the roof, about the stillness of the night, that made him realize how much he longed for something else. someone else. someone to notice him. someone to see him.
he glanced around, almost expecting to see the usual presence that had become a familiar part of his recent nights—the figure of jongseob, sitting or standing silently in the corner, like a quiet observer. but tonight, the roof was empty. for the first time in what felt like forever, shota was actually alone here. and though he had always come up here to be alone, the absence of jongseob made the quiet feel more .
he didn’t know why, but the thought of jongseob not being here hit him with a strange, unexpected ache. it wasn’t that he wanted to talk to him—no, that wasn’t it. it was just… he couldn’t help but wonder. wonder if jongseob ever felt the same way, ever felt like he was drowning in a world that couldn’t see him. wonder if, like shota, he came up here to escape, to be something other than the person the world expected him to be. the thought of someone else going through the same thing always helped him feel a little less crazy.
shota stayed for hours, long after the city had gone quiet, long after the wind had turned cold against his skin.
as he turned to leave, a strange feeling lingered in his chest, something he couldn’t quite name. it wasn’t loneliness, exactly. It was something quieter, softer, like a small, fragile hope that had started to bloom somewhere deep inside him.
jongseob’s perspective.
the fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently as jongseob stared at his computer screen. the same numbers, the same emails, the same monotonous tasks that seemed to stretch on forever. he hated it. the longer he sat there, the heavier the weight on his shoulders grew. it wasn’t that the work itself was hard—it was that it felt pointless. every day, a stream of meetings and emails, each one bleeding into the next. there was nothing satisfying about it, nothing fulfilling. just another day in the life of someone who didn’t really belong.
he tapped his pen absently on the desk, trying to focus on the report in front of him, but it was like trying to concentrate through a fog. his mind kept drifting to the thought of just stepping away, away from this cramped office, away from these artificial walls.
his phone buzzed on the desk, pulling him out of his thoughts. another email. another reminder that he was behind on a project. he cursed under his breath, feeling the frustration building up. maybe he should’ve gone out for lunch today, taken a walk, something to clear his head—but he hadn’t. he had stayed here, hunched over his desk, ignoring the gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction eating away at him.
by the time the clock struck six, he was done. he had mentally checked out hours ago, but now the actual end of the day was finally in sight. jongseob grabbed his jacket, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the day as he walked out of the office. the cool evening air greeted him like a quiet whisper, a stark contrast to the stale office air he’d been breathing for far too long. he shoved his hands into his pockets, making his way toward his apartment building.
the walk home felt longer than usual, the weight of the day still hanging on him. he felt tired, physically and mentally drained. but he knew where he was heading. the one place that had come to feel like a refuge, even if it wasn’t much—a small, silent corner of the world that he could claim for himself, if only for a little while.
jongseob got home and didn’t even bother changing. he dropped off his work stuff, but kept his jacket on, and headed straight for the roof door. when the door creaked open, the cool air wrapped around him, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the building.
as he stepped out onto the roof, he wasn’t sure what he expected. but there was a small, quiet hope tugging at him. maybe it was that quiet pull, that connection that had been growing between him and his neighbor, without either of them saying a word. he glanced around the roof, his gaze moving instinctively to the spot where shota usually stood.
and there he was. shota was sitting on the ledge, as usual, his legs drawn up to his chest, staring out into the city. the stillness of the moment settled over jongseob like a familiar weight, and for a moment, he let himself simply breathe in the peace of it all.
he walked over slowly, careful not to disturb the calm. he didn’t want to speak. not yet. the silence between them had become something comforting, something solid. something that didn’t require words. he leaned against the railing a few feet away from shota, closing his eyes briefly, feeling the tension in his body start to unravel.
shota didn’t acknowledge him, not immediately. it was the same as it always was—two people, sharing a space but not forcing anything. just existing together in the quiet. jongseob found comfort in that.
minutes passed. the only sounds were the distant buzz of traffic and the rustle of wind in the trees. jongseob felt the heaviness of the day start to dissipate, replaced by something softer, something that made him feel lighter, like he could breathe again.
and then, just as the quiet was beginning to settle into something peaceful, shota spoke. his voice was quiet, as if testing the waters, but it was there—breaking the silence gently.
“how was your day?”
it wasn’t anything profound, nothing world-shattering. but for some reason, hearing shota’s voice—simple, unassuming—felt like a balm to jongseob’s exhausted mind. it was like shota had reached into the quiet of the moment and pulled him out of his own head, bringing him back to something real. something human.
jongseob took a deep breath, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. the question seemed so simple, but somehow it felt so important, the fact that Shota had spoken to him at all.
“it was… a long day,” jongseob replied softly, his voice still a little rough from the weight of it all. he leaned against the railing, turning his head slightly to glance at shota. “but i always feel better after coming up here.”
shota didn’t respond immediately, but jongseob wasn’t expecting him to. the night stretched on, and the silence between them returned, but it wasn’t awkward. it was comfortable, like they had found a quiet understanding in the simplest of words.
jongseob stayed there for a while longer, the weight of the day still hanging in the back of his mind, but now softened by shota’s quiet presence. he had come here for peace, and he had found it. not in the absence of noise, but in the understanding that they shared.
and that was enough.
the nights had started to get colder. the crispness in the air was noticeable now, a biting chill that crept through every layer of clothing. jongseob didn’t mind it too much—he was used to the discomfort of long, cold evenings. but tonight, as he stepped out onto the roof, he noticed something different.
a soft rustle of fabric caught his attention, and when he turned, he saw shota already sitting by the railing, a blanket draped over his shoulders. it was dark, and the stars above looked muted against the inky sky, but shota’s figure was unmistakable. he was leaning back against the ledge, the blanket wrapped tightly around him like some quiet shield against the night’s cold.
jongseob hesitated for a moment, standing at the roof door, his hand still gripping the handle. the blanket was something so small, but it made him feel like he was witnessing a part of shota he hadn’t seen before. it was oddly intimate, even in its simplicity.
he had been coming to the roof almost every night now, and lately, the pull to see shota had become almost magnetic. he didn’t know why, or when it had shifted, but it was there now. that same quiet curiosity, that need to be near him. to feel that quiet comfort that came when they were together, even in silence.
jongseob made his way over, his steps light against the cool concrete, and once he was close enough, he sat down a few feet from shota, leaning against the same railing that shota had claimed for himself. the space between them felt comfortable, more natural now, as if the quiet that had once seemed so heavy had started to slip into something that didn’t demand anything.
he glanced at shota. as usual, the other boy hadn’t said anything yet, but he didn’t need to. he was wrapped in his blanket, his gaze turned to the horizon, lost in his own thoughts. it wasn’t awkward, though. it was just… easy. it made jongseob’s chest feel lighter.
but the cold was starting to creep into his own bones, the sharp bite of the air reminding him of its presence. he rubbed his hands together, hoping to warm them up.
without thinking, jongseob moved closer, just a little. the space between them had been small, but now it was even smaller. he shifted a little further, just enough that the edge of the blanket was close enough to his outstretched legs. the fabric shifted when he moved, but it didn’t feel like an intrusion. he hadn’t even realized how much he wanted to sit closer until he was.
for a moment, neither of them said anything. the only sounds were the city below, the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees, and the soft breathing of two people, quietly coexisting in the stillness of the night. jongseob kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, but he was more aware of shota than he had been in a long time. his presence was more pronounced, somehow, with the blanket and the closeness between them.
then, after a long pause, shota spoke up, his voice cutting through the quiet.
“cold, huh?”
it was such a simple statement. not a deep conversation, not anything heavy. but something about it made jongseob’s chest tighten, just a little. the words were casual, but the fact that shota was acknowledging him, breaking the silence again to share a piece of his own discomfort, felt like a small step forward. it was… familiar, in a way. like it had been something they’d done a hundred times, even though it was still so new.
“yeah,” he replied, his voice softer than he expected. jongseob shifted again, closer this time, letting the corner of the blanket catch around his knees. “seems like it’s getting colder every night.”
shota nodded in agreement, his hands grabbing the edge of the blanket around him, and tossing half of it over jongseob’s legs. there was a small smile on his face, something that seemed almost shy but genuine. jongseob noticed it immediately.
“next time, i’ll bring a second one for you,” shota added, his words more casual than before but with an undertone that made jongseob’s heart jump a little. “it you want.”
the offer was simple, easy. it wasn’t a huge gesture. it wasn’t a confession of something deeper. but it was a quiet offer—a small extension of care.
jongseob’s smile mirrored shota’s, small but real.
“thanks,” he said quietly, his voice betraying a warmth that wasn’t just from the blanket. “i might take you up on that.”
the moments between them stretched on, as they always did, the quiet growing easier with each passing minute, as usual.
as the minutes passed, Jongseob couldn’t help but feel like this slow, steady companionship was something he was beginning to need more than he’d realized. they were still strangers, in many ways. but in others, they weren’t.
they both sat there, silently watching the city below. neither of them made any effort to break the stillness again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. not anymore. they weren’t exactly friends, not yet, but this— jongseob knew that this was the beginning of something. something more than just the occasional word, more than the fleeting moments that had once felt so distant.
shota’s perspective.
the air was colder tonight. shota could feel it more than usual, like the wind was sharper against his skin, pulling at the edges of his jacket. he had brought his blanket again, and the familiar weight of it was comforting, but still, he couldn’t ignore the biting chill in the air.
it had been a long, tiring week. classes, part-time jobs, constant demands from all sides. it was the same routine, and the same suffocating feeling of never being enough. at least here, he could breathe.
shota glanced to his side, where jongseob was sitting a little closer than usual. the space between them had been shrinking these past few days. each time they met, they shared a few more sentences, the tension that used to fill the gaps gradually dissipating.
tonight, shota had brought his blanket, but he’d left his headphones at home. there was no music, no book to distract him. just the quiet, and jongseob. the two of them, sitting side by side, as they often did.
he wasn’t sure when he’d started looking forward to these nights. maybe it was the way jongseob didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t demand or expect anything from him. he didn’t ask for shota to be anything other than what he was in the moment. it was a kind of peace that shota hadn’t realized he needed.
shota felt the cold seeping deeper into his skin as the minutes ticked by. he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t left yet. part of him wanted to stay. another part of him wanted to get up and walk away, to avoid whatever it was that seemed to pull him closer to jongseob with each passing moment. it wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy—no, it was the opposite. jongseob had become a steady presence in his life. and that was the problem.
shota wanted to know more about him. He wanted to ask, to talk , but he wasn’t sure how to break the balance they’d created. it was comfortable, this quiet space between them. it had become something he didn’t want to ruin with the wrong words.
and yet, tonight, there was something different about the air. the stillness felt more fragile than usual, like something was on the verge of shifting.
jongseob sat beside him, moving closer again. the slight brush of his knee against shota’s leg sent a small jolt through his body. the touch was so minimal, so subtle, that shota wasn’t even sure if it was intentional— but it was enough for shota to feel it.
he froze, his breath catching in his throat. he hadn’t expected the contact. and yet, when it happened, a small part of him didn’t want it to end. it wasn’t the usual brush of a crowded subway or a random accident in the hallway. this was deliberate, even if it wasn’t intentional. it was the kind of accidental touch that lingered in the air longer than it should have, like a promise of something else.
for a moment, neither of them moved. the world outside their little bubble on the roof seemed distant, muted. all shota could feel was the soft pressure of jongseob’s leg against his own. it was strange. but not unwelcome.
he could feel the warmth radiating from jongseob’s side now, more palpable with the colder air surrounding them. he didn’t pull away. he didn’t want to.
shota’s breath felt heavier now, his heart pounding in a way he wasn’t entirely prepared for. was this normal? was this what happened when two people spent so much time in silence together? the touch had been so light, so fleeting, but it felt like it had broken something between them. something that had been there all along, unspoken, waiting for just the right moment.
before he could overthink it, jongseob shifted again, as if realizing the contact between them had happened. his eyes flicked over to shota, but he didn’t say anything at first. shota didn’t know what to do with the weight of that unspoken glance. his chest tightened in a way he hadn’t expected.
the moment stretched.
and then jongseob spoke, his voice soft, cutting through the tension. “sorry…” he mumbled, followed by a nervous laugh. he moved his leg away, to shota’s disappointment.
shota looked at him, surprised by the words, surprised by the hesitation in jongseob’s tone.
“no… it’s okay,” shota replied, his own voice softer than he intended. “i didn’t mind it.” he mumbled. his heartbeat was still too loud in his ears, but the words were out before he could stop them. maybe he just wanted to feel that closeness again. it was nice.
jongseob looked at him for a beat longer, then nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, tentative smile. the air between them felt charged now, but not in a way that was uncomfortable. it was like something had shifted, a new thread connecting them. maybe it had always been there, and the touch had only brought it to the surface.
neither of them said anything else for a while. they knew they didn’t need to. the silence had become a conversation all on its own. and Shota was starting to realize that maybe, he wasn’t as misunderstood as he thought.
jongseob’s perspective.
the city below was wrapped in a blanket of darkness, the occasional light flickering like distant stars. the air had grown colder, but neither of them seemed to mind. the quiet between jongseob and shota had deepened over the weeks they had spent on the roof together—no longer just a space filled with solitude but something more profound. it was a place where words didn’t always have to be spoken. in the stillness, there was a connection that neither of them had anticipated.
tonight was different, though. tonight, the silence felt heavier, filled with a tension that jongseob couldn’t shake. he wasn’t sure why. perhaps it was the way the cold seemed to penetrate his skin more than usual, or the way his thoughts felt sharper tonight, digging at something inside him that he wasn’t ready to face.
he watched shota, sitting a few feet away from him, wrapped in his blanket. shota’s eyes were fixed on the street underneath them, his profile illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon. the air between them stretched, comfortable but with an urgency that jongseob couldn’t ignore.
he had to say it. he had to speak up, even though he wasn’t sure how to start.
it wasn’t grand, the confession that had been building inside him for the last few days. he wasn’t sure how to make it sound significant. but it had to be said.
“shota?” jongseob began, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant. “one of the reasons i started coming here, is because i’ve spent most of my life pretending to be someone I’m not. i’ve always felt like i had to be this… version of myself that other people wanted to see.” he paused, the words heavy in the cool night air. “at work, at home, everywhere… i’ve always been playing a part. like I’m just trying to fit in. but i never really felt like I did, you know?”
shota didn’t move, but he tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for him to continue. jongseob swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing.
“when I met you, it was like everything just… stopped,” he confessed, his fingers nervously curling around the mug in his hands. “i didn’t have to pretend around you. i didn’t have to be someone else. you… you know, i can just be me. and for the first time in my life, i didn’t feel like i had to hide. like i didn’t have to fit into some version of myself that wasn’t real. so, i just wanted to thank you for that. i like being up here with you.”
the words hung in the air, fragile and raw. jongseob didn’t dare look at shota, too afraid of what might be in his eyes, what his silence might mean. but he had said it. he had said what had been eating at him for so long. and now, all he could do was wait.
after a long moment, shota shifted slightly, the blanket rustling around his shoulders. he didn’t speak immediately, but jongseob could feel the tension between them, palpable in the quiet night. shota’s gaze was still on the city, but his words, when they came, were gentle.
“i get that,” shota said, his voice low and steady. “i’ve spent my whole life hiding behind a persona. like… like people can’t see the real me, so i just give them what they want to see. the loud, confident, carefree guy. the one who doesn’t care, who stands out, but not too much.” his voice cracked slightly, and jongseob heard the vulnerability there. “but the truth is, i just… i want to be seen for who i really am. not for the performance i put on. when i’m out here with you… i feel like maybe, for the first time, someone sees me..? like, not the version i show the world, but the real me. the one I’ve been hiding, i guess.”
jongseob’s heart skipped, a flutter of warmth spreading through his chest. he wanted to say something, to reach out to shota, but the words felt too big. so, instead, he simply nodded, his hand tightening around the mug. shota had been hiding, too. they were both pretending in different ways, but here, together, they didn’t have to anymore.
for a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the city beneath them. the night stretched on, wrapping itself around them like a blanket, and jongseob realized just how much they had come to rely on these nights together. the space between them had always been a sanctuary—a place where nothing was expected, where they could just exist as they were.
shota’s voice broke the quiet again, this time with a gentleness that made jongseob’s chest tighten.
“you don’t have to hide with me, jongseob,” shota said, his tone warm, soft. “i’m glad you don’t.”
jongseob’s breath caught in his throat. the weight of those words settled over him like a gentle wave. for the first time, he felt like he was being seen—truly seen. not for the things he tried to hide, but for who he really was. not for what he pretended to be, but for the person he was beneath it all.
before he could say anything, shota moved closer. he didn’t say anything more, but there was a softness in his eyes, a kind of silent understanding that spoke louder than words ever could. his hand reached out, tentative at first, but then steady. without a word, he took jongseob’s hand, the warmth of his touch spreading through jongseob’s chest.
jongseob didn’t pull away. instead, he let shota pull him closer, their hands intertwined with a kind of intimacy that neither of them had ever known before. the soft weight of the blanket wrapped around them both, and the space between them felt suddenly smaller, more intimate.
jongseob realized that he really didn’t feel like he was pretending. he wasn’t playing a part. he wasn’t hiding. in that simple gesture, that small touch, he realized that he had found someone who didn’t want him to be anything other than who he was.
they sat there, hand in hand, the world spinning around them, and yet, for once, everything felt still. right. quiet.
jongseob knew then, without a doubt, that he had found his place.