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Minho walks slowly, taking in the sun as it touches his body. His hat and sunglasses are almost no match for the heat radiating from above. Even though his porcelain-like skin is protected by the thick layer of sunscreen he’d applied earlier, he still feels that he’ll be tinged with the faint pink hue of sun-kissed skin by nightfall. Kissed by the sun.
The worn wooden boardwalk creaks beneath his feet, echoing memories from hundreds of people of years gone by. He briefly wonders who has walked before him, whose footsteps he is following, where they are, and whether they are still alive.
The heat begins to prick at his eyes. A pained, gentle sigh is quickly followed by his sniffing, ending the train of thought he was starting.
His eyes look around as he takes in the scenery around him. It’s a beautiful day, even if the sun is casting her UV rays like a large net over the people below. The wind that comes sweeping off the ocean is cool and helps take the bite of the heat away. It brings with it a taste of salt that lingers in the mouth, dancing on your tongue before slightly dissipating.
Chatter and laughter swell in the space all around him - enveloping, comforting, almost suffocating. There are families to his left, on the grassy knolls having picnics; some are playing games with their kids - chasing them and scooping them up, up, up into the air, causing a fit of squealing and laughter to erupt. Bikes and scooters pass along the same path he walks, bells dinging or horns beeping before veering around him with practiced ease.
To the right lies the beach. Sand—golden and rough—leads to a deep, vibrant blue stretching far into the horizon. Waves crash, recede, and crash again. Children chase the water like it’s a living thing, shrieking with joy in a never-ending game of tag.
The sand looks welcoming, warm and slightly rough, but Minho isn’t here today to sink his feet into the sand. His eyes cast down, taking in the sight of his sneaker covered feet. He wiggles his toes and he can just see the tiny movement beneath the fabric of his shoes.
It’s been so long since he’s been able to feel the sand, even if he wants to - he can’t. Maybe another day. But not today. Not yesterday either. And probably not tomorrow.
But one day.
He begins moving forward again, following the invisible footprints that are forever embedded into the wood. Rounding a gentle bend, his eyes find a bench tucked beneath a large leafy tree. The shade is deep here, cast by thick branches and dense green. The tree looms like a quiet guardian, shielding the bench from the heat of the day. It’s old. Still. The kind of place that listens. That remembers. That holds secrets in its bark.
It’s a perfect spot. Overlooking the best part of the ocean, no cars or any man-made structures in sight. Not even a ship or boat today. Just Mother Nature showing how beautiful the earth really is. Beautiful, Minho thinks as he beelines for the seat.
One side of the bench is already occupied, but he settles easily on the other end, leaving enough space between them to keep it comfortable. He stretches, arms reaching above his head, spine arching, a relieved sigh slipping from his lips as tension unwinds between his shoulder blades.
His periphery catches sight of the young man at the other end turn to Minho and stare at him. Minho smiles and turns his head as well, and even though he is still wearing his sunglasses, his eyes meet the young mans.
He’s younger. Maybe mid-twenties. Black hair cropped short. Thick fringe dusts his lashes. His eyes—deep, endless brown—stare straight into Minho’s like he’s trying to remember a dream he just woke from. His cheeks are full, soft. Not heavy—plump. Like a child’s. His lips are the colour of pressed flower petals, painted with watercolour and still drying.
He has the kind of face you don’t forget. The kind of softness that looks innocent until the eyes shift and remind you—there’s something else there. Something deeper.
Beautiful.
Minho thinks the words, and he is.
He is beautiful.
The man sits awkwardly. Hands folded in his lap. A navy windbreaker unzipped halfway, ¾ pants, sneakers. His pale legs are crossed at the shin, feet tucked under the bench.
He looks almost lost. Or like he’s waiting.
He’s still staring at Minho, now looking slightly puzzled. His eyes are big, but they carry an intense stare. He’s searching. For something.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Minho offers, smiling gently. He looks toward the ocean, repositioning himself slightly on the metal bench. A cool breeze whips around them, the slight taste of salt burning on their tongues. He turns his head and faces the man again.
Still staring.
“Yeah, it really is - sorry,” the man starts, his voice is calm but unsure. “Do I know you? You seem so familiar, I think. Have we met before?” His brows furrow and the pout he naturally held melts into a gentle upturn of the corners of the mouth. His teeth show gently behind the smile.
Minho gives a soft laugh and shrugs vaguely. “Maybe, perhaps? What’s your name?” He doesn’t move his stare, continuing to watch the man before him begin to smile more and more at the random interaction. His head cocks to the side, almost like an animal that’s confused at something it’s seeing.
Cute.
“Han - Han Jisung,” the man - Han Jisung gives another chuckle and shakes his head. “I really feel like I’ve met you before – like I know you,” his voice trails at the end as his brows furrow once more, this time more intense. His eyes darken slightly, and his smile begins to fade. “It’s funny, I’ve had this happen a few times. I think,” the last of his words are a whisper. But they cut Minho like a razor. The wound large. The damage done fatal.
Oh Han Jisung.
“Minho, or Lee Know as some friends call me. I have to say you too look quite familiar. Perhaps we share mutual friends? Met at a party somewhere? Who knows these days,” Minho smiles, trying to convey that it’s ok if Han Jisung doesn’t remember him.
“Minho - I like that name. I get both as well, either Han or Jisung - either or really, ever since I was little,” Jisung shrugs, his brows relaxing and the smile returning.
He faces the ocean and breathes in deeply, the salty air hitting his senses and firing neurones off to his brain.
Minho keeps staring.
There’s a silence as each man sits in their own stillness, each mind thinking their own things - but both having to do with each other.
Minho studies him again. Even though he already has. Even though he knows. He studies him anyway. Because when you love someone deeply enough, even looking becomes worship.
The person before him, was beautiful. Through and through.
“Well, Minho, I really cannot place why you feel so familiar. So many things seem to be slipping my mind lately,” Jisung gives a laugh, and it’s hurts Minho’s core, making his breath slightly catch in his throat. It feels forced, pained and almost lost - confused.
Oh Han Jisung.
“Oh no- no, please don’t apologise, it’s ok. Probably seen me somewhere random before, it happens,” He pushes a smile up onto his face, too wide, too bright. His cheeks sting with the effort. He’s never been good at lying, and he has never really been good at faking a smile. Lately though, he has become accustomed to the notion.
Jisung nods, relief softening his face. He seems pleased with the answer. Pleased to let go of the thread unraveling in his mind. He sighs and stretches out his legs. Minho does the same, turning fully toward the sea.
If only, he thinks, if only I could go out there, into the big open and just forget everything. Wash away my fears and my sadness, my pain and the grief. Fuck, especially the pain and the grief. If only the ocean would just swallow me whole.
No more pain, no more grief.
No more Minho.
His eyes close behind his sunglasses. He inhales deeply - shaky and slow. The heat behind his eyelids burns. Tears threaten, like they always do. Rivers that have carved permanent paths into his skin.
Paths that keep filling.
Over and over. And over.
No more pain, no more grief.
No more Minho.
The sun has moved, sitting lower in the sky. The day signalling it’s ready to move into a slow and emotional contemporary piece with the afternoon sky before crescendoing into a timeless piece of love and surrender with the moon and stars.
“Hey Minho,” Jisung says.
His voice is soft. Fragile. Like it’s reaching through fog.
Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
“Yes Jisung?” He doesn’t turn to face Jisung.
It is not that he won’t face Jisung.
He can’t. Not right now.
He removes his glasses, accepting the cool breeze over his pained eyes.
“I don’t know why I’m saying this. I don’t even know you. But it just feels - safe. Have you ever felt like the world is just – it’s just spinning, you know? Spinning so fast, so goddamn fast, and you’re just. Stuck, trying to catch up – to catch up with the world and everything,” Jisung sighs and laughs but it’s an agonisingly painful laugh. “And then, you just become. I guess, lost? Is that right? I dunno what the hell I’m saying – I’m sorry Minho, I’m sorry – I am, I’m just. Yeah, it’s all good,”
His hand covers his face, rubs slowly, pressure heavy.
Minho stares at him. A lump rises in his throat, pressing hard and hot. A tear slips down, uninvited. Forgotten. As forgotten as Han Jisung feels.
“No – no, you’re ok. I actually – yes. I completely understand, actually,” Minho clears his throat and gives a small comforting laugh. “I kind of feel like that now, and – and someone I also know, is also going through that. They’re lost, you know? And I’m trying, trying my best – to find them, help find them, bring them back,” his voice cracks, wavering towards the end.
I’m trying, I’m trying my best – I swear. I’m trying my best, please. Please come back. Let me find you. My hand, it’s here – please. God please! I’m here.
“I can’t put my finger on it, it’s like a scratch deep inside and I just can’t reach, but Jesus – you, Minho – you feel so familiar,” Jisung moves, twisting his body to face Minho, his knee now resting up on the bench at a right angle.
“Really?”
Please.
Remember.
“Yes, my god yes,” he laughs, and for the first time, it’s real.
Light and sweet, his head goes back, neck exposed. His Adam’s apple bobs gently as he finishes his laugh, the bittersweet sound being carried off by the wind. A fleeting moment maybe, but for Minho it’s everything.
“Like, I feel like I’ve known you for years – and, honestly, it feels like a -” he stops abruptly. Brows knit, gaze flicking away.
“Han Jisung,” Minho says. His voice is a whisper, but it thunders in his chest.
Jisung’s eyes return to him. Still. Focused.
“Yes Leebit,”
The world shakes. His heart stalls before thudding, deep and heavy. It hurts, his ribcage hurts.
It hurts.
He can feel himself falling, his body suddenly feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. He can’t help it, the tears. No longer a river but a screaming torrent. They fall, streaming down his face as his lips begin to quiver.
“H-Han Jis-Jisung?” His voice is trembling, it’s thick and hard to get out. It’s hanging onto a thin thread of hope. A thread that’s a thousand years old and covered in dust and heartache. Don’t let it snap.
Please.
Jisung is still. He hasn’t moved, nothing. His eyes are still, staring directly at Minho. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. And Minho notices. Of course he does. How could he not. The salty liquid slowly fills his eyes before one long stray tear drops. He takes a sharp breath in and gasps.
“Minho – Mi- Minho?” The tears are falling freely from Jisung’s eyes. They no longer hold innocence behind them, but pain and suffering.
Oh Han Jisung. My Han Jisung. I’m here.
I’m right here.
“Oh Han – baby, it’s ok – I’m here, I’m here,” Minho moves quickly, Jisung following his movements.
They collide together in a hug, their torsos pressed together, arms around each others body tightly. Their grip is never ending, like nothing could ever tear them apart. Not again. Not yet.
Please.
And it’s like the echo of a ghost, breaking free from the cage of his heart and mind, crying and calling for him. For him. Please. Dear god please, I never want this to end. I can’t bear for this to end.
Han’s silent sobs seep into Minho’s neck, wet with tears and hot breaths. His mouth open, letting the heartache he’d been suffering in silence out into his lover's body. Minho keeps his eyes squeezed shut, trembling and breathing rapidly.
“I – I’m so sorry Minho, I’m so sorry! How – how long?” Han Jisung chokes out.
“Shhhhh – hey, shhh it’s ok,” Minho whispers in his ear, gentle and calming. “Four months, four long months baby,”
Han cries louder, his wail somewhat muffled by the hot sticky skin of Minho’s neck. His body rocks and trembles with every breath. Minho can’t help but cry back, trying to hold back his own whines and screams. His hand firmly yet slowly rubs Han’s back. He wants him to know he’s here. That it’s ok, he’s always been here.
I’ve always been here baby. Everyday. I’m always here. Always.
“I’m sorry, Minho,” Han whispers, and his voice is barely there—just a breath trembling through the air between them. “I didn’t mean to go. I didn’t want to go. I just… I’m sorry.”
Minho shakes his head, his hand slipping up to cradle the back of Jisung’s neck. His thumb strokes gently through the soft hair there, grounding him, anchoring himself too.
“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“I feel it,” Jisung cries. “Even when I’m gone. I feel it in my chest. I know you’re missing. I know something is missing. My heart—it screams for you, and I can’t find you, and I don’t know what’s missing, but it hurts.”
Minho’s breath catches. His chest aches like it’s being carved open. “I know,” he says again, voice cracking. “I know, baby. You don’t have to remember me. I’ll remember for you.”
Han’s hand comes up to Minho’s face, trembling fingers brushing the tears from his cheeks—but they just keep falling. And then Han kisses him.
It’s soft at first, trembling. A kiss made of grief, made of all the months of silence, of slipping moments, of empty beds and whispered prayers. And then it deepens—grows urgent, pained. Their mouth's part and press, breaths stolen, gasps shared. There’s no heat, no hunger. Just ache.
Just two souls clawing their way toward each other through darkness. Just pain given shape.
Wounds pressed to wounds.
Mouths screaming without sound.
A kiss that doesn’t ask for forever—just right now.
When they part, their foreheads rest together, eyes shut, breath shared in fragile silence.
Han speaks first, voice hoarse. “Before I go again… can we go to the sand?”
Minho doesn’t answer with words. He just nods and helps him stand, fingers clasping Jisung’s like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.
They walk slowly; fingers locked. Their shoes discarded, the sand is hot beneath their soles; clinging to their ankles, and it feels like everything Minho has been trying to avoid—until now.
He hasn’t touched the beach since the last time Jisung remembered him. He swore he wouldn’t—not until this moment. Not without him.
They sink into the sand together. The wind blows gently. The ocean murmurs low and tired before them. The sun is almost gone now, bleeding across the horizon in streaks of fire and purple and sorrow.
Han leans into him, forehead resting on Minho’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter than before. Like he knows this version of himself won’t last long.
“Shhh,” Minho breathes, pulling him closer, closer still, like maybe if he holds him tightly enough, it’ll stop time. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
And he holds him like that—tight, desperate, protective. Holding a memory still alive. Holding a love that’s fading even as it clings back.
“I love you,” Han whispers.
“I love you more,” Minho chokes out.
And they stay like that, pressed together, wrapped in the fading heat of day, in the ache of memory and the echo of what may never come again.
The world grows darker, but Minho doesn’t let go.
Because he knows—soon, he’ll have to.
But not yet.
Not yet.