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A mound of earth, sunken and dry, lies quietly in an open field—marked by a headstone and forgotten petals, now brittle and colorless. It is the last address for souls who once dared to live, dared to love. And like all endings, it waits in stillness.
Changmin stands before it—not in tears, but with a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, the kind stitched together by memories and restraint. His hands are deep in his coat pockets, fingers cold and idle, like they forgot how to hold something that mattered.
"Hey... Sorry I took a while," he murmurs, voice soft, as if not to disturb the quiet slumber beneath the soil. He tilts his head to the side, as though listening for an echo that will never come.
The wind brushes past, and for a second, it feels like a hand through his hair.
“It’s strange,” he says, his smile persisting like a wound that refuses to close. “Living without you doesn’t feel like living. Just… continuing.”
He lets out a short breath that barely counts as a sigh, and lifts his gaze to the cloudless sky. “But I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’ve been waking up, eating, walking, breathing. That’s enough, right?”
His words are light, too light, and that is the heaviest part of all. Grief, when silent, howls louder than tears ever could.
Just a few feet away, Juyeon stands—so close he could reach out and touch the hem of Changmin’s coat. But he doesn’t. He can’t. His time is almost up. Juyeon had waited beneath moonlight and dew, hoping. Because a soul, once untethered, is granted forty days to linger. To say goodbye, if someone comes to see them.
Changmin didn’t come—not until today.
And Juyeon had promised himself that is his lover comes, he will go. But seeing Changmin now—smiling like that, carrying his grief in silence, like it's a secret too sacred to speak—Juyeon's resolve wavers. His fingers twitch, desperate to reach him. His lips part, but no words escape. Only the ache grows.
“Don’t smile like that,” Juyeon wants to say. “Don’t pretend you’re not breaking. I’d rather see you cry. I’d rather know I mattered enough to ruin you a little.”
There someone stood, next to Changmin drenched in tears—unbothered by the world around him. No one flinched saying someone crying like that, because they know that crying in graveyards is as natural as silence. Death, they say, is normal, cause soon enough everyone will facing it.
But that’s a big lie.
Because death doesn’t end with the one who exhales their last breath, just like that—it begins a new kind of life for those left behind. A life stitched with remnants of the past, not only in tangible memories but in the aching corners of the heart.
But Changmin just lowers his head again, eyes soft, voice calm. “I’ll try to visit more, okay? Not just when the weight gets too loud.” And then—he smiles again, just a little, and turns to leave.
The late afternoon sun bled softly across the pavement, smearing gold into the cracks of the city. It was the kind of light that felt like the end of something—beautiful, quiet, almost holy. Juyeon followed from a distance, his eyes fixed on the boy in front of him, the one he once loved so openly, so endlessly.
Changmin.
He didn’t walk like himself anymore. His steps were slow, meandering, not out of carelessness but as if he didn’t know where he was going. Like someone had taken out the thread that sewed him to the world, and now he drifted, unanchored. His zipper jacket half-open, the hem of his shirt slightly untucked like he hadn’t cared enough to fix it. He passed the same crosswalk twice. Juyeon noticed all of that while Changmin didn’t, he just keep walking while Juyeon follow him at the back.
The streets buzzed around them—cars passing, students chatting as they made their way home, people moving in and out of convenience stores. But there was something oddly detached about the way Changmin moved through it all. Like he was no longer part of the world’s rhythm. Like he was a silent figure in a loud photograph, an object that should not be in there. His step stopped finally, at a nearly empty bus stop.
A metal bench sat beneath a tree stripped mostly bare by early spring, its branches reaching like fingers toward the pale sky. Changmin stood by the edge of the curb, his bag sliding slightly down his shoulder, eyes locked onto the blank stretch of road ahead. Waiting, or just pretending to wait. His face was unreadable—emotionless but cracked if you looked closely. Eyes dull, mouth set in a line too tight for someone his age. Juyeon stood beside him, just a few feet away, like he always had. Close enough to touch, yet separated by something heavier than the breath.
A song humming from Changmin side, make him turn his head to the sound of it come. Listening on warbled slightly through the low-quality speaker of a nearby phone. The guy sitting on the bench was playing music, unaware of how it bled into someone else's history.
"But I love you so..." whisper from the song.
It was barely a whisper, but Changmin heard it like a scream. Juyeon also listen to that song, he turned his head to look at Changmin, and the phone from the stranger guy. Make Juyeon remembered the day he’d recommended it. Rain outside the apartment window. Him lying lazily on Changmin’s lap, earphones splitting between them, feet tangled beneath the table.
“You’ll love this,” he’d said with that teasing smile. "Trust me, you will play this song over and over again on your playlist."
Now it played again, in the present that no longer belonged to them.
Changmin’s hand twitched, Juyeon notice that. His fingers curled into a trembling fist. His body froze completely, like time stopped moving for just him. Juyeon saw it—the smallest shake in Changmin’s chin, the way his shoulders lifted with a breath that almost sounded like a sob. He tilted his head upward, gaze lifted to the sky, his eyes glistening but determined not to spill. Juyeon’s heart lurched. He moved instinctively, lifting a hand to place on Changmin’s shoulder. A simple touch. Just to let him know he wasn’t alone. That he still remembered too. But his hand halted midair. Hovered. Hesitated. And then dropped.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t touch him anymore. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he simply... couldn’t.
The bus rumbled in the distance, tires humming against concrete. It approached, brakes screeching as it pulled to the curb. Changmin stepped forward, shoulders still hunched, and began to board. Then it happened in an instant—a man exiting the bus collided into him, hard, sending Changmin stumbling backward. Juyeon’s body moved forward in reflex—but it was useless.
The man scowled. “Watch it, kid.”
Juyeon stepped forward, voice rising. “He’s grieving, you asshole!”
But the man couldn’t hear him. None of them could.
Changmin didn’t retaliate. He didn’t lift his head. He just muttered a quiet “Sorry,” bowing slightly, his voice barely audible.
And then, like the universe wanted to remind Juyeon of the truth, Changmin’s body moved—and passed through him. Right through him. It wasn’t a brush, or a near miss. It was like mist. Like memory. And Juyeon get remain again, with bone-deep certainty—he wasn’t real anymore. Not to this world. Not to Changmin. He was dead.
The bus exhaled a tired sigh as its doors folded shut behind Changmin. The driver didn’t spare him a glance. The few passengers inside didn’t either. They were scattered across the seats—students in uniforms, an old woman cradling a plastic bag of vegetables, a man half-asleep with his head against the window. The usual mix of lives in motion. But to Juyeon, it felt like another planet.
He stepped into the bus without a ticket, without footsteps. No one noticed him. Not even the sensor beeped as he passed. He wasn’t there. Not really. Just a shadow, a leftover of something once warm and breathing. While Changmin walked slowly down the narrow aisle, avoiding eye contact, shoulders still tense from the run-in at the curb. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t seem to see anything. He sat in the very back, by the window, like always. That was his seat—their seat. Juyeon used to tease him about being dramatic, about how he liked to stare out of windows like he was in some indie film, but now… now it looked real.
Changmin rested his bag in his lap and leaned his forehead against the glass. His breath made a faint fog on the window. Outside, the buildings passed in a blur—grocery stores, worn-out laundromats, the same ramen place they once sneaked into at 2 a.m. when Juyeon said he was too hungry to sleep.
Juyeon stood beside the seat, just watching him. He didn’t know how long they sat in that silence. The hum of the engine was soft, almost like a lullaby. The sun outside was dimming now, slanting into orange as the sky began to shift. The streets glowed faintly, everything bathed in warm melancholy.
People in the bus smiled. A girl giggled at a meme on her phone. A boy whispered something to his friend, both of them laughing under their breath. The driver bobbed his head to the faint music playing on the radio. But in the very back, Changmin sat like a ghost. Or maybe more accurately, like someone who had just been left behind by one. His eyes didn’t blink much. They were tired—too tired for someone who hadn’t cried properly yet. Juyeon recognized the look. It was the kind of grief that didn’t scream or shake fists at the sky. It just sat with you. Quiet. Crushing your soul.
Juyeon sat down beside him, even if the seat didn’t register his weight. He reached out again, just a little. Not to touch, just to pretend.
He remembered riding this same route together, shoulder to shoulder, music blasting in one earphone each, fingers brushing every time the bus made a turn. He remembered pressing a quick kiss to Changmin’s cheek just before their stop, and Changmin flushing red, whispering, “Not here, pabo-ya!” And now he was sitting beside him again, invisible. And Changmin didn’t even flinch.
The bus ride felt longer than usual. Maybe time was stretching for them, or maybe Juyeon just didn’t want it to end. But eventually, the stops grew more familiar. The streets narrowed. The buildings turned to cracked walls and peeling paint. The bus hissed one last time as it slowed to a stop. Changmin stood slowly, tugging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and stepped off. While Juyeon follow him, always.
The apartment complex stood like a shadow of what it used to be—aging bricks, narrow halls echoing with the sounds of televisions, arguments, babies crying. A cat darted past them on the stairwell, tail flicking like it knew something wasn’t right. They climbed in silence. Up one flight, then another. The stairwell still creaked at the same steps, but it felt louder now, like it echoed in Juyeon’s chest.
And then the hallway, Changmin walked slowly, as if every step carried the weight of memory. Juyeon watched him, watched the way his fingers brushed the peeling paint on the wall, like grounding himself in something tangible. He reached for Changmin’s hand—just once, gently, the way he used to when they came home carrying too many things. Bags of groceries, art supplies, takeout in boxes too greasy to hold with one hand.
Another flash came then—A memory.
“Wait, wait! I still want to hold your hand.” Juyeon said, Juyeon said while busy moving his belongings to his left hand.
“You’re holding to much, me also, we can hold hand."
Juyeon grinning, “So? I’ll drop them all just to hold your hand.”
Changmin had laughed then. Not loudly, but that quiet kind of laugh he only gave Juyeon. Like it wasn’t meant for anyone else. Changmin hit Juyeon's shoulder hard, after that he grip Juyeon's fingers tightly.
Juyeon blinked back to now. His hand hovered near Changmin’s again—but of course, it passed right through. He followed him down the hall, heart aching with every step. The sun had almost disappeared now, leaving the hallway tinted blue, like dusk had swallowed everything whole.
Changmin stopped in front of the apartment door. Their door. He pulled out his key with mechanical movements and turned it. The door creaked open, filling the empty apartment with it sound. No lights came on. No warm yellow glow. No leftover coffee scent. No music playing from Juyeon’s speaker, like it always happened.
Changmin stepped inside, shoes dragging slightly against the floor. The apartment swallowed Changmin whole. No lights. No sound. Just the soft click of the door closing behind him, and his slow footsteps padding in like he didn’t want to wake a ghost. Juyeon followed, standing still in the doorway. The silence inside was louder than anything else. Almost deafening.
The living room looked untouched for days. A blanket was half-folded on the couch. A mug sat on the coffee table with dry remnants of tea. Their plants—mostly Juyeon’s—had begun to droop with thirst. But worst of all, it smelled… still. Like the air hadn’t been stirred by laughter or complaints or movement. Like nothing had lived in it for a while.
And still, Juyeon was afraid to breathe.
He watched as Changmin dropped his bag beside the couch, sinking down onto the floor instead of the cushions like he couldn’t even be bothered to try. His back leaned against the side of the couch. His head tilted backward until it hit the edge with a soft thud. Eyes closed, he didn’t cry.
Juyeon approached carefully, as if any movement might make it worse. His hands ached to touch him again, to cup Changmin’s face, to drag a finger along his tired jaw and say, “Hey. I’m here.”
But he wasn’t, not really. He turned his head instead, looking around the room—and that’s when the memory hit, uninvited but vivid.
The last time they were here like this, the last time they fought. The apartment was chaos that night—laundry tossed on the bed, dishes piled in the sink, takeout boxes left open on the table. Juyeon had been on the floor, sitting cross-legged with headphones in, drawing on the back of a cereal box because he couldn’t find his sketchpad.
Changmin standing with arms crossed “Juyeon, are you kidding me?”
Juyeon pulling one earbud out. "No sweetheart, I'm not joking."
“The place is a mess. We haven’t cleaned in days, and you’re doodling on trash?” Changmin angry.
Juyeon had tilted his head, grinning. “I’m not doodling. I’m expressing.”
“You’re impossible.”
He turned toward the sink, but he didn’t get far before Juyeon was on his feet, bounding over.
“Hey—hey, come on,” Juyeon had whispered, sliding in behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”
Changmin had stifled a laugh. “Don’t.”
“Can I kiss you now?”
“No.” Changmin's eyes wide open.
Juyeon kissed his shoulder.
“That doesn’t count,” Changmin muttered.
Juyeon kissed the back of his neck.
"Still doesn’t count?" Juyeon turned him around and kissed his lips.
Changmin smiling, "Counted."
That was their rhythm. A fight, a fuss, a kiss. Over and over again. They were messy, but they were. Juyeon remembered how real everything felt in those moments. Not perfect, not always good—but real. Now the silence echoed louder than any of their fights ever had.
He looked back at Changmin now, who was still in the entrance, unmoving. The light from the hallway crept in through the crack of the door, casting long shadows across the room. It caught on Changmin’s face, glinting against his lashes like tears that wouldn’t fall. The lights stayed off. The night pressed against the windows. The air in the room had the kind of weight that couldn’t be seen—only felt.
He was gone and Changmin was left behind. Two people in the same room, mourning the same thing. But one of them wasn’t real and the other had to keep living.
Changmin walk passed Juyeon, toward the bathroom. Juyeon followed, one step behind, as always. Changmin flicked on the light. It was bright, too bright—he winced and rubbed at his eyes. But he didn’t turn it off. He stood in front of the sink, staring down at the twin toothbrushes in the holder. One blue. One yellow. Juyeon’s had a smiley face drawn in Sharpie on the handle.
Juyeon had always said, “So mine won’t feel left out when we brush together.”
Changmin reached out and picked it up, he stared at it for a long time. Like maybe holding it could bring something back, while it didn’t. He set it down, just as gently, then he opened the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste. Band-aids. Half-used cologne. A folded post-it note that said “you forgot to kiss me this morning” with a tiny cartoon of a pouting face. Juyeon’s handwriting.
Changmin didn’t cry, he just closed the cabinet. Juyeon was right there, arms twitching at his sides like he wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him cry. Just once. Just for closure. Just so he’d know he hadn’t loved in vain.
But Changmin just turned off the bathroom light and walked to the kitchen. There, the fridge greeted them with a quiet hum, Changmin opened it. Inside, a half-eaten roll cake. A box of strawberries Juyeon always picked out one by one to check for bruises. A Tupperware of kimchi jjigae with “eat this or I’ll haunt you” scrawled on the lid in marker.
"I don't eat it, you should haunt me now." Changmin murmur.
Juyeon turning his head, he doesn't want to look at him.
Changmin close the door, he opened a cupboard instead, pulled out a single cup, filled it with water. His hand shook a little again as he drank. Juyeon watched, remembering how often they used to dance in this kitchen. In their socks, at midnight, for no reason.
He remembered Changmin’s laugh when he dropped a whole egg on the floor and Juyeon tried to clean it with a paper towel soaked in soy sauce by accident. He remembered their New Year’s Eve, eating ramyeon out of the pot, kissing over the sink.
He remembered everything, and none of it mattered now.
Changmin placed the cup in the sink and stood there for a moment longer.
And then he whispered—
“…You were so loud when you were here.”
Juyeon froze.
Changmin didn’t look up. He didn’t turn around. He just stayed at the sink, his fingers braced on the edge of the counter like if he let go, the silence would devour him whole.
“And now it’s like I can’t even remember what your voice sounded like.”
That broke something in Juyeon. The kind of ache that lived in the chest but rippled down to the knees. He took a step closer. Changmin continued, almost like in a trance.
“I used to complain about how you never stopped talking. About how you always left your shoes in the wrong place. About how you always made me late because you forgot your phone, your keys, your wallet—always something.” Changmin laughed quietly, bitterly.
“But now I get home and I wait. I wait to hear you yell ‘Changmin-ah! You home?’ I wait to see your shoes tripping me at the door. I wait to be annoyed. And you never come.”
Juyeon wanted to speak. Wanted to wrap around him like he used to do and say, I’m still here. Just turn around, look.
"You should be home at t—"
The beep of the apartment’s keypad sliced through the silence. Changmin’s head snapped toward the door. He rushed forward, hope flaring recklessly in his chest, brushing past Juyeon’s soul like wind through smoke. He stopped at the entrance, still and breathless, as if waiting for someone to finish stepping through.
“Hey! That’s not my apartment!”
A voice echoed from the hallway, loud and misplaced. The moment froze. The keypad numbers blinked, then dimmed back to stillness. The world quieted again, save for the city’s distant heartbeat outside the walls.
Changmin didn’t move.
He leaned back against the wall, his breath caught between disappointment and something far heavier. Then, slowly, he slid down—back grazing the cold plaster—until he sat on the floor. His legs curled up, arms resting on his knees. He looked like someone trying to fold into himself, as if disappearing could mean less pain.
Juyeon stepped closer, his ghost tethered by guilt.
He looked at Changmin—really looked. His skin was pale, stretched thin by sleepless nights. His eyes, once warm and full of fire, were dulled to a quiet, flickering gray. His lips, once soft and teasing, were dry and cracked like forgotten letters. Fingertips raw, skin peeling. He’d clawed his way through too many nights alone.
Juyeon’s soul cracked.
“You’re so cruel…” Changmin whispered, voice rasping like paper burned too slowly. “You never even visited me in my dreams.”
His gaze wandered upward, to a photograph still hanging on the wall—one taken under golden light, where Juyeon’s laughter had frozen in time, caught mid-tease, Changmin beside him, cheeks pink and glowing.
“You should’ve put the ring on my finger before you left, pabo-ya.”
Juyeon’s breath caught. The world tilted.
“At least then we could’ve been a couple… even in the afterlife.”
And that was what undid him. Juyeon fell to his knees before the man he loved, trembling. His fingers reached, desperate and shaking, to touch Changmin’s hand resting loosely on his knee. Nothing. No warmth. No resistance. Not even air. Just the cruel distance between the living and the dead.
He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the space where skin should’ve met skin. A sob tore through his throat—one that didn’t echo, didn’t tremble the floor. He cried with every thread left of his soul, clawing softly at Changmin’s ankle, wishing to be real again. To be there. To hold him.
“I’m sorry… Changmin… my love… I’m sorry… so sorry…” The words barely left his lips, broken and raw, like they’d been waiting behind his ribs this whole time. “I… I’m… sorry…”
“You should apologize,” Changmin said softly.
Juyeon froze, he looked up. Their eyes met—and in that breath, the universe paused. Neither one of them moved. Juyeon’s hand, fragile as smoke, hovered upward. He reached toward Changmin’s face, trembling. His palm hesitated in the air, the distance between them smaller than a whisper.
But Changmin didn’t blink. His gaze was vacant. Unknowing.
Juyeon smiled faintly, bitterly—mocking himself for hoping. For believing that love could bend death. That grief might make the veil thinner. Still, he touched him anyway.
He ghosted fingers over Changmin’s forehead. Down his brows. When Changmin closed his eyes, a tear fell—and Juyeon, with all the care in the world, traced the trail it left. He brushed the tip of his nose. Lingered on the lips he used to kiss when they laughed, or fought, or said goodnight. His touch drifted to the jaw, then the cheek—where dimples used to bloom like spring flowers when Changmin smiled.
“When we meet again,” Changmin whispered, voice shaking, “you’ll have to say sorry properly.”
Juyeon leaned in until their foreheads touched—close enough to pretend.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
“Juyeon.”
Juyeon’s heart caught, he smiled. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“I miss you… please come to my dreams. I’m begging you… please.” His voice broke like glass dropped too many times. “We never got to say goodbye, At least... come... you should’ve given me your last kiss.”
Juyeon’s hands moved to cup the sides of his face, carefully, like cradling a memory that might vanish. Then, he pressed his lips to Changmin’s in the softest, saddest kiss—full of apologies, of love left unsaid, of mornings they’d never wake up to. He felt nothing. Not heat. Not breath. Just an ache where connection used to be.
But still, he kissed him. Hoping, praying, that something might remain.
“I love you,” Juyeon whispered against his lips. “Let’s meet again… in the afterlife.”
And then, like the last leaf caught in wind—he was gone.
Leaving Changmin on the floor, opened his eyes slowly, full of confused. Hollow. But his fingers, trembling, lifted to touch his lips. And there, for the first time in weeks, a smile ghosted across his face, causing the dimple Juyeon loved bloomed back into the world.
the end.