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The first thing Minho feels is the weight pressed against his chest.
It’s warm, solid, a little too much like a space heater with limbs. And familiar. Comforting. Jisung.
He doesn’t open his eyes yet, lets himself sink into it—blankets tangled around their legs, soft breaths puffing against the curve of his neck, Jisung’s hair tickling his chin. There’s a faint ache in his back from sleeping in the same awkward position all night, but he doesn’t mind. It’s worth it.
He shifts slightly and tightens his arms around the smaller body curled against him. Jisung hums, half-asleep, and murmurs something that sounds like “five more minutes.”
Minho smiles into his hair. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
Jisung groans dramatically but doesn’t move. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“You’re a menace,” Minho says, but it’s fond. Everything about him is.
“Mm. A sexy menace.”
Minho snorts. “You drooled on me.”
“Sexy drool.”
There’s laughter—soft and quiet, like it’s just for them. The room is dim, lit only by the morning light filtering through the curtains. It’s their tiny apartment, their cluttered safe haven of textbooks and hoodies and mugs that never quite make it back to the sink. The scent of Jisung’s shampoo lingers on the pillow. A record player they thrifted together sits dusty in the corner, a half-dead plant leaning toward the window beside it.
Minho finally opens his eyes.
Jisung is blinking up at him now, face squished slightly where it had been pressed against his chest. His hair is a fluffy, sleep-ruined mess. There’s a red crease on his cheek from the seam of Minho’s shirt.
Minho leans down and kisses it.
“G’morning,” Jisung mumbles.
“Morning.”
They stay like that for a while. No rush. No noise. Just the quiet creak of the old apartment and the birds outside. Eventually, Jisung untangles himself and stretches with a whine, limbs flailing everywhere. He flops back onto the bed dramatically.
“We have class,” he announces like it’s a personal attack.
“You have class,” Minho corrects, already reaching for his phone. “I’m free until noon.”
“Rude.”
“You picked your schedule.”
“You picked me.”
Minho looks over, grinning. “Yeah, unfortunately.”
Jisung throws a pillow at his face.
Twenty minutes later Jisung is standing in the kitchen, shirtless, still in pajama pants, hair only slightly less chaotic than before. He’s attempting to make pancakes. Minho is sitting on the counter, nursing a mug of coffee and watching like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s ever seen.
“You’re not even helping,” Jisung says, glaring at the batter like it personally insulted his family.
“I’m emotionally supporting you.”
“You’re judging me.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”
The first pancake comes out vaguely triangle-shaped. Minho takes a picture. Jisung yells.
They eat curled up on the couch, plates balanced on their knees, syrup getting on everything. There’s an episode of something playing in the background, but Minho isn’t watching. He’s watching Jisung. Watching how his nose scrunches when he eats too fast, how his foot keeps nudging Minho’s ankle like he needs constant contact.
They’ve lived like this for years now. University has been a blur of exams and ramen and all-nighters and stealing kisses in library corners. But this—mornings like these—this is the part Minho always remembers. The easy things. The small things.
Jisung leans into him, mouth full of pancake, and says, “Do you ever think about how gross it is that we’re, like, domesticated now?”
Minho raises an eyebrow. “You mean like how you steal my hoodies and cry over dog commercials?”
“I do not cry—”
“You sobbed at the Subaru ad.”
“There was a golden retriever! He was so old!”
Minho laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his coffee.
It’s a good morning.
One of many.
Neither of them knows that time is already ticking. That somewhere in the distance, a date is circled in fate’s calendar. That Minho will one day replay this exact moment over and over, trying to figure out when things started to slip.
But for now, there’s only syrup and laughter and the steady beat of Jisung’s heart against Minho’s side.
And that’s enough.
—
The sun is soft when they leave the apartment.
Jisung tugs on Minho’s sleeve while they wait at the crosswalk, their fingers loosely intertwined, swinging between them. Minho’s still holding his coffee, and Jisung’s already eyeing it.
“You’re not gonna drink the rest, right?”
“I am,” Minho lies.
Jisung pouts. “But you love me.”
“You already had yours.”
“You love me so much.”
Minho rolls his eyes and hands it over. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the worst with hazelnut.”
Jisung takes a sip and hums contentedly, leaning into Minho’s shoulder as they walk across the street. There’s nothing special about today—it’s a Tuesday, mid-semester, and the campus is buzzing with stressed-out students and half-done group projects. But with Jisung next to him, Minho doesn’t feel the rush. Everything slows down.
They part ways at the literature building.
Minho grabs Jisung by the wrist before he can go and kisses his cheek.
“Text me when you’re out,” he says.
“I always do.”
Minho lingers for a second too long, eyes scanning Jisung’s face. His skin is warm from the sun. His smile is real.
“Love you,” Minho says.
Jisung’s grin widens. “Love you more.”
Minho watches him disappear into the building, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, earbuds already in, a bounce in his step like the world’s never tried to dull him.
Minho spends the next few hours in the campus café, headphones in, laptop open, half-studying and half-waiting. It’s quiet. Familiar. He sees a few friends pass by. He waves to Jeongin. Ignores three emails. Wonders what Jisung’s writing in his creative lit class. Probably something chaotic and too metaphorical.
The sky starts to turn golden around five.
Jisung’s last text was half an hour ago
JISUNG: class is boring, my soul is ascending. u still wanna grab dinner?
Minho smiled when he read it.
MINHO: yeah. meet u at the usual?
JISUNG: bring ur face. i miss it.
MINHO: gross. but ok.
They’re walking side by side again, headed toward the little Korean diner tucked between the bookstore and the laundromat. It’s a place they found during their first year and never let go of. The owner knows them by name now. Gives them extra banchan.
Jisung is talking about something one of his classmates said in a group presentation, but Minho’s only half-listening. He’s too busy watching the way Jisung’s eyes light up when he talks. The way his hands move, expressive even when they’re just holding his phone. He’s wearing Minho’s hoodie again. The sleeves cover his fingers.
Minho tugs the hood up and kisses the top of his head.
“Don’t distract me, I’m being funny,” Jisung complains.
“You’re always funny,” Minho says. “I’m just appreciating you in real time.”
“Appreciate me with food,” Jisung says, linking their arms. “I’m starving.”
Dinner is loud and warm. Jisung keeps stealing pieces of pork from Minho’s bowl, claiming the flavor in his was “too healthy.” The table is a mess. Their laughter draws a few glances from other customers, but they don’t care. They’ve been here a hundred times before. This is routine. Safe.
Minho takes a picture of Jisung mid-bite, mouth full and eyes wide.
“If you post that, I’m breaking up with you,” Jisung warns.
Minho does it anyway, captioning it: “still the love of my life”
They’re walking again. It’s colder now. Jisung burrows into Minho’s side, humming something under his breath that sounds like a song he made up on the spot.
They’re waiting at a crosswalk. The light is red. Minho is watching the traffic.
Jisung is still talking about dinner. Or maybe he’s moved on to weekend plans. Minho’s not sure. He’s just nodding, listening to the sound of his voice.
The light turns green.
Minho steps forward first. Jisung is a half step behind, still mid-sentence, still laughing. There’s a softness in his voice Minho will never forget—something easy and unguarded, like he’s never imagined a world where Minho isn’t right beside him.
Minho turns to look at him.
He doesn’t see the car coming.
The screech of tires is loud. The scream of metal against asphalt, louder. But the sound that will echo in Minho’s head forever is the soft thud of a body hitting the ground.
It takes a second to register.
One second of silence. Of denial.
And then Minho is running.
Jisung is lying in the crosswalk, curled on his side, like he just tripped. His phone is a few feet away, cracked. His hands are shaking.
People are yelling. Someone’s calling an ambulance. A driver’s voice, panicked and distant, is stammering something about brakes, about how he didn’t see him. But Minho only sees him.
“Jisung,” he says, dropping to his knees.
There’s blood already—too much of it. It stains the pavement, seeps into Jisung’s hoodie, paints Minho’s hands as he gathers him up like maybe, if he holds him tight enough, it’ll stop the bleeding. That it’ll stop any of this.
“Minho?” Jisung’s voice is small. Shaky. His eyes are wide with confusion, unfocused.
“I’m here. I’m right here,” Minho says, brushing the hair from his face with trembling fingers. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
Jisung blinks slowly, like he’s trying to stay awake. “That… that car came outta nowhere.”
“I know, baby. I know. Just stay with me, okay? Help’s coming. Just—just look at me.”
He’s cold.
Minho can feel it, the way Jisung’s body is going slack in his arms. There’s blood on Minho’s hoodie now, soaking into the fabric. He presses his hand to the wound in Jisung’s side, trying to stop the bleeding, but it just keeps coming.
“Hurts,” Jisung whispers.
“I know,” Minho chokes. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
There are sirens now. Close, but not close enough. Time is cruel. Stretching and collapsing in all the wrong places.
Jisung coughs, and blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
“No, no, no,” Minho pleads, voice cracking. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Look at me, Sungie.”
Jisung blinks again. His lashes flutter. His gaze drifts up to Minho’s face, and something in it softens. Even like this, broken and dying in his arms, he tries to smile.
“You’re crying,” Jisung says, voice barely a breath.
“I know,” Minho sobs, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. “You’re not allowed to die, okay? You don’t get to leave me. We have things to do, remember? We’re gonna graduate, and get that stupid dog you won’t shut up about, and go to Jeju in the summer—”
“Minho.”
“Please.”
Jisung’s lips move, but there’s no sound.
His hand twitches, reaching weakly for Minho’s shirt, curling into the fabric like he always does when he’s half-asleep. Minho grabs it, presses it to his heart.
“Don’t go,” Minho whispers.
But Jisung’s eyes are already slipping shut.
His chest rises—
Once.
Twice.
Stops.
The world doesn’t stop spinning, but Minho does.
Everything around him blurs. People. Noise. Light. The paramedics arrive too late. One of them gently pulls at his shoulder, speaking words Minho can’t hear.
He doesn’t let go.
He stays there, in the middle of the crosswalk, cradling what’s left of the love of his life.
Jisung’s skin is still warm.
Minho rocks him gently, burying his face in his shoulder.
He whispers the words over and over, like maybe they’ll bring him back.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
They take Jisung’s body away before Minho’s fingers have even let go.
It’s gentle, practiced—the paramedics speak to him softly, like he’s a child, like he might break if they move too fast. But he’s already broken. There’s nothing left to snap.
He doesn’t remember when he let them pull him back. Doesn’t remember standing. Doesn’t remember the world tilting around him. One second, Jisung was in his arms, blood soaking through his sleeves—and the next, he’s alone on the curb, hands trembling, red smeared up to his elbows like he dipped them in paint and forgot to wash.
It’s still warm.
That’s the worst part.
It shouldn’t be. The worst part should’ve been the way Jisung gasped for air, the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way his hand went limp in Minho’s. But no—the worst part is the warmth. Because it makes it feel recent. Like he could turn around and rewind time. Like if he just stands up and runs back to the crosswalk, Jisung will still be there, shivering, alive, asking what happened.
Minho stares at his hands.
He doesn’t cry again. Not yet. His tears are spent, dried in salty streaks on his cheeks. His body doesn’t know what to do now. There’s no more screaming. No more begging.
Just the hollow weight of something he can’t name.
Chan shows up. He’s breathless, face pale, like he sprinted the entire way from the other side of campus. Minho doesn’t remember who called him. Maybe the paramedics. Maybe Minho himself. The last ten minutes are a blur of static and sirens.
“Minho,” Chan says softly, crouching in front of him. “Minho, look at me.”
Minho doesn’t.
He can’t.
If he moves, if he opens his mouth, he’ll have to acknowledge it. And right now, he’s still holding onto the possibility that this is a dream. A nightmare. A trick of the brain. Something he’ll wake up from, tangled in blankets, with Jisung snoring beside him and drooling on his shoulder.
“Minho,” Chan says again, placing a careful hand on his knee.
And Minho snaps.
Not loudly. Not violently. He doesn’t throw punches or scream at the sky. It’s quieter than that. Like a balloon deflating slowly. Like a house caving in.
“I was right there,” he says. Barely a whisper. “I was holding his hand.”
Chan swallows hard, eyes wet.
“I watched him—” Minho cuts himself off, choking. His voice cracks open. “He’s dead. He—he died, and I couldn’t do anything.”
Chan wraps his arms around him, and Minho crumples like wet paper.
He cries then. Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that wrack his whole body. It’s not graceful. It’s not poetic. It’s the sound of a man whose entire world just stopped turning. The kind of grief that doesn’t pass. That sinks into your bones and stays there.
“I don’t know how to—how to be without him,” Minho gasps, clutching Chan’s jacket like a lifeline. “He’s—he’s everything, and now he’s just—he’s gone.”
Chan doesn’t say it’s going to be okay. Because it’s not.
He just holds him. Lets him fall apart.
The people around them blur into shadows. Sirens fade into silence. The city keeps moving, but Minho is still in that crosswalk. Still kneeling on the pavement. Still holding Jisung’s hand and willing him to wake up.
That night, Minho dreads going home.
Because home is filled with Jisung.
His hoodie on the hook by the door. His toothbrush in the cup. His shoes, slightly crooked, by the mat. A bowl in the sink with pancake batter still dried to the edges.
And his scent.
God, it’s everywhere.
Minho sits on the couch, where they ate breakfast that morning. He pulls one of Jisung’s sweatshirts over his head and breathes in deep, as if he can still catch the ghost of him. The sleeves are too short. There’s a rip in the cuff. Minho doesn’t care.
He curls into himself.
He doesn’t sleep.
He doesn’t speak.
He just exists, in the absence of Jisung.
And somewhere—far too far away—time ticks forward anyway.
—
The world doesn’t end when Jisung dies.
It should have.
But the sun still rises the next morning, pale and unfeeling. The sky is a soft blue. The air is too crisp for grief. And Minho lies in bed, wrapped in the hoodie Jisung wore the day before, staring at the ceiling like if he blinks, he’ll forget.
He doesn’t.
He gets up once—to vomit. Then collapses back into bed, numb and shaking.
He doesn’t eat.
Doesn’t drink.
The apartment is too quiet without Jisung’s voice echoing through the halls. There are no bad impressions, no half-sung songs, no shrieked laughter from the bathroom because he dropped his phone in the sink again.
Just silence.
Minho hates it.
—
Three days later Chan forces his way in with a key.
He says something about the funeral arrangements. Asks if Minho wants to help. Says there’s paperwork. Details. Legal things. Hospital things.
Minho doesn’t respond. He sits on the floor of the living room, back against the couch, fingers still stained faintly red. He hasn’t washed them. Can’t.
There’s a mug of untouched tea beside him. Cold.
Chan kneels down. “You don’t have to do anything, okay? But I didn’t want you to feel shut out.”
Minho doesn’t answer.
Chan stays anyway.
Two days pass.
They pack Jisung’s things.
Minho doesn’t help.
He stands in the doorway of their bedroom, watching as Seungmin folds Jisung’s clothes with trembling hands. There’s a box on the bed—one of the moving boxes they never unpacked. His sweaters. His sketchbooks. The half-knitted scarf he never finished.
Minho doesn’t move. He just watches. Feels his throat close tighter with every item.
Then Hyunjin finds Jisung’s journal.
Minho loses it.
“Don’t touch that!” he snaps, crossing the room in seconds, yanking it from Hyunjin’s hands.
The others freeze.
Minho clutches the worn notebook to his chest like it’s a lifeline. Like it’s him.
“Don’t—don’t take him from me again,” he whispers.
No one says anything.
They leave the box half-packed.
Minho stays up all night reading Jisung’s messy, ink-blotted thoughts. Laughs at some of them. Cries through most. There are pages where Minho’s name is written over and over in the margins. Little hearts. Doodles of them holding hands. A list titled Things to Tell Minho Later with only one thing under it:
“You make me feel safe.”
Minho reads it until the words blur.
—
The funeral is beautiful.
Minho doesn’t remember a second of it.
He stands in a black suit that doesn’t fit quite right. There are flowers. Soft music. People crying. People hugging him. So many people. So many faces he doesn’t care about.
But not his.
Not Jisung’s.
The casket is closed.
Minho hates that.
He wanted to see him one last time. Wanted to know it was real.
The service ends. People leave. Chan waits with him long after the last person goes.
Minho doesn’t move.
He stares at the ground like it holds answers.
Eventually, he whispers, “What do I do now?”
Chan doesn’t have an answer.
—
Days continue to pass.
It rains.
Not a storm. Just a gentle, persistent drizzle. The kind Jisung used to dance in. The kind that made him hum under his breath as he watched the drops race down the windows.
Minho can’t take it anymore.
He walks until his legs burn. Through campus. Past the diner. Through the park where they had their first kiss. Every step feels like dragging lead. Every corner holds a memory. A ghost of a laugh. A glimpse of what used to be.
By the time he stops, he’s standing at the foot of the crosswalk.
The one where it happened.
The blood is gone. Washed away. Like it never happened at all.
Minho collapses to his knees.
His breath shudders out of him, and his hands shake, and his chest aches in a way that feels physical—like someone carved a hole in him and forgot to sew it back up.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do this without him.”
He presses his palms to the pavement, still damp from the rain.
“I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—just let me go back. Just one more day. One more hour. I’ll fix it. I swear. Please.”
His voice breaks. His body folds in on itself.
“Please,” he begs again, barely more than a breath. “I’ll give anything. Just let me see him again.”
Silence answers.
Of course it does.
Minho laughs, broken and bitter.
He sits there until the rain soaks through his clothes. Until the sky grows dark.
Until the grief folds around him again like a second skin.
Minho doesn’t remember how he got home.
The rain had soaked him to the bone. His fingers were numb. His voice hoarse from screaming into the sky. But somewhere between the crosswalk and the front door, his body had carried him here on instinct. A final act of mercy from muscle memory. The apartment key had still been in his pocket. The lock had still turned.
And now, he’s in bed.
Alone.
Still soaked. Still shaking.
The sheets are tangled around his legs. He doesn’t remember climbing under them. There’s a pounding in his head like he’s been underwater too long. His body feels bruised. Hollow.
He closes his eyes.
Just for a minute.
—
When Minho wakes up, the light is different.
Soft. Early. Golden.
The ache in his chest is still there, but quieter. His limbs feel lighter. The headache’s gone. He blinks, once, twice, disoriented by the warmth pressing against his side.
There’s a weight there.
A body.
Breathing.
Alive.
Minho freezes.
He turns slowly, like if he moves too fast, he’ll break whatever spell the universe has placed over him.
And there he is.
Jisung.
Sleeping soundly. A little drool at the corner of his mouth. Hair sticking up in every direction. One arm curled possessively around Minho’s waist like he always does. Wearing the same hoodie he died in.
Alive.
Minho forgets how to breathe.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t dare. Just stares at him. Every freckle. Every slow breath. The way his lashes flutter slightly when he shifts in his sleep. The warmth of his body, radiating into Minho’s side like a sunbeam.
A dream , Minho thinks wildly. It has to be .
Or maybe—maybe that was the dream. The blood. The screaming. The emptiness. Maybe he imagined it. A nightmare so vivid it felt real. Maybe Jisung never left at all.
Minho doesn’t know what’s real anymore.
He just knows he can’t lose him again.
So he wraps his arms around Jisung, burying his face in the crook of his neck, holding him tighter than he ever has before. Jisung stirs with a sleepy hum, one hand sliding up to rest lazily against Minho’s back.
“Mmm, clingy,” he murmurs, voice raspy with sleep.
Minho laughs. It breaks as soon as it leaves his throat.
“Shut up,” he whispers, voice shaking.
Jisung doesn’t notice. He’s already half-asleep again, content and safe in Minho’s arms.
And Minho stays like that. Wrapped around him. Listening to his heartbeat. So afraid that if he lets go, Jisung will vanish again. That the world will reset and take him back.
Because this feels too perfect.
Too good.
Like a dream he doesn’t deserve.
So he holds on. All morning. All the way through breakfast, where Jisung whines about toast again and steals Minho’s coffee like nothing ever happened. Where everything is identical to that day.
Minho walks beside him to campus, and Jisung hums the same song under his breath.
And Minho thinks, No. This can’t be real. This is too much like before. This is repeating.
He watches the way Jisung skips slightly when he walks. The way he tugs on Minho’s hand at crosswalks. The way the sunlight hits his face in exactly the same way it did last time.
And Minho smiles through it.
Pretends.
Because if this is a dream—
He never wants to wake up.
The day unfolds exactly the same.
Minho notices it, of course. In flashes. In little stutters in the rhythm of reality.
The toast still burns.
Jisung still complains that he’s starving before he even finishes getting dressed.
The girl walking her Pomeranian in a duck costume still passes them at 8:43 AM sharp, and Jisung makes the same stupid quack joke that wasn’t funny the first time.
Every second hums with eerie precision.
But Minho ignores it.
He doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to understand. Because if he does, the spell might break. The sky might collapse again. And he isn’t ready to lose him twice.
So he lets it happen.
He listens to Jisung ramble about his literature professor, who always smells like cough drops and insists on sitting on the desk like he’s starring in a coming-of-age drama.
Minho laughs in all the same places.
Pretends it’s the first time.
Jisung links their arms again when they reach the courtyard. Minho notices the same red bike parked crooked by the library steps. The same guy handing out flyers for a band show they’ll never go to. The same girl dropping her coffee on the steps and groaning dramatically about it.
It’s identical.
But Minho forces himself to smile through it. Forces his hands to stay steady.
When Jisung turns to him and says, “Dinner tonight? The usual spot?” with that same crooked grin, Minho nods.
“Of course.”
Because he needs to believe.
Just one more day.
—
It’s all the same.
The smell of grilled meat from the diner, the clink of dishes, the way Jisung pouts at his bowl and steals Minho’s pork anyway.
Everything plays out like a film stuck on loop.
Minho watches it all.
Silent.
Smiling.
Breaking.
Jisung snaps a photo of him across the table. “You look soft,” he teases.
“Just tired,” Minho says.
But he isn’t. He’s haunted.
Because he knows what’s coming.
Knows what’s waiting at the end of the road.
The walk home.
Cold air. Jisung burrowed into his side. Humming a song he hasn’t written yet.
They approach the crosswalk.
Minho’s heart begins to hammer in his chest.
His feet feel heavier with each step. The words coming out of Jisung’s mouth blur—Minho can’t even hear them anymore. His ears are full of static. The kind that came after. The kind that replaced the sound of sirens and last breaths.
He sees it now—how everything led back here.
The universe wound itself backward like a watch spring, and now it’s ticking forward again.
Back to this.
This moment.
They reach the curb.
The light is red.
Minho stops.
Jisung is still talking—about a meme, maybe, or his professor again. He doesn’t notice the shift in Minho’s breathing. Doesn’t see how he’s gone pale. Doesn’t feel the way Minho’s hand grips his just a little tighter.
The world holds its breath.
And then—
The light turns green.
Jisung takes a step forward.
Minho doesn’t.
His grip tightens—hard—on Jisung’s hand. He yanks him back, abrupt and firm, nearly pulling him off balance.
“Whoa—Min,” Jisung stumbles, blinking at him in surprise. “It’s green.”
“No,” Minho says, voice low. Shaking.
Jisung tilts his head. “What do you mean no? We can cross—”
“Not yet.”
There’s something in Minho’s voice that silences the rest of Jisung’s question. It’s not stern. It’s not commanding. It’s afraid.
Terrified.
Minho is staring at the street like it’s alive. Like it’s going to reach out and take Jisung from him the second he steps into it. His heart is thundering in his ears. His throat burns.
He doesn’t know why he pulls Jisung back.
He just knows he has to.
Because the memory is too sharp. The blood. The sound. The way he felt Jisung slipping through his hands. If he can just not move, if he can hold him here for one more second, maybe—
Maybe this time, it’ll be different.
They stand there in silence.
The cars pass.
The light cycles again.
Jisung watches him carefully now, concern etched into every line of his face.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
Minho nods. Lies. “Yeah. Just… I had a weird feeling.”
Jisung gives him a small smile. “You’re so dramatic sometimes.”
He bumps their shoulders together gently.
Minho doesn’t smile back.
They wait another cycle.
When the next light turns green, Minho glances both ways—twice, three times—before they step forward together. His hand never leaves Jisung’s. Not for a second. He watches everything. Every car. Every shadow. He’s ready this time.
But fate doesn’t repeat itself the same way.
No—this time, it adapts.
They make it across.
Minho feels the tension in his chest ease, just a little. A breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes.
Jisung squeezes his hand. “See? Told you we wouldn’t die.”
Minho lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Guess so.”
They walk the next block in silence.
Minho feels lightheaded, but he holds it together. Tells himself it’s over. That he beat it. That maybe the universe gave him this one thing—this second chance.
They’re waiting at the corner now. Just one more street before the apartment.
A car takes the turn too fast.
Minho hears it.
The screech of tires.
The shout from someone nearby.
And then—
Impact.
Not with Jisung’s chest.
Not his ribs.
But the car clips the curb and the streetlight.
The metal pole buckles.
It falls.
And Jisung doesn’t see it coming.
Minho screams before it even hits.
“JISUNG—”
But it’s too fast.
The pole crashes down with a sound like thunder.
Jisung doesn’t make a sound.
Minho is running.
Knees scraping on the pavement, breath tearing out of his throat like fire. He reaches Jisung’s body where it lies crumpled, just feet from their front steps.
The metal is twisted.
There’s blood again.
Of course there is.
This time, the light has left his eyes already.
There’s no last word.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
Minho falls beside him, hands reaching, shaking, desperate.
“No. No.”
He cradles Jisung’s head in his lap, sobbing, rocking.
“You were right there. You were fine. I saved you—!”
But he didn’t.
Because fate is cruel.
Because fate doesn’t care.
Because whatever force is doing this isn’t letting him change the outcome. Just the method.
Minho presses his forehead to Jisung’s.
His voice is hoarse. Broken.
“I did everything right this time. I did everything.”
He screams until his voice dies.
He begs until there’s nothing left.
—
Minho wakes with a scream caught in his throat.
It dies the moment he feels the warmth beside him. Hears the soft, slow rhythm of breathing that isn’t his. The sunlight slants through the window in a way he’s already learned to dread.
And there, as if nothing happened—
Jisung.
Again.
Minho jerks away like he’s been burned. He scrambles backward, breath stuttering, chest heaving. For a second, he’s convinced it’s a ghost. A hallucination. Something his grief has conjured to torment him.
But then Jisung stirs, groaning like he always does when he’s woken up too early.
“Minho?” His voice is thick with sleep, confused and soft. “What the hell?”
He rubs his eyes, sits up slowly. Sees Minho crouched on the far edge of the bed, pale and shaking.
“Babe?”
Minho swallows. His vision swims. The words won’t come.
Because he remembers this now. All of it. Every second. The light turning green. The way the pole snapped. The sound of bones breaking under metal. The blood.
It happened. Twice.
But here Jisung is. Again.
Warm. Breathing. Smiling at him like he didn’t just die.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Jisung asks, tilting his head. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Minho laughs.
It sounds wrong.
He crosses the bed in a heartbeat and grabs Jisung’s face in both hands. He kisses him so hard it hurts, and Jisung makes a surprised sound before melting into it.
“Min,” he mumbles between breaths. “What the hell—?”
Minho just holds him.
Doesn’t explain.
Doesn’t know how.
But this time, he tells himself, he’ll do it right.
This time, Minho changes everything.
He tells Jisung to skip class.
Fakes a migraine. Pulls him back into bed and keeps him there for hours. They watch movies. Order takeout. Never leave the apartment.
Minho checks the locks twice. Keeps his phone on loud. Texts Chan with a lie about being behind on work so no one stops by. He refuses to let Jisung out of his sight.
“You’re acting weird,” Jisung says, laughing as he curls up in Minho’s lap.
Minho kisses his hair. “I just want to keep you close today.”
Jisung melts a little at that. “Well… when you put it like that.”
Evening comes.
Minho’s stomach knots.
Last time, it wasn’t the street.
It wasn’t even Jisung’s fault.
It was fate.
It came for him.
So Minho shuts every window. Lights a few candles. Puts on a playlist he knows Jisung loves. They order from somewhere new. They play cards on the floor. Jisung teases him mercilessly for losing.
For a moment—just a moment—Minho lets himself believe it’s working.
Jisung is here.
He’s alive.
They’re safe.
He falls asleep that night with Jisung curled against his chest, hand resting over Minho’s heart.
Minho wakes to the sound of the fire alarm.
Smoke.
He smells it before he sees it.
It’s the kitchen.
The candle must’ve tipped over. Or maybe a faulty wire. Maybe something he couldn’t have seen. It doesn’t matter. Not now.
Because flames are licking up the cabinets. Because there’s smoke pouring into the hallway.
Because Jisung isn’t next to him anymore.
“Sungie—!”
He stumbles into the hallway, coughing, calling his name.
And then he sees him—
Slumped by the door, struggling to breathe.
And it’s already too late.
Minho drops to his knees beside him, choking on smoke and sobs. He tries to drag him up. He tries to scream his name. He tries everything.
But Jisung’s lips are turning blue.
His eyes flutter open—just for a second. Long enough to see Minho. Long enough to reach out, fingers curling weakly in the fabric of his shirt.
“Min…?”
And then—
Nothing.
The flames swallow everything.
Minho doesn’t remember getting out.
Doesn’t remember the sirens or the hands dragging him away or the sound of screaming that might have been his own.
He only remembers this:
Jisung dies.
No matter what he changes.
No matter what he does.
And then—
He wakes up.
The sun is slanting through the window again.
Jisung is breathing beside him.
Minho lies there, eyes wide, tears already spilling down his cheeks.
And this time—
He knows it’s not a dream.
It’s a loop.
A punishment.
Or a gift twisted into cruelty.
And he has no idea how to stop it.
—
There’s no pattern.
Minho tries to find one.
He writes everything down. The exact time Jisung dies. The way it happens. The weather. The color shirt Jisung wore. The route they walked. The brand of juice in the fridge.
None of it matters.
He makes charts. Pins them to the wall. Strings lines between them with red thread. If anyone saw it, they’d call it madness.
But Minho needs it to mean something.
Because if there’s a pattern—he can break it.
But there isn’t.
On the seventh reset, Minho tells Jisung everything.
He breaks down crying in the middle of the living room and tells him, “You’ve died. Over and over. I keep waking up and you’re back and I don’t know why, and I’m trying—I’m trying to stop it.”
Jisung stares at him, horrified.
At first, Minho thinks it’s disbelief. But no—it’s fear.
Not of the story.
Of him.
That night, Jisung doesn’t die in an accident.
He dies by falling from their balcony.
The police call it suicide.
Minho knows better.
On the twelfth reset, Minho packs his things. Doesn’t explain. Just walks out before Jisung wakes up.
He thinks, If I’m not with him, it can’t happen .
He sleeps at Chan’s.
The next day, the fire alarm in their building goes off.
The wiring in their kitchen shorts again. Same fire. No one gets to Jisung in time.
For the nineteenth reset, he books a weekend trip. Remote cabin. Middle of nowhere. No cars, no streets, no chance.
Jisung laughs at the sudden getaway. “This is romantic as hell,” he says. “What’s the occasion?”
Minho doesn’t answer.
They hike.
They cook together.
Minho thinks, Maybe. Just maybe.
Then Jisung slips on the trail. A rock gives way.
He falls twenty feet down a ridge.
Dies on impact.
Minho screams his name for hours, until his throat is raw.
When he wakes again, Jisung is beside him, whispering something about pancakes.
On the twenty-fourth reset, Minho stands on the roof, trembling.
“If I’m the one who dies, maybe it stops,” he whispers.
He steps off the ledge.
He wakes up.
Jisung is alive.
So is he.
—
He never stops trying.
Every time, he changes something. Anything.
He takes different streets. Orders different meals. Forces Jisung to stay home. Keeps him up all night talking, holding him too tightly, watching every move, afraid to blink.
It doesn’t matter.
It never matters.
Jisung dies on the street.
He dies in their bed.
He dies in his sleep.
He dies in Minho’s arms.
Over and over and over.
Minho stops writing it down.
Stops answering Chan’s calls.
Stops sleeping.
Some resets, he doesn’t even try to save him. He just holds him tight and waits, because what’s the point?
He starts drinking. A lot.
The last time, he threw up in the kitchen while Jisung rubbed his back, concerned.
Minho cried until he passed out.
Jisung died the next morning.
Minho starts whispering to the universe.
“I get it. I get it, okay? You want me to suffer.”
He laughs at himself. “You’re good at this. Really committed to the bit.”
He stares at Jisung in the mornings, watching him sleep, knowing he’s already gone.
Minho breaks the mirror one reset.
Looks himself in the eye.
“You’re not real,” he tells his reflection. “Or maybe I’m not.”
He doesn’t sleep that night. Just sits in the bathroom, blood on his hands and tears dried to his skin.
And then one day—
Jisung touches his face and says gently, “You’ve been crying in your sleep.”
Minho breaks.
Crumples in his arms.
And says, “I don’t know how to lose you again.”
Jisung doesn’t understand.
But he holds him.
And Minho pretends again.
Because pretending is easier than believing this is all there is.
A loop.
A curse.
A life where he never gets to keep the person he loves most.
—
It’s reset number thirty-eight.
Or maybe thirty-nine.
Minho’s lost count.
This time, he wakes up without screaming. He just stares at the ceiling, eyes dry, throat sore. Jisung is still asleep beside him, lips parted, curled under the blankets like nothing has ever gone wrong.
Minho doesn’t touch him.
Not right away.
Because today, he knows—it’s not going to work. It never works. But he still gets up. Still follows the motions. Still makes Jisung breakfast, pours his coffee just the way he likes, pretends like he hasn’t watched him die more times than he can count.
They go out again. A different route this time. A different restaurant. Minho lets Jisung pick the playlist in his headphones, listens to him ramble about class and roommates and weird dreams he can’t quite remember.
He laughs in all the right places.
But it’s a hollow sound.
Jisung notices.
It happens after dinner.
They’re sitting on the floor of the living room, cross-legged, a half-played board game between them. The lights are dim, warm. Jisung’s wearing a hoodie three sizes too big, sleeves covering his hands.
He watches Minho for a long moment, quiet.
And then he says, “You always look like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”
Minho flinches.
He tries to smile. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” Jisung says softly. “Lately. You’ve been… somewhere else.”
Minho looks down.
He doesn’t know what to say. He’s running out of lies. Running out of ways to pretend.
Jisung leans forward, rests his chin on his knees. “Sometimes I get this weird feeling,” he says, voice almost a whisper. “Like… like I’m not supposed to be here.”
Minho’s breath catches.
Jisung doesn’t look at him.
“Like maybe I’m just borrowing time. Y’know? Like I’m living on someone else’s clock.”
Minho opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
Because how do you tell someone they’re dying over and over?
That the universe has marked them for death and no matter how hard you fight it, you keep losing?
You don’t.
You can’t.
Jisung looks up, smiling sadly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being dramatic.”
Minho’s voice comes out raw. “You’re not.”
They sit in silence.
And then Jisung says something that burrows under Minho’s skin and stays there.
“If something ever happens to me… I want you to let go.”
Minho stares at him.
Jisung shrugs, sheepish. “I know it’s dumb. But, like… promise me? You won’t hold on too hard. It’ll hurt more that way.”
Minho wants to scream.
Because he already has. He’s held on so tightly he’s torn his soul open. He’s fought fate with bleeding hands and sleepless nights. He’s watched the same boy die in a hundred different ways and still wakes up thinking, maybe this time .
Let go?
He can’t.
He won’t.
So he lies.
He smiles and says, “Yeah. I promise.”
Jisung leans against him, soft and warm and so alive.
And Minho wraps his arms around him, closes his eyes, and thinks, Not today .
Not this time.
That night, he triple checks every lock. Closes every window. Hides every sharp object. Doesn’t let Jisung leave the apartment.
He sits awake in bed, watching Jisung sleep.
Clinging to him.
Holding tighter.
Because somewhere in his chest, a voice is whispering:
You already know how to stop this.
You just don’t want to.
—
Minho has stopped counting the resets.
They blur together now.
Each one starts with the same quiet breath beside him. The same tangled blankets. The same miracle that feels more like a curse with every passing day.
He still tries.
Of course he does.
He tries not out of hope, but habit. Like muscle memory. Like breathing.
He tries new cities. New routines. New strategies. He pulls Jisung out of school. He drags him across the country. He fakes illnesses. He tells more lies than truths. He begs gods he doesn’t believe in and bargains with a universe that won’t answer him.
But Jisung still dies.
Sometimes slow.
Sometimes sudden.
Sometimes in Minho’s arms, whispering his name like a prayer he’ll never finish.
And somewhere along the way, something inside Minho cracks.
Not in a loud, dramatic way.
It’s quiet.
Like a candle burning too low.
Like breath slowing in the middle of the night.
It happens after reset number…??—he doesn’t know the number anymore.
Jisung dies in his sleep that time. No warning. No signs. Just… gone.
Minho wakes up to cold skin and silence.
He doesn’t scream.
He doesn’t cry.
He just sits there, staring at the ceiling, holding a body that will be warm again tomorrow, and says:
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
The next morning, Jisung wakes up alive, just like always.
And Minho lies still, staring at him like he’s a ghost.
Jisung yawns, smiles, presses a kiss to his cheek.
“You okay?” he asks.
Minho doesn’t answer.
Not really.
He just murmurs, “How many times do I have to lose you?”
Jisung blinks. “What?”
Minho closes his eyes. “Nothing.”
That day, he doesn’t try to stop it.
He doesn’t fight fate.
He just lets the day happen.
Jisung is soft and happy and full of sunshine. He steals Minho’s food and makes bad jokes and falls asleep in his lap halfway through a movie.
And Minho lets him.
Lets all of it happen.
Because a part of him is starting to wonder—
What if this is the point?
What if the only way to end the loop is to stop fighting it?
What if the loop isn’t about saving Jisung at all?
What if it’s about letting him go?
That night, Minho sits beside their bed while Jisung sleeps.
He watches the rise and fall of his chest. The small twitch of his fingers. The soft exhale that comes when he rolls over and reaches out for Minho, even in his dreams.
Minho takes his hand.
Kisses his knuckles.
And whispers, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it himself:
“I don’t think I can do this much longer.”
He presses their hands to his heart.
“But I don’t know how to say goodbye.”
—
Minho wakes up to birdsong.
The sunlight stretches across the room, warm and gold, and he feels Jisung shift beside him. Feels the familiar way he nuzzles into the pillow before fully waking up. Sees the way his hair sticks up like a puffball. The faint line of a sleep-crease across his cheek.
Minho watches him for a long time.
No panic. No plans. No frantic thoughts of how to fix it.
Just him.
Just Jisung.
And the quiet acceptance that this is the last time.
Because Minho’s not going to stop it anymore.
He’s done begging the universe.
Done screaming at the sky.
All that’s left is this:
A perfect day.
He kisses Jisung awake.
Slow and soft, lips brushing against his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose.
“Min,” Jisung groans, eyes still closed. “Why are you so gross in the morning?”
Minho just smiles. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Jisung cracks one eye open, grinning. “Ew.”
“I’m serious,” Minho whispers. “So in love with you it hurts.”
Jisung squints at him, then pulls him in for a real kiss.
Minho lets it last longer than usual.
Breakfast is pancakes.
Minho lets Jisung make them, knowing they’ll be lopsided and half-burned. But he doesn’t care. He watches him flit around the kitchen in Minho’s hoodie, humming something off-key, face lit up by the morning sun.
They eat on the balcony. Legs tangled. Syrup everywhere. Minho takes photos—real ones this time. Laughs when Jisung makes a mess. Holds his hand under the table like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Because it is.
They take a walk through the park.
It’s late spring. Everything is green and alive. Jisung climbs up onto the edge of a fountain and nearly falls in. Minho grabs him by the waist, heart leaping—and then breathes a laugh against his shoulder when he steadies.
“Don’t die,” he whispers without thinking.
Jisung turns, confused. “What?”
Minho swallows hard. “Don’t fall, I meant.”
They lie in the grass for a while, side by side, watching the clouds roll by.
“What do you think happens after this?” Jisung asks suddenly.
Minho’s heart stops.
“After what?” he whispers.
Jisung shrugs. “Life. Us. Everything.”
Minho’s voice shakes. “I think… I think we just keep loving. Somehow. Even if we’re not here.”
Jisung smiles at that. “That’s really pretty.”
Minho bites his lip to keep from crying.
Dinner is at the diner where it all began.
They sit at their usual booth. Minho lets Jisung order for both of them. He doesn’t even complain when Jisung eats half his food. He just watches him—commits every tiny movement to memory. The way he drums his fingers on the table. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. The way he dips his fries in ketchup and makes a face every time.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Jisung says, completely unaware.
Minho smiles and squeezes his hand.
“I hope you never have to find out.”
That night, they slow dance in the living room.
No music. Just the sound of their breathing and the whisper of fabric brushing against fabric.
Jisung rests his head on Minho’s shoulder.
Minho buries his face in Jisung’s neck and holds him like he’ll disappear.
Because he will.
He always does.
They lie in bed tangled together.
Jisung drapes a leg over Minho’s hip, tracing lazy circles on his chest with his fingers.
Minho brushes the hair from his forehead and says softly, “Hey.”
Jisung hums.
“I just… I want you to know I’ve loved you better than anything I’ve ever done.”
Jisung blinks up at him. “Where’s this coming from?”
Minho kisses his temple.
“Nowhere. Just… it’s true.”
Jisung smiles, sleepy and content. “I love you, too, idiot.”
His eyes flutter closed.
Minho stays awake.
Watches every breath.
Holds his hand until it stops moving.
When it finally happens—when Jisung goes still—there’s no accident. No pain. No violence.
Just peace.
Quiet.
Final.
And Minho lets go.
He kisses his hand.
Closes his eyes.
And whispers:
“Okay.”
—
The next morning, Minho wakes up—
And Jisung is gone.
No warmth beside him.
No loop.
Just an empty bed.
And sunlight that doesn’t feel like a beginning.
He knows.
This isn’t another reset.
It’s after.
After the crosswalk.
After the fire.
After the fall.
After all the tries.
The loop is over.
He knows it in his bones.
He sits up slowly. The blankets feel heavier than they should. His limbs ache like he’s been carrying the weight of a thousand lives.
Maybe he has.
The apartment is quiet.
Still.
No faint humming from the bathroom. No mug left in the sink. No sock on the counter. No Jisung.
Minho presses his palms to his face.
The tears come quietly.
Not with rage. Not with desperation.
Just grief.
Real, final, clean in a way it never could be when he was chasing the impossible.
He cries for every version of Jisung he lost. For every time he failed. For every almost. For the kisses that ended in blood. For the goodbye he never got to say.
And for the day he finally did.
It takes him hours to get out of bed.
When he does, he doesn’t rush.
He makes coffee. He drinks it on the balcony, even though it’s cold and his hands shake. He looks out at the city like it’s new, even though it’s not. Even though it never changed—he did.
And somewhere, under the ache in his chest, there’s something soft.
Not peace.
Not yet.
But acceptance.
Because the universe didn’t fix it.
It didn’t bring Jisung back to stay.
But it gave Minho something else:
More time.
More love.
A thousand new memories folded inside his chest like origami.
And that has to be enough.
He finds Jisung’s journal tucked in the drawer.
The last page has only one line, scrawled in his messy, looping handwriting.
“Loving you feels like the only thing I’ve ever gotten right.”
Minho presses his forehead to the page.
Smiles through the tears.
“Me too, Sungie.”
Later that day, Minho walks to the park.
The one where they used to lie in the grass and count clouds.
He sits on the bench they always called theirs and watches the light shift through the trees.
And for the first time since it all began—
He doesn’t feel like he has to run.
Or fight.
Or fix anything.
He just breathes.
And lets the world turn without him.
Because Jisung is gone.
And he’s still here.
But he got to say goodbye.
And somehow, somehow, that makes all the difference.