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“You’re my type,” Seungjae once said, half a joke, half a truth he thought he could swallow back.
But Si-eun never laughed. He just blinked, as if hearing something he couldn’t afford to understand.
Because his eyes were always fixed on someone else.
And Seungjae knew.
Sleeping beauty wins again.
But here he now.
Hospitals reeked of detachment.
Seungjae hated them—not for the smell, not for the sterile walls or whispering nurses—but because room 314 had become a shrine. A place where Yeon Si-eun’s heart stayed waiting, week after week, beside the sleeping boy who’d stolen it.
Ahn Suho.
Seungjae told himself he wasn’t here for that.
He came when Si-eun didn’t. When Saturdays were quiet, and only Suho remained, unmoved. Breathing. Winning.
He stared through the glass.
“Must be nice,” he whispered. “To be the one he chooses even when you're unconscious.”
Every weekend, it was the same.
Seungjae never planned it. His feet just… wandered.
He told himself it was coincidence. That he happened to be near the hospital. That it didn’t mean anything when he sat at the bench across the street, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his pockets, pretending to be part of the crowd.
And then Si-eun would appear—usually just before sunset, with a paper bag in hand and that unreadable look carved into his face. Steady. Calm. Focused.
Always focused when it came to Suho.
Seungjae watched him slip through the hospital doors, and he’d sit there for hours after, watching the light fade from the windows on the third floor.
Sometimes he imagined what it’d feel like if Si-eun turned around. Just once. Noticed him. Waved. Asked why he was always there.
But Si-eun never did.
And Seungjae? He never stopped looking.
One evening, as the cold wind bit harder and his fingers felt numb, he heard that familiar, sneering voice again.
"Still playing ghost, huh?"
Na Baekjin leaned on the edge of the bench, sipping a convenience store soda like he belonged in every scene Seungjae wanted to escape.
"Hope you enjoy watching second place visit first place every week."
Seungjae didn’t answer.
Because Baekjin was wrong.
He wasn’t even second place.
He was the empty seat Si-eun never noticed.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Seungjae stood in the middle of the training hall, his fists clenched, chest heaving. The sharp, coppery tang of blood hung in the air, but it wasn’t his. One of the younger kids—just a mouthy freshman—was groaning on the floor, holding his jaw, too shocked to even cry properly.
He didn’t just throw a punch. He crushed the kid with all the frustration he’d been swallowing for weeks. For months.
It wasn’t about the comment. It wasn’t about that kid.
It was about him.
Standing behind him now was Na Baekjin—usually the king of smug smirks and venom-laced taunts. But now? He looked... disturbed.
Not afraid. Not amused.
Just quietly, genuinely pitying.
People said he hit harder these days. That he didn’t pull punches anymore.
"You’re not angry at the underlings. You’re angry at gravity.” Na Baekjin gave him a look once—almost pitiful.
"You hit too hard for someone who’s always held back," Baekjin said, voice low. “That wasn’t about him, and you know it.”
Seungjae didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat felt like it was closing up.
Baekjin stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. “I used to think you were just another brute with control issues. But turns out, you're worse than that. You’re someone who feels too much and doesn’t know what the hell to do with it.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ve mocked you before,” Baekjin added. “But this? I almost feel sorry for you.” He looked down at the trembling fists at Seungjae’s side. “Almost.”
Geum Seungjae wasn’t the type to believe in destiny.
But he understood gravity.
How some things pull you in, quietly, relentlessly, until you’re caught in their field—never crashing, never landing, just endlessly circling.
That was Si-eun.
And Seungjae? He was just... the moon.
He never said it out loud, of course. Never dared.
Instead, he became a presence. A shadow lingering behind Si-eun’s steps. At every hospital visit, Seungjae found a way to be nearby—not close enough to be seen, just enough to know he was there. That Si-eun still moved, still breathed. That he hadn’t broken.
And when Si-eun sat quietly by Suho’s bed, whispering words only the unconscious could hear, Seungjae stood outside the door. Still. Silent. Unblinking.
He hated Suho.
Not out of jealousy. Not really.
He hated the way Si-eun looked at him.
With softness. With guilt. With hope.
Things Seungjae would never receive.
But even then, he stayed. Because leaving felt worse than bleeding.
Because love, for him, wasn’t about being chosen.
It was about choosing, over and over again, someone who would never turn around.
He didn't want to move on.
He didn’t need to.
What would be the point?
There was no one else. No other gravity. No other sky.
And even when Na Baekjin shook his head one day and muttered, “You’re pathetic, you know that?”—Seungjae didn’t answer.
Because he knew.
And he didn’t care.
Some people move on.
Others orbit forever.