Work Text:
Seoul was buzzing, alive in a way that made Wooyoung’s camera hand twitch.
The moment he stepped out of the subway and into the thrumming heart of Hongdae, he knew—this was the place. The alleyways spilled over with style. Couples walked hand-in-hand in matching fits, solo fashionistas posed with confidence, and every corner looked like a movie set just waiting for its lead.
He adjusted the camera around his neck, the matte black strap snug across his chest. His phone was already in his hand, TikTok recording button glowing red as he turned the camera toward himself.
“Okay, guys,” he said into the mic, switching to English automatically. “We’re in Hongdae, South Korea! I’m gonna try the ‘Do you speak English?’ trend here. Wish me luck—I’m probably gonna get ignored or arrested, but let’s go.”
He winked, spun the camera to show the busy street, and started walking.
Five failed attempts later—one woman flatly said, “No” and kept walking, one guy thought he was hitting on him, and another had just run away—Wooyoung was about ready to give up and go eat tteokbokki in shame.
That’s when he saw him.
Leaning against a faded brick wall across the street, fingers tapping idly at his phone, was the most beautiful guy Wooyoung had ever seen in his life.
Messy dark hair tucked under a beanie. A worn-out bomber jacket layered over a slouchy white tee, black cargo pants that hung just right, chunky sneakers. Headphones rested around his neck, and his face—sharp jaw, soft sharp eyes, a little pout to his lips—looked like it was carved by someone with too much time and love on their hands.
He looked like a painting. Like something out of an indie film. Or a really good dream.
Wooyoung didn’t even think. His feet moved before his brain did.
“Excuse me,” he said, heart pounding, already lifting the camera. “Do you speak English?”
The guy looked up, eyes wide, clearly caught off guard. He straightened a little.
“…A little?” he replied, voice low, uncertain. His accent was thick. Nervous.
Wooyoung grinned. Jackpot.
“I’m a street photographer. Can I take some pictures of you?” He gestured to the camera around his neck, speaking slower, gentler. “Your style is amazing, bro.”
There was a pause. The guy blinked, clearly processing.
Then—softly, almost shyly—he nodded. “…Okay?”
Wooyoung beamed.
“Okay, guys,” he whispered to the camera still clipped to his jacket. “He said yes.”
He moved with practiced ease now, gesturing for the guy to shift positions, step into the golden light filtering between the buildings. “Just lean back a little—yep. And look over there—yes, that’s perfect, perfect…”
The guy did as asked, awkward but obedient, clearly unsure of what to do with his hands. He kept glancing at Wooyoung between shots, like he was trying to read his face, his intention.
“You’re doing great,” Wooyoung said, switching back to Korean. “진짜 멋있어요.” (You’re really cool.)
The guy ducked his head, the tips of his ears turning pink.
Click. Click. Click.
Ten minutes. Thirty photos.
By the time Wooyoung lowered his camera, they were both flushed—one from the camera, the other from something he couldn’t name yet.
“Thank you,” Wooyoung said, tucking his camera back against his chest. “What’s your name?”
“…San,” the guy said, quietly. “Choi San.”
Wooyoung smiled, repeating it to himself like a secret.
“San,” he said. “I’m Wooyoung. And I promise I’ll send you these photos—do you have Instagram?”
San hesitated, then fumbled out his phone. Wooyoung typed his handle in with a quick grin.
@jywfilm – Verified. 1.6M followers.
San blinked at the screen.
“You’re… famous?”
Wooyoung laughed. “A little. But you’re the one that’s gonna go viral, I think.”
San’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Wooyoung added, “You’ll see. Just wait for the video.”
Then he winked and turned to go.
San stood there for a long moment, watching him walk away.
Still not entirely sure what had just happened.
------
The Next Afternoon ☀
San was halfway through his usual walk back to his house from uni when his phone started vibrating like it had something to prove.
He ignored it at first—headphones on, hoodie up, brain still wrapped in morning fog—but after the fourth buzz in a row, he sighed and pulled it out of his pocket.
Seven unread messages.
Two Instagram follow requests.
A DM from his friend Yunho that just said:
“ISN'T THIS YOU???” typed in korean.
Attached was a TikTok.
San hesitated, thumb hovering. Then he tapped it.
There was the video. Just like he remembered—Hongdae, late afternoon, and a confident voice asking:
“Excuse me, do you speak English? I’m a street photographer…”
His own face popped up next, slightly startled, blinking into the camera like a confused deer. He nearly dropped his phone.
San yanked his headphones down, pausing mid-step on the sidewalk as the video continued. Wooyoung was hyping him up in both languages, guiding him into the light, snapping photos like it was second nature.
There were soft lo-fi beats layered under the audio. Subtitles translated Wooyoung’s Korean compliments, and a final caption read:
“He was shy, but a natural model. Let me know if I should print the pics for him 😭”
The comments section was… insane.
“WHY IS HE SO HANDSOME WTF”
“his style is unreal”
“someone find his @ immediately”
“you can tell he’s introverted and dying inside 😭 i love him”
“DO PART TWO”
“i would marry him rn no questions asked”
San’s ears turned red. He scrolled to the top of the video again.
2.7M views.
410k likes.
130k saves.
He stared at the numbers in disbelief, heart racing.
That was him. Him.
Meanwhile…
Wooyoung was waiting in line at a café near the river, sipping his iced americano and grinning and eyebrows dancing at his screen.
“These people are wild. Someone literally said ‘I’m ovulating.’ What does that even mean for a guy?” Wooyoung mumbled.
He scrolled to the top of San’s IG DM thread. A small green dot said online. Bingo.
[📸 jywfilm]: hey bro! the video went crazy. you saw it? 👀
Seconds later, a reply popped up.
🕷️choi3an: yes… i saw 😳
🕷️choi3an: why so many people
Wooyoung laughed.
[📸 jywfilm]: cause you’re pretty, duh
[📸 jywfilm]: do you want the photos? I printed them—thought I’d give them to you in person if you’re free?
A pause.
[📸 jywfilm]: yeah 😎 trust me they look even better IRL.
[📸 jywfilm]: can i take you out for coffee or something? just as thanks for letting me shoot.
Another pause. Wooyoung waited, watching the typing bubble flicker in and out. Finally:
🕷️choisan: ok… but i don’t speak english well 😅
[📸 jywfilm]: i speak korean just fine 😁 let’s meet up.
San arrived fifteen minutes early and stood awkwardly near the café door, checking his reflection in the glass at least seven times. His bomber jacket was clean this time, hair lightly styled, lips tinted pink from the balm his roommate forced on him.
When Wooyoung finally showed up—camera bag slung over one shoulder, grin wide—San straightened up like he’d just been caught slouching.
“Hey,” Wooyoung said, switching easily to Korean. “You came.”
“You said coffee,” San replied, trying not to fidget.
“I also said I’d bring these.” Wooyoung pulled a small envelope from his bag and handed it over. Inside were five printed photos on thick matte paper, each one somehow better than the last.
San stared at them. At himself—in warm golden light, framed like he belonged in a magazine.
“…This doesn’t look like me,” he murmured, more to himself.
“It does,” Wooyoung said, smiling gently. “You just don’t see yourself like I do.”
San blinked. That felt… intense. He looked down at the photos again, not sure what to say.
“I have a question,” Wooyoung said suddenly, leaning forward. “Would you ever model for me again?”
San’s head jerked up.
“W-what?”
“Nothing serious,” Wooyoung said, teasing now. “Just… casual stuff. I want to build a little Korea series while I’m here. You’d be perfect for it. Think about it—quiet parks, nighttime city lights, rooftops… You and the camera again. Right after this if you accept.”
San hesitated. His heart said yes. His mouth said—
“…Okay.”
Wooyoung’s grin lit up like neon.
“Cool. Then it’s a date.”
San sputtered. “N-not a—”
“A photoshoot,” Wooyoung corrected, laughing. “But if you wanna call it a date someday, I won’t stop you.”
San covered his face with his hands.
And Wooyoung, behind his coffee cup, just smiled.
Moments Later, the two commuted all the way to an area in Seoul.
The first thing San noticed was that Wooyoung moved like he belonged behind a camera.
Not in a pretentious way—more like someone who had lived there for a long time. Every movement was precise. Measured. Comfortable. Whether it was adjusting a lens, fixing San’s hoodie string with an absentminded frown, or kneeling to get the right angle, Wooyoung’s presence was sharp and real. And when his camera clicked, he made the world look more interesting than it had any right to.
They were at a quiet park tucked between buildings in Mangwon. A place San usually walked through in silence, where old couples played janggi under gazebos and stray cats stretched out in sun-warmed patches of grass.
But this time, San wasn’t invisible. Not with Wooyoung aiming a camera at him like he was something worth watching.
“Okay, lean against the tree. Not too stiff. You’re not being arrested,” Wooyoung teased in Korean, grinning. “Loosen your shoulders. Like you’re waiting for someone you’re trying to impress.”
“I’m not good at that,” San muttered, adjusting his stance.
“You’re already impressive. Just don’t try too hard.”
San’s ears went pink. He looked away—but Wooyoung clicked the shutter just in time to catch it.
They moved through the park like that—quietly, slowly, with pauses between shots to review photos, sip lukewarm americanos, and awkwardly bump elbows. San was shy, sure, but he was also observant. And he noticed the way Wooyoung looked at him, even when the camera wasn’t in his hands.
Like San was something interesting. Not in a “model” way. In a real way.
Wooyoung crouched low for a photo, eyes squinting through the lens. “You okay with this still?”
San nodded. “Yeah. It’s... different. But not bad.”
“You trust me?”
San hesitated. Then: “Yeah.”
Click.
“I’m glad.”
They sat on a low wall after the shoot, watching the sun turn orange behind the buildings. San kept the photo envelope on his lap, fingers brushing the edge like a habit.
“Why do you take photos of strangers?” he asked softly.
Wooyoung looked up from his phone, surprised by the question.
“…Because I like people,” he said. “And sometimes they don’t know how good they look until someone shows them.”
San tilted his head. “Is that your job?”
“Not really. I work freelance. Some fashion stuff, brand campaigns. But this?” Wooyoung gestured around them. “This is just for me.”
There was a quiet beat. Then San asked, “Why me?”
Wooyoung blinked. “What do you mean?”
“That day in Hongdae,” San said, eyes on the fading sky. “There were a lot of people. You could’ve picked anyone.”
Wooyoung was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You looked like you didn’t know how beautiful you were.”
San swallowed hard.
“People who know it act a certain way,” Wooyoung went on. “They pose. Perform. But you… you didn’t. You looked real. Like a pause in the noise.”
San looked away. His chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t name.
“…No one’s ever said that before.”
Wooyoung smiled, soft and a little sad. “Then they weren’t looking closely enough.”
------
That night, San lay in bed staring at the photo Wooyoung had messaged him—the one he’d taken when San was looking down, lips parted, ears flushed. There was a kind of vulnerability in the image that made San uncomfortable.
Not because he looked bad. But because he looked seen.
His roommate, Jongho, peeked over his shoulder.
“Is this the TikTok guy again?” he asked.
San nodded.
Jongho whistled. “He’s into you.”
San blinked. “What?”
“He’s literally photographing you like a lovesick indie film director,” Jongho said, deadpan. “If he asks you to sit on a rooftop and talk about your dreams while smoking a clove cigarette, run.”
San flushed. “It’s not like that.”
But even as he said it, his heart betrayed him.
He saved the photo to his camera roll.
The next day, San opened Instagram to a new message.
[📸 jywfilm]: the pics from yesterday are 🔥
[📸 jywfilm]: wanna see them? also... rooftop shoot next? 😏
San’s heart stuttered.
[📸 jywfilm]: trust me 😎 it’ll be perfect. nighttime, lights, city in the background. you + shadows = magic
🕷️choi3an: you talk like it’s a movie
[📸 jywfilm]: everything’s a movie when you’re in it
San nearly dropped his phone.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, face hot.
And after a long, long minute, he typed:
🕷️choi3an: ok… when?
Few Days Later, the two meet again.
The building didn’t look like much from the outside—just another beige apartment block near Seongsu, all metal balconies and peeling paint. But the view from the rooftop?
Unreal.
San stepped out onto the gravel, wind curling into his jacket like it knew he wasn’t used to standing so high above the city. From up here, Seoul was a galaxy: neon signs blinking like stars, headlights threading through the streets, the Han River gleaming like silk in the distance.
He breathed in.
“I knew you’d like it,” Wooyoung said, stepping up beside him.
San turned to look at him. Wooyoung’s camera was slung over one shoulder again, but tonight he looked… different. Black hoodie, worn jeans, hair soft and ruffled from the wind. Casual, but still magnetic. Like he belonged in the skyline.
“Come here,” Wooyoung said, already moving to the edge of the rooftop. “Stand there, just past the railing. City behind you.”
San obeyed wordlessly, the cold biting at his cheeks.
Wooyoung raised his camera. Click. Click. Then again—after adjusting the focus, stepping a little closer, angling the lens to catch the faint lavender in the sky.
“Don’t pose,” he murmured. “Just look at the lights. Think about… anything. Something real.”
San did.
He thought about how he used to walk Seoul’s streets with his hands in his pockets and his head down. About how easy it had been to disappear in a place this big. He thought about that first moment in Hongdae—how Wooyoung had pulled him out of the crowd like he saw something.
Like San mattered.
And he thought about how his heart always beat a little faster now whenever his phone lit up with that familiar username.
He didn’t notice when Wooyoung stopped taking pictures.
“San,” Wooyoung said softly.
San blinked and looked up. Wooyoung’s camera was hanging forgotten around his neck, eyes focused not through a lens but directly on him.
“…What?”
“You really don’t know how beautiful you are, do you?”
San’s breath caught.
“Stop saying things like that,” he mumbled.
“Why?” Wooyoung asked, stepping closer. “You don’t believe me?”
“I…” San’s voice faltered. The distance between them had shrunk. The wind had died down. Or maybe he just couldn’t feel it anymore.
Wooyoung was right there.
“I don’t think I’m used to people noticing me,” San said quietly.
“Well,” Wooyoung replied, his voice barely above the hum of the city, “I notice everything.”
Their eyes met.
Something shifted—like the moment before a storm, air going still and sharp. Wooyoung reached up slowly, hand brushing San’s collar to fix it.
But his fingers lingered.
San didn’t move away.
His breath was shallow now, chest rising and falling as if he were still climbing the stairs to this rooftop. And Wooyoung—he wasn’t touching him much, just that one place near his collarbone—but it felt like San’s entire body had tilted toward him.
“Can I take one more?” Wooyoung asked, voice rough around the edges.
San nodded once.
Wooyoung raised the camera, hands steady, face unreadable.
Click.
He lowered it.
“Perfect,” he murmured. But he wasn’t looking at the screen. He was still looking at him.
They stayed up there longer than either of them expected.
No more photos. Just silence. And then conversation, slow and stumbling at first. San talked more than usual—about school, about his cat, about the time he accidentally went viral for doing nothing at all. Wooyoung listened like every word was a detail he could file away for later use.
And then Wooyoung talked—about traveling, missing his mom’s kimchi jjigae, hating how people online only saw half of him.
San liked his voice. He hadn’t noticed that before.
It got cold, eventually. Wooyoung offered his hoodie without saying a word. San took it with pink cheeks and muttered gratitude.
When it was time to go, they stood at the top of the stairwell for a moment too long. Neither of them moved.
“I’m glad you said yes to this,” Wooyoung said.
San looked at him. His heart felt like it was pressing against his ribs, loud and obvious.
“…I am too,” he said.
And that was it.
No kiss. No hand-holding.
Just the moment. Heavy. Hanging. Important.
Later that night, San received a message.
[📸 jywfilm]: i don’t usually show people this, but
[📸 jywfilm]: i think this one’s my favorite
He tapped the photo.
It was him.
Backlit by the city. Wind in his hair. Expression soft and thoughtful. The skyline behind him blooming with color. His eyes looked darker than usual. Brighter, too.
It didn’t look like a stranger.
It looked like someone falling into something.
------
Few days passed and San is missing Wooyoung like a bitch
It was San’s idea this time.
A single text. Short. Hesitant.
[🕷️choi3an]: do you wanna hang out
[🕷️choi3an]: no camera
Wooyoung stared at it for a full minute.
Then another.
Then replied:
📸 jywfilm: obviously yes
📸 jywfilm: where are we going, mystery man
San sent the location.
It was a quiet little record shop tucked in a basement near Euljiro. The kind of place you didn’t find unless you were looking for it. Dim lighting. Dusty shelves. Handwritten tags on every vinyl sleeve. A faint hum of music playing through vintage speakers.
When Wooyoung stepped inside, San was already there, crouched in front of the jazz section, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.
“You’re early,” Wooyoung said.
“You’re late,” San replied, glancing up.
They didn’t hug. That wasn’t really them yet.
But the air between them warmed immediately.
They wandered the aisles in slow circles, pointing out albums, reading liner notes, sharing one worn pair of headphones between them. San wasn’t talkative—he rarely was—but he didn’t need to be.
Wooyoung filled the silence in a way that didn’t overwhelm it. He said stupid things about obscure bands and made faces when San liked things he didn’t understand. San rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. And when their shoulders brushed for the third or fourth time, neither of them pulled away.
“What’s this one?” Wooyoung asked, holding up a sleeve with a worn photograph of a city skyline.
San took it, flipped it over, and tapped a track listing. “It’s mostly instrumental. City sounds. Piano. A little synth.”
“Like background music?”
“No,” San said. “Like… music for walking home after something important.”
Wooyoung blinked at that. And smiled.
“You think in scenes, don’t you?”
San shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I like that,” Wooyoung said. “You’re quiet, but you see everything.”
San didn’t reply.
But his ears turned pink.
They ended up sitting on the floor in the listening booth, backs against the wall, a small record spinning behind the glass. The music was low and moody—melancholy in a gentle way.
San’s knee bumped Wooyoung’s. He didn’t move it.
Wooyoung leaned his head back against the wall and turned to him. “You’ve changed.”
San raised a brow. “What?”
“You’re more comfortable now. With me.”
San looked down at his hands.
“I guess,” he said. “I’m still not used to being seen like this.”
“Like what?”
“…Like I matter.”
Wooyoung exhaled sharply, a laugh caught between disbelief and something softer.
“You do,” he said. “God, San. You do.”
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Not confessional—but almost. Almost.
San’s hand twitched between them. Not reaching. Just… twitching.
Wooyoung noticed.
He shifted a little closer.
“If this was a movie,” Wooyoung murmured, “this is where we’d kiss.”
San swallowed. His throat felt tight.
“And if it’s not a movie?” he whispered.
Wooyoung paused.
“…Then I wait until you want it to be.”
The silence that followed was thick and electric. San’s hand was still there, inches away. Unmoving. But buzzing.
“I don’t know what this is,” San said honestly. “I’m not good at… any of it.”
“You don’t have to be good at it,” Wooyoung replied. “You just have to want it.”
San looked up.
And for the first time, he didn’t look away.
They didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But as they left the shop, San’s fingers brushed Wooyoung’s knuckles once. Just lightly. Like testing the water.
Wooyoung caught the edge of it and didn’t push further. Just smiled.
And San—he didn’t smile back.
But he didn’t move away.
That night, San opened Instagram and stared at Wooyoung’s latest story.
It wasn’t a photo of him. Not this time.
It was a blurry shot of the listening booth floor.
Captioned:
"some days feel like dialogue before something big"
------
At this point, the two have been hanging out frequently. Exchanging laughs, banter and real emotion.
Suddenly, It rained.
Not the dramatic kind—no thunder, no cinematic lightning—just a soft, steady drizzle that soaked the sidewalks and blurred the world into something quieter.
Wooyoung had been editing on his laptop when his phone buzzed.
[🕷️choi3an]: are you busy
[🕷️choi3an]: it’s raining
That was it. No follow-up. No emoji. Just two lines that somehow said more than a hundred could.
Wooyoung pulled on a hoodie and left within five minutes.
San lived on the second floor of a nondescript building in Mapo-gu. His apartment smelled like fabric softener and mugwort candles, and there were two pairs of house slippers by the door.
He handed one pair to Wooyoung without a word, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Wooyoung toed off his sneakers and followed.
“Tea?” San asked.
“Sure.”
They didn’t talk much. The rain tapped against the windows and San moved around the kitchen slowly, carefully, as if performing a ritual. Everything about him tonight felt softer. Barefoot. Sweatpants. Hair a little damp, like he’d been standing near the balcony door for too long.
He handed Wooyoung a mug and sat across from him at the floor table.
Steam curled between them.
“You okay?” Wooyoung asked eventually.
San nodded. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
“Good. I didn’t want to be away from you.”
San’s fingers tightened slightly around his mug.
“…Is this real?” he asked, voice low.
“What do you mean?”
“This. You. Me. It doesn’t feel like something that should be happening to me.”
Wooyoung looked at him for a long, long time.
“San,” he said carefully, “do you want me to go?”
San’s eyes snapped up. “No.”
Wooyoung exhaled.
“Okay.”
He set his mug down and stood slowly, moving toward his bag. Pulled his camera out.
San blinked. “You said—no camera.”
“I know. I just…” Wooyoung paused. “Can I take one photo? Just one. Just for me. I won’t post it. I won’t show anyone. I swear.”
San hesitated.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
He sat on the floor by the window. The soft glow from the paper lantern behind him lit one side of his face. The rain had left condensation on the glass, drops tracing slow paths downward. He didn’t pose. Didn’t smile.
Just looked at Wooyoung.
Vulnerable. Quiet. Waiting.
Wooyoung lifted the camera.
Click.
Then again.
Click.
He lowered it.
But didn’t step away.
The space between them was small. Smaller than ever.
San’s eyes flicked down to Wooyoung’s mouth.
And stayed there.
“San,” Wooyoung said, voice unsteady now, “can I—”
“Yes.”
It was barely a breath.
But that was all Wooyoung needed.
...
The kiss wasn’t perfect.
It was hesitant at first—more a question than a claim. Wooyoung leaned in slowly, giving San every chance to change his mind. But San didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just tilted his face up, eyes fluttering shut.
And when their lips finally met—soft, searching—it felt like the answer to every unspoken thing they’d been dancing around.
Wooyoung’s hand slid up to cup San’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek. San leaned into it, exhaling shakily, lips parting just slightly—
Wooyoung deepened the kiss, slow and aching, not greedy but needing. And San gave in with a soft sound in the back of his throat, one hand curling into Wooyoung’s hoodie like he didn’t know where else to put it.
When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, neither of them spoke for a long moment.
They just breathed.
Shared space.
Tried to process what had just cracked open between them.
Wooyoung was the first to laugh—quiet and stunned.
“You kiss like someone who’s been waiting a long time,” he said.
San opened his eyes.
“…I think I have.”
That night, they didn’t sleep together.
Not like that.
But Wooyoung stayed.
And San didn’t just let him—he asked him to.
They lay side by side on the floor mattress, two sets of blankets, but only one pillow ended up being used. Wooyoung’s fingers brushed San’s under the covers.
San intertwined them without a word.
It was the smallest thing.
But it felt massive.
In the morning, Wooyoung opened his camera roll and stared at the last photo he took.
San. Rainlight in his hair. That bare, open look in his eyes.
He didn’t post it.
But he did favorite it.
And then tucked his phone away and rolled back toward the boy who kissed like a whisper and a thunderstorm at once.
----------
The weeks after that rainy night felt like a secret wrapped in sunlight.
Wooyoung and San fell into an easy rhythm. They met after work, wandered Seoul’s quiet corners, shared meals, and whispered jokes that only they understood. No cameras, no content shit—just the two of them.
Wooyoung still carried his camera, but rarely raised it. Instead, he let himself be present, touching San’s hand over a table, stealing quick glances when San wasn’t looking, feeling a sense of calm he hadn’t known before.
But underneath it all, there was a shadow. A knot of guilt that grew heavier with every laugh they shared.
Because Wooyoung knew.
He knew this wasn’t forever.
His visa was almost up.
His flights were booked.
And he hadn’t told San.
He wanted to.
He wanted to scream it across the quiet cafés, to write it on the walls of their favorite record shop.
But something kept him silent.
Maybe fear. Maybe shame.
Maybe the unbearable thought of breaking San’s fragile hope.
So he said nothing.
Kept smiling.
Kept pretending the future was still theirs to decide.
San noticed.
How could he not?
The way Wooyoung’s eyes flickered away a second too long. The way his texts slowed from hours to days. The way the warmth that had blossomed between them started to cool, like a photo left too long in the sun.
“Are you okay?” San asked one evening, voice tight.
Wooyoung forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
San didn’t believe him.
Then one morning, the texts stopped.
No good mornings.
No check-ins.
No excuses.
Wooyoung didn’t reply.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t even say goodbye.
San’s phone glowed useless in his hand.
His chest twisted.
He scrolled through every message, every photo Wooyoung had ever sent.
Until it was clear.
Wooyoung was gone.
Days turned into a week.
San’s anger roared beneath his skin.
How could Wooyoung leave without a word?
Without a single photo to remember?
Without even saying goodbye?
One night, San stood beneath their favorite streetlamp, rain threatening to fall again.
He shouted into the empty air.
“Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you just leave?”
His voice cracked.
The city swallowed his pain.
And somewhere far away, Wooyoung stared at the same sky, heart breaking in silence.
The camera was dark.
The street was quiet.
And everything they had built felt like it was dissolving into the mist.
Wooyoung continues to post. Pretend that what they had never happened.
Viewers were questioning.
They never talked again. The true happiness for both of them lasted for 1 month. 5 weeks. 36 days. 860 hours. 51,611 minutes. and 3,096,678 seconds.
[🕷️choi3an]: wooyoung
[🕷️choi3an]: if you're reading this. i love you. im still waiting for you.
Left on read 3 hours ago.
Left on read 3 days ago.
Left on read 3 weeks ago.
Left on read 3 months ago.
Left on read 1 year ago.
San knew. He will never experience this type of love again.