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“Do you like chasing cars?”
“I’d rather race them,” he chuckled, pausing for a moment before continuing, “How about you, sweetie pie?”
“Ew.. I can’t say I like it, but I’d do it if I have to.”
Will he?
—#—
On the eighth day of August in the year 2008, a seven-year-old crouched by the riverbank in the idyllic town of Shirakawa, Japan, where the water whispered against the stones and the air carried the scent of earth and cedar.
His wide, unguarded eyes sparkled with curiosity as he slipped his hand into the river, the water as clear and endless as the sky above. Lost in quiet wonder, he thought of how different this place was—so serene, so untouched—nothing like the hurried streets and blinking lights of Seoul.
A gentle voice called out, warm with affection. “Beomgyu-yah, don’t go too close to the river, okay?”
“Mhm, I won’t, Halmeoni.” He glanced over his shoulder with a cheeky smile before plucking a smooth pebble from the river, tracing idle circles on the water’s rippling surface.
Beomgyu had always been the type to observe before acting, to take in the world with quiet fascination before deciding whether to step forward or stay still. Even at seven, he wasn’t the reckless kind—not quite. He liked the feeling of control, the certainty of knowing where his feet would land before he took the leap.
And yet, as he watched the river rush past, carving its way through the land like it had somewhere urgent to be, he wondered—what would it be like to follow? To run, to chase, to let himself be carried by something faster than himself?
Maybe that was why, years later, he would find himself standing at the edge of a track, heart pounding against his ribs, watching a boy with wind in his hair and fire in his eyes.
The car screeched to a stop, its engine humming like a beast barely restrained. From the cockpit, a figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the effortless precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before. His racing suit clung to him, streaked with sweat and smudges of rubber from the track, the fabric creasing as he pulled off his gloves with practiced ease.
He swung a leg over the side, stepping onto the ground with a controlled grace, dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead beneath the helmet. Even through the tinted visor, there was an intensity in his stance, a quiet dominance in the way he carried himself. Without a word, he passed the car off to his waiting teammate, rolling his shoulders as if already resetting his focus.
Beomgyu parted his lips to speak but hesitated, pressing them together instead and drawing in a slow breath. Before he could gather his words, a tall figure approached—hair damp with sweat, tousled from the helmet—offering a casual, “Hey.”
The staff crowded around him, wiping sweat from his brow, pressing bottles into his hands. To the world, he was Choi Soobin, a name spoken with reverence. But to Beomgyu, he was simply Soob.
Soobin barely had a moment to breathe before the engineers pulled him aside, voices overlapping as they dissected the stint—how the tires held up, how the car handled, what adjustments could be made. He answered between sips of water, nodding, running a hand through his damp hair, eyes flicking toward the live feed playing nearby.
Then came the cameras. A microphone was shoved toward him, and Soobin barely blinked before falling into the rhythm of answering—measured, confident, the kind of responses that made headlines but gave nothing away.
“Tough first stint, but you managed to hold position. How did the car feel out there?”
Soobin exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, it was a bit tricky with the tire degradation, but overall, the car felt strong. The team’s done an incredible job setting it up.”
“Do you think the strategy change mid-stint paid off?”
“I’d say so. It gave us more flexibility for the next phase, so hopefully, we can maximize that.”
Beomgyu stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with a barely hidden smirk. Just minutes ago, Soobin had been drenched in sweat, breathless, wiping grime off his face. Now, he was all poise, voice smooth, flashing that easygoing smile that made him look untouchable.
“One last thing—your thoughts on the battle with Car 22?”
Soobin let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “It was good, hard racing. He’s aggressive, but that’s what makes it exciting. No complaints from me.”
Beomgyu scoffed under his breath. Liar. He’d heard Soobin cursing about Car 22’s antics just before stepping out of the car.
Still, as Soobin wrapped up, flashing another effortless smile before stepping away from the cameras, Beomgyu found himself shaking his head in amusement. Exhausted or not, Soobin knew exactly how to play the game.
Finally, free from the questions and the crew, Soobin made his way over. Without a word, he slid an arm around Beomgyu’s waist, pulling him close as they leaned against the pit wall. The heat of the track still clung to his skin, but his grip was steady, familiar.
“Did I look cool?” he murmured, just loud enough for Beomgyu to hear over the roar of the engines.
Beomgyu scoffed, shifting against him. “You looked sweaty.”
Soobin only laughed, tightening his hold as they both turned back to watch the race unfold. The tension on the track reflected in Beomgyu’s eyes, his focus locked on every move, every overtake, every shifting number on the screen. Soobin watched him instead, a quiet fondness settling in his chest.
Without thinking, he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of Beomgyu’s head. The gesture was effortless, instinctual—just like the way Beomgyu fit against him, like they belonged there. And maybe he didn’t love racing, not the way Soobin did, but the way he was watching now, fully invested, made it obvious.
He cared—maybe not about the sport itself, but about him.
It was strange, really. How love had a way of tying you to things you never meant to hold close. Beomgyu had never been drawn to the rush of engines, the smell of burning rubber, the relentless pursuit of fractions of a second. And yet, here he was, heart pacing itself to the rhythm of a race he didn’t even like.
Because caring about a person meant stepping into their world, even if it wasn’t yours. It meant watching the things that made them come alive, understanding the language they spoke in their passion, even if you’d never speak it fluently yourself.
Beomgyu didn’t love racing. He probably never would. But he loved the way Soobin’s eyes gleamed when he talked about it, the way his body moved like instinct behind the wheel, the way he came back exhausted but smiling, as if the track had taken everything from him and given him something even greater in return.
And maybe that was enough.
Maybe love wasn’t about sharing the same dreams, but about standing at the finish line, waiting for the person you love to cross it.
So when Soobin kissed the side of his head, warm and fleeting, Beomgyu didn’t pull away. He simply leaned in, let the hum of the race fade into the background, and stayed.
Because even if he didn’t care about the sport, he would always care about him.
If Beomgyu was being honest, he’d say he didn’t know how he fell in love with Soobin. It wasn’t the kind of love he had planned for—if love could even be planned at all. He had always imagined himself choosing a quiet, steady life. He never wanted to be a scientist or a doctor or a lawyer, not because he lacked ambition, but because he wanted time—time for family, for stillness, for the kind of life that wasn’t dictated by deadlines and endless obligations. He had always valued the intangible: spirituality, philosophy, the things that made life feel full rather than simply busy.
Dating a racer had never been on his list.
And yet, here he was, standing at the edge of a track, heart thrumming not for the race itself, but for the man who lived for it.
Thankfully, his own work allowed him to exist on his own terms. As a human resource manager for an international company, most of his responsibilities took place over Zoom, making “home” a flexible concept. He could work from anywhere—a quiet hotel in Monaco, a bustling café in Singapore, or, on days like this, the heart of a racing circuit where the air smelled of burning rubber and adrenaline.
It wasn’t the life he envisioned.
But maybe, just maybe, it was the one meant for him.
However, what makes life so valuable is the very fact that we don’t always get what we want. Deities, fate, the universe—whatever name one chooses to give it—provide not what we desire, but what we need. And sometimes, those two things do not align. Sometimes, what is right is not what is immediate. Sometimes, it is simply not the right time for the right thing.
That’s why, when Soobin urged Beomgyu to pursue medicine—to go further, to become a licensed psychologist rather than stopping at human resources—Beomgyu lost what he had been holding so delicately all this time.
Time.
The very thing he had shaped his life around. The very thing he had guarded so fiercely, choosing a path that allowed him to savor life rather than chase it. It slipped through his fingers before he could even notice, vanishing into textbooks, exams, sleepless nights spent memorizing things he wasn’t sure he would ever use.
He had always believed in the virtue of waiting, in letting things bloom when they were meant to. But what happens when the world doesn’t wait for you? What happens when the right thing comes at the wrong time, and the only choice you have is to either chase after it or let it pass you by?
Before they even knew it, they were oceans apart—physically, emotionally, in every way that mattered.
The distance wasn’t just measured in miles but in missed calls, in messages left on read, in nights spent alone with nothing but exhaustion and unspoken words between them. Beomgyu, drowning in deadlines and coursework, found himself lashing out more often than he wanted to admit—snapping over the phone, picking fights over things that weren’t really the problem. Soobin, burdened by his own pressures, had little patience left to soothe the wounds Beomgyu’s words left behind.
They were both tired. And love, no matter how deeply felt, couldn’t thrive on exhaustion alone.
It wasn’t working. They both knew it. But knowing and accepting were two different things.
During his time in medical school, Beomgyu met an aspiring cardiologist named Kang Taehyun. They became friends—really good friends.
Between the endless lectures and sleepless nights, Taehyun was a rare constant, someone who understood the weight of their shared struggles without the need for excessive words. They often spent their breaks together, slipping away from the suffocating walls of the hospital to grab coffee from the café down the street.
It was routine, predictable. Beomgyu would order an Americano, the bitter taste grounding him in a way little else could. But today, as his gaze flickered over the menu, it caught on iced tea. His fingers twitched at the memory—Soobin always ordered that, crinkling his nose at anything remotely coffee-flavored. Too bitter, he used to say. I don’t know how you drink that stuff, Beomie.
The thought lingered, curling around his chest with an ache he refused to name.
As they waited for their drinks, a car sped past, kicking up the scent of asphalt and gasoline.
“Do you like chasing cars?” Taehyun asked suddenly, his voice light, almost amused.
Beomgyu blinked, caught off guard by the randomness of it. His grip tightened around his cup.
I’d rather race them.
The answer echoed in his mind, clear as day, in a voice that wasn’t his own.
He recalls that scorching summer day in 2018—the eighth of August, exactly ten years after he first met Soobin in the quiet village of Shirakawa, where he spent his summers with his Japanese-Korean grandmother.
That year, Soobin had been given the chance to step into the world of racing. It wasn’t a full-fledged competition, not yet—just a testing opportunity, a glimpse of what could be. He was almost eighteen, right on the cusp of something bigger, and Beomgyu could still remember the way his eyes burned with a hunger he hadn’t seen before.
They sat together by the open garage, the cicadas screaming into the afternoon heat, the faint smell of gasoline and sun-warmed asphalt settling into the air. Beomgyu had his earphones in, one loosely dangling from his shoulder as Chasing Cars played, the kind of song that made his thoughts feel heavier than they were meant to be.
He turned to Soobin then, voice light but laced with something thoughtful.
“Do you like chasing cars?”
Soobin chuckled, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’d rather race them.” He paused, then threw a teasing smirk in Beomgyu’s direction. “How about you, sweetie pie?”
“Ew.” Beomgyu scrunched his nose, shoving at Soobin’s shoulder. “I can’t say I like it, but I’d do it if I have to.”
It had been a joke at the time. Just another moment between them, slipping by like the summer breeze.
But now, standing in a café years later, Taehyun’s question lingered like a ghost of the past.
Will he?
—#—
August 8, 2028.
Beomgyu sat in the center of their bed—no, his bed now. The sheets were cold, untouched on one side, the space where Soobin should be nothing but an empty stretch of silence. He curled into himself, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around a pillow that still smelled faintly of him.
Soobin was in Italy. Thousands of miles away, living the life he had always dreamed of, while Beomgyu was here—stuck in a too-quiet apartment in Korea, sighing into the dim glow of his bedside lamp.
He let his lashes flutter shut, exhaustion pressing down on him, though not the kind that sleep could fix. His thoughts wandered back, past the years, past the cities, past the distance that stretched wider than the ocean between them. Back to that summer afternoon by the river, when a boy with sun-warmed skin and laughter in his eyes approached him like a force of nature.
Soobin had been chubby then, his cheeks round, dimples so deep they could catch the light. He had been the kind of child who drew people in without trying—kind, open, endlessly warm in a way that contrasted Beomgyu’s own quiet nature. Beomgyu had been reserved, more comfortable in his own thoughts than in the company of others, but Soobin… Soobin had never let him stay alone for long.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Beomgyu had barely looked up, fingers trailing absent patterns in the water. “Just watching the river.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s pretty.”
Soobin had plopped down beside him with a huff, his pudgy arms propped on his knees. “You’re weird.”
“You’re loud.”
Soobin had grinned at that, dimples deepening. “You’ll like me anyway.”
And he had.
God, he had.
Beomgyu’s eyes opened slowly, a quiet sigh slipping from his lips. A decade had passed since then. Two, even. And yet, in moments like this—when the bed was too empty, when the silence pressed too heavy—he still felt like that boy by the river, watching something beautiful slip away, just out of reach.
As Beomgyu’s graduation loomed closer, the spaces between their conversations stretched wider. Messages left on read, calls missed and never returned—neither of them said it outright, but the distance was no longer just physical. It settled between them, an unspoken weight growing heavier by the day.
That was why, when Beomgyu walked out of the ceremony hall, diploma clutched tightly in his hands, he nearly stumbled at the sight of Soobin standing there. Soobin.
For a moment, he thought he was imagining it.
Then, Taehyun nudged him lightly and smirked. “Surprise.”
Beomgyu turned back to Soobin, still stunned, eyes darting to the bouquet in his hands—not the polished, store-bought kind, but handmade satin flowers in soft pastel hues, the very colors Beomgyu loved. It wasn’t perfect; the petals were uneven, the edges frayed in places, but it was his. Made for him.
His breath caught.
“Soob…” His voice barely came out, strangled in his throat. His gaze flickered down to Soobin’s hands, bandaged in places, fingertips roughened from handling hot glue and thread.
Soobin exhaled softly, eyes warm and achingly familiar as he reached out, cupping Beomgyu’s cheek with those very same burnt hands. “I missed you.”
Beomgyu shattered.
A sob tore through him as he threw his arms around Soobin, clutching onto him like he was afraid he’d disappear. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Soobin.” The words tumbled out between gasps, raw and desperate. “I should’ve— I should’ve tried harder—”
“Hey, hey.” Soobin soothed, his grip tightening. “It’s okay. You’re here. I’m here.”
Beomgyu pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, blinking past his tears. “You made these?” He motioned toward the bouquet, voice cracking.
Soobin chuckled, sheepish. “Yeah. They’re kinda ugly, huh?”
Beomgyu shook his head violently. “They’re perfect.”
And for the first time in a long time, something inside him—something heavy, something aching—began to ease.
—#—
“I got an offer.”
Soobin’s voice is even, almost careful, like he already knows how this conversation will unfold. Like he knows what Beomgyu will say before he even says it.
Beomgyu meets his gaze, shoulders tense. He doesn’t need to ask—he already understands. The calls, the meetings, the distant look in Soobin’s eyes lately.
“A big one,” Soobin exhales. “Ferrari. Full contract. I’ll be based in Italy.”
Beomgyu nods once. Slowly. “That’s amazing.”
The words come out quiet, deliberate. But they don’t feel like his. They don’t feel real.
Soobin shifts on his feet. “And you?”
“I’ll stay.”
The answer is immediate, but it hurts to say it out loud. Beomgyu grips his own arm, pressing his nails into his skin. “I have to pass my board exams. Get my license. It’s my dream, Soobin.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough to make the silence unbearable.
“Yeah,” Soobin says, forcing a smile. “I know.”
Then the cab arrives.
Beomgyu watches the trunk pop open, the driver step out, Soobin lift his suitcase like it doesn’t weigh as much as all the years they’ve spent together.
This was always the plan. They knew the day would come when they’d have to choose—the world had never promised them a love free of sacrifice. And yet, as Soobin turns toward the cab, as his hand reaches for the door handle, Beomgyu realizes something:
No matter how much they prepared for this moment, he isn’t ready.
Soobin steps inside. The door closes. The cab pulls away.
And Beomgyu breaks.
His body moves before his mind catches up.
He doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate. He just runs.
The world blurs around him—streetlights streaking, wind whipping past his ears, his breath coming out in sharp, desperate gasps. The sound of his own heartbeat drowns out the city noise.
“Soobin!” he shouts, his voice cracking.
The cab keeps going.
He pushes harder. His legs burn, his lungs scream, but nothing matters except closing the distance, except not letting go.
It’s ridiculous, this scene—one straight out of a movie, one he never thought he’d find himself in. But wasn’t life absurd in that way? That no matter how carefully he had planned, how much he had thought he understood himself, he was still here, doing something he swore he never would?
“Soobin!”
The tail lights flicker red. The cab slows.
Beomgyu nearly collapses against the trunk, gasping for air as the back door swings open.
And there Soobin is.
Eyes wide. Chest rising and falling. Staring at him like Beomgyu is the last thing he expected to see.
“Beomgyu—”
“I can’t.” His voice is raw. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep choosing between my dream and you, because—because I think you’re part of my dream, too.”
Soobin exhales sharply, like the weight of those words hit him all at once.
“We can’t keep running in different directions,” Beomgyu whispers. “I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t let you go.”
Soobin stares at him, then rubs a hand down his face, looking away for just a second before meeting Beomgyu’s gaze again. His expression softens—fond, exhausted, helpless.
“You just chased after a moving car,” he mutters. “After all these years, you finally did it.”
Beomgyu huffs out a broken laugh, eyes stinging. “Yeah. Guess I did.”
Soobin sighs, then suddenly reaches out, tugging Beomgyu forward. He stumbles, falling into Soobin’s chest, where strong arms wrap around him tightly, like an anchor.
“We’ll figure it out,” Soobin murmurs into his hair. “Together.”
Beomgyu nods against him, breath steadying.
Somewhere, a long time ago, a boy by the river had once said he’d never chase cars.
And yet, here he was—running after one.
Not because he liked it.
But because he had to.