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From the moment JL first saw the handsome stranger at the Trevi Fountain, it felt as though time folded in on itself.
Juwon had stumbled into him — quite literally — his wide, sparkling eyes making JL’s breath catch. In that instant, JL knew: this was the face he had been searching for. The inspiration he had been chasing across countries, through countless empty frames on his camera.
Juwon had the most angelic look: puppy-like eyes framed by long lashes, plush lips that looked almost unreal, skin free of blemishes, and onyx-black hair that framed his face perfectly. JL found himself wondering if those lips were as soft as they appeared, if his skin was as smooth as it looked, and what emotions lay hidden behind those mesmerizing eyes.
On impulse, JL called him his muse — even though they quickly realized they could barely understand each other’s words. Language, however, hardly mattered. Juwon smiled at him, and it felt as though the universe was offering JL a second chance at life, a new light within the repetitive cycle he had called existence.
Their days together were short, stolen between Juwon’s grueling schedule — but they were the happiest days JL had ever known. They wandered the cobblestone streets of Rome, shared clumsy Italian and Korean phrases, laughed until their cheeks hurt. Those memories wove themselves deep into JL’s bones.
The night before Juwon’s supposed departure, he left a half-sleepy confession on JL’s phone:
"I'm starting to fall for you."
Without a second thought, JL immediately booked tickets to Korea. He showed up at the airport the next morning, heart hammering, holding up a ticket in front of Juwon. He boldly declared he would follow him anywhere.
Anywhere.
But fate, cruel as it was, had other plans.
The plane never made it home in one piece.
Amid the sounds of panicking passengers, the cabin shaking from intense turbulence, and flight attendants scrambling to settle the crowd, Juwon and JL held each other close, hearts hammering, fingers intertwined.
"It's going to be okay, my muse," JL whispered, trying to soothe his lover, even as tears flowed from his own eyes.
"I'm scared, Jay," Juwon cried out between sobs.
JL’s dreams and wishes flashed through his mind: Juwon showing him around Korea, teaching him the language, sneaking away on dates while giggling as they avoided the press. All those fantasies, those promises, they had wholeheartedly wanted to fulfill. JL hugged Juwon tightly, a final thought crossing his mind:
"Please, spare my love."
And then, everything faded.
Sadly, his wish was never granted.
The days after the crash blurred into each other, colors muted, sounds distant, as if JL were trapped underwater, screaming without a voice.
The authorities said they couldn’t find his body — likely separated from him when he lost consciousness. They tried to reassure him, claiming it would have been a quick departure and that Juwon hadn’t suffered.
But JL suffered enough for both of them.
He remembered Shua — Juwon’s manager and close friend — grabbing onto his jacket at the hospital when the confirmation came through. Shua’s face was hollow, his body trembling. They were just two broken halves orbiting around a missing center.
There was no body to bury, but they still held a funeral.
No cameras. No fans.
Just those few who knew the boy, not the star.
The months that followed were a strange, endless ache. JL stayed in Korea longer than he intended, drowning in grief, unable to pick up his camera. He couldn’t even glance at a lens without seeing Juwon’s smiling face reflected back at him — all those photos taken during the short two months they spent together.
Memories that filled every frame, reflecting how perfect they had been together. Like pieces that completed one another. Now, his other half was gone, never to return. Permanent scars etched deeper than the ones caused by the crash.
And Shua — poor, stubborn Shua — became an unexpected constant. They would bump into each other at memorial events and charity drives. JL sometimes found him sitting alone, staring into space with the same lost look JL carried deep inside.
Once, he found Shua at Juwon’s favorite café, the one Juwon had shared with him during their late-night calls. A cold, untouched coffee sat in front of Shua.
JL simply sat down across from him, wordlessly.
For a long time, that was all they did. Sit together in silence, sharing their grief like two broken souls floating on a battered life raft.
Healing wasn’t linear.
Sometimes it came in tiny, unnoticed moments — like when JL and Shua laughed at a joke Juwon would have made, or when they spent hours recalling how annoying and ridiculous Juwon could be when he was sleepy.
Those small memories, those stories, slowly stitched their broken pieces back together. Without realizing it, they became each other’s lifeline.
The first time JL realized he was looking at Shua differently, it terrified him.
It had been raining, and they were both trapped under a tiny bus stop roof, soaked and miserable.
Shua had shoved his coat over JL’s head with a grumbled, "You're gonna get sick, idiot," and JL had laughed — really laughed — for the first time in almost a year.
In that laugh, something warm flickered alive inside him.
JL hated himself for it.
It felt like a betrayal.
But grief and love are both stubborn creatures. They don’t follow rules. They don’t wait in line.
And Shua — tough, sarcastic, fiercely loyal Shua — was hurting too.
They didn’t fill the hole Juwon left behind.
They simply planted something new beside it.
It wasn’t dramatic when it happened.
No grand confessions like the one he had with Juwon. Just a quiet night in JL’s apartment, a shared bottle of soju, and Shua falling asleep with his head on JL’s shoulder.
JL turned his face slightly, breathing him in, and whispered into the dark,
"I think Juwon would have wanted us to be happy."
He felt Shua’s fingers curl loosely into his sleeve — a silent answer.
They built something slowly after that: careful, respectful, grateful. Not to erase Juwon — never that — but to honor him. They loved, fiercely, the way Juwon would have wanted.
Sometimes they still sat at that same café, two mugs between them, laughing until their sides hurt.
And sometimes — just sometimes — JL swore he could feel Juwon’s mischievous spirit smiling right there with them.
Juwon had been JL’s muse once.
And somehow, even now, he still was — guiding him toward love, toward healing, toward living again.
For him.
For them.
For the new life Juwon had left with them.
It was spring when they returned to the hill where a piece of their heart had been buried. The climb felt steeper than JL remembered — or maybe it was just that time had made everything heavier. Shua walked beside him, their steps slow and careful. The wind tugged at their jackets, the air filled with the scents of wildflowers.
Juwon’s favorite place had never been grand. Just a quiet, unmarked hill outside the city, overlooking a sea of golden rapeseed flowers that burst into life each year. He had found it once, escaping the chaos of training schedules and flashing cameras — and he kept coming back, dragging Shua with him whenever he could steal a few hours of freedom. A story Shua had shared with JL, his eyes both fond and distant.
"It feels like breathing up here," Juwon used to say, arms thrown wide to the sky.
At the crest of the hill, the world unfolded below them — a vast, trembling ocean of yellow blooms stretching to the horizon.
The sight took JL’s breath away, the beauty of it feeling heavier with Juwon gone. Shua knelt first, brushing aside the long grass.
Carefully, he pulled a small wooden frame from his backpack — a photo JL had taken years ago.
Juwon, standing in the middle of the flowers at the Botanical Garden in Rome, laughing with his whole body, his head thrown back like he didn’t have a care in the world. His joy so bright it almost hurt to look at.
They planted the frame carefully into the ground.
A marker.
A memory.
A promise.
JL sat down beside it, his knees folding awkwardly in the damp grass.
Shua settled close, their shoulders brushing. For a long time, neither spoke.
The sky above them was soft with clouds, sunlight slipping through in broken, golden beams. The flowers swayed around them like waves, whispering in the breeze.
JL closed his eyes.
"Hey, Juwon," he whispered, voice cracking.
"It’s us."
Shua’s hand found his, grounding him.
"You were right, you know," JL continued, blinking hard.
"It does feel like breathing up here."
He imagined Juwon listening — standing somewhere just out of sight, grinning his crooked grin, arms crossed as he waited for them to stop being so damn sentimental.
"We miss you," Shua said, his voice rough and low.
"Every day."
The ache rose fierce and fast — a tidal wave of everything JL would never get to say, all the moments Juwon should have been there for. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, trying to hold it in. But grief doesn’t obey. It spilled out of him, hot and helpless, tears tracking down his face as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the frame’s rough wood.
"I'm sorry," he choked.
"I'm sorry we couldn’t save you. I'm sorry we had to keep going without you."
The wind answered with a low, keening sound, like the earth mourning with them. He felt Shua’s hand on his back, steady and sure, and when he turned to him, Shua’s eyes were shining too.
They didn’t hide it anymore.
They didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.
Because love and grief — they were the same thing, really. Two sides of the same stubborn, beautiful coin.
Shua pulled something from his pocket — a small, battered ribbon.
Bright red and frayed at the edges. Juwon’s lucky charm, the one he had tied to his bag before every flight, every concert, every big moment. They tied it to the frame together, fingers fumbling, knotting it tight against the wind.
It fluttered wildly, defiant and bright against the grey sky.
"You’re still with us," JL whispered.
"Always."
They stayed
until the sunset, painting the flowers in molten gold.
Talking.
Laughing.
Crying.
Telling Juwon everything he had missed — all the ridiculous things, all the tiny triumphs, all the quiet ways they kept living.
Kept loving.
Carrying him with them in every clumsy step forward.
As they finally stood to leave, Shua tugged JL close, pressing his forehead against JL’s for a long, silent moment.
No words.
Just the shared, staggering weight of it all — the loss, the love, the gratitude for what they still had.
They walked down the hill hand in hand, the flowers brushing against their legs, the ribbon dancing wildly behind them.
And just before they vanished into the dusk, JL swore he heard a soft laugh, bright and familiar, carried on the wind.
Juwon was here.
He always would be.