Chapter Text
The sharp chime of Jeonghan’s alarm sliced through the silence of his apartment like a blade. He groaned softly, blindly reaching out to silence it, before rolling over to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds. First day of senior year. The last stretch.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. There was a heaviness in his chest—not dread, not quite excitement either. It was more like a whisper of something unfinished.
Just as he was stretching his arms over his head, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Wonwoo: hanniee mingyu and i will pick you up okay?
A smile tugged at his lips. Even if school wasn’t something to look forward to, at least the people made up for it.
Jeonghan: as much as i don’t want to be your third wheel, i still need a ride lol
A second later, Wonwoo’s voice came through a call, already laughing. “You’re so rich and you basically live in a penthouse but you still don’t want to get your driver’s license.”
Jeonghan snorted mid-toothbrush, muffling a laugh. “I am a forever passenger princess,” he said around the foam, and they both cracked up.
By the time he hung up, Jeonghan had slipped into a soft cream sweatshirt and his favorite dark jeans. He grabbed his gym bag—stuffed with volleyball gear. National league training started this week.
It is going to be brutal.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped out of his building.
Wonwoo and Mingyu were waiting by the curb. Mingyu waved with that usual 100-watt grin. “Good morning, Han!”
Jeonghan smiled, hopping into the back seat. “Good morning, Mr. Golden Retriever and Mr. Dry Humor.”
Wonwoo rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked. “We’re picking you up out of kindness. Show some gratitude.”
Mingyu laughed as he started driving. “He’s just jealous of our love, babe.”
“Gross,” Jeonghan muttered, hiding a smile.
Their conversation flowed easily.
It always did.
Their parents had been friends for decades, which practically made them cousins by proximity. Mingyu and Wonwoo, both a year younger, had been constants in his life, even as other relationships faded into the background.
When they pulled into the university parking lot, the energy shifted.
The campus buzzed with the familiar chaos of a new semester.
Students dragging luggage.
Laughter.
Paper schedules flapping in the wind.
Hope, anxiety, and caffeine pumping through everyone’s veins.
“See you later, Han,” Wonwoo said, tugging Mingyu toward the administrative building. “Text me when you’re done with your class.”
Jeonghan waved and turned toward the architecture building.
He walked with a quiet confidence, eyes forward, steps smooth. Heads turned. Some students greeted him shyly, others simply stared. The mix of striking visuals—his angelic face, perfectly styled hair, and graceful presence—and his undeniable talent made him stand out. Being top of his class in a brutal major and libero of the varsity volleyball team didn’t hurt either.
He checked his schedule one last time on his iPad and walked into Urban Design 401.
The classroom was already half-full. Jeonghan slid into a seat by the window, the soft light catching the warm tones in his hair. He pulled up a reading on his iPad, barely noticing the flurry of whispers from nearby students.
He was used to that.
But then—
A sudden hush swept the room.
A ripple of gasps.
Jeonghan’s fingers paused on the screen.
Something shifted in the air. He looked up.
And his heart stopped.
Choi Seungcheol.
Captain of the varsity basketball team.
Mingyu’s cousin.
Son of one of the university’s major stockholders.
His childhood friend.
His first love.
Jeonghan's stomach twisted.
Seungcheol stepped into the classroom, tall and composed, his face unreadable as always. His dark hoodie hung loose over broad shoulders, and his gaze scanned the room without urgency—until it landed on Jeonghan.
A single nod.
Cool.
Distant.
Mechanical.
Then he turned and took a seat by the entrance.
Jeonghan felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. He stared down at his iPad, heart pounding against his ribs like a warning. Of all people—why him? Why now?
They hadn’t really talked in years. Not properly. Not since Seungcheol fell in love with someone else. And even now, Jeonghan couldn’t say the name without swallowing glass.
His thoughts were spinning when the professor walked in, breaking the tension with a bright “Good morning!”
“Welcome to Urban Design. Looks like I have some familiar faces here,” he chuckled. “Two varsity players, huh? Yoon Jeonghan from the volleyball team, and Choi Seungcheol from basketball. Well, at least I won’t have to worry about poor attendance.”
A few laughs followed. Jeonghan forced a polite smile. Seungcheol didn’t even react.
Halfway through the lecture, the professor clapped his hands. “Now, let’s talk about your final. This semester, you’ll be working on a long-term research paper. Pair work. Choose your partners wisely, as this project counts as your final.”
Jeonghan’s heart sank at the word pair.
“I’ve already prepared a fair system,” the professor continued. “There are numbered slips in this jar. Draw one, and the person with the matching number is your partner. Let’s begin.”
One by one, students stood, drawing slips and passing the jar. Jeonghan unfolded his paper: 10.
He stood and started looking around, asking softly, “Hey, did you get 10?”
Most just blinked at him, surprised he was even talking to them.
No luck.
He glanced at Seungcheol, who sat lazily with a paper folded in his hand, not moving.
Jeonghan swallowed.
No—couldn’t be.
Another few minutes passed. Still no match.
He walked to the front and murmured to the professor, “I can’t find my partner. I have 10.”
The professor blinked. “Hm. Strange. All numbers were even. Anyone else have number 10?”
Silence. Then—
“I have 10.”
Seungcheol’s voice cut through the classroom.
Calm.
Emotionless.
Almost bored.
Gasps followed.
Of course. Of course it was him.
Jeonghan’s hands felt cold. He turned to look at Seungcheol, who didn’t meet his gaze. The professor beamed. “Great! You two will be working together then.”
Jeonghan walked over slowly. Every step made his heart beat louder.
He stopped beside Seungcheol’s desk. “Uh… let’s talk about the paper later?”
Seungcheol didn’t look at him. “Do whatever you want.”
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it did.
In that small, familiar way that never really left.
Jeonghan nodded, forcing a tight smile, and walked back to his seat. He didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes lingered on Seungcheol’s back.
Same posture. Same quiet confidence. Same person he had loved since he was ten years old.
And now, they were going to spend the whole semester together.
Partners. For better or worse.
Jeonghan exhaled, shakily.
The semester had just begun.
And already, it hurt.
******
The second the lecture ended, Jeonghan saw Seungcheol rise from his seat.
No hesitation. No glance back.
Just stood, slung his bag over one shoulder, and walked out of the room like he hadn’t just shattered Jeonghan’s fragile calm by merely existing in the same space.
Jeonghan froze, gripping the edges of his desk as he watched Seungcheol disappear through the door. His fingers trembled. He didn’t realize until he tried to zip up his bag that his hands were shaking.
It still hurt.
It always hurt.
He stood slowly, stuffing his things into his gym bag with a quiet urgency like holding it together physically might help him hold it together emotionally.
It didn’t.
His throat was tight.
That kind of tight where one wrong word, one kind look, would be all it took to break him wide open.
He pulled out his phone and immediately called the one person who wouldn’t need an explanation.
Wonwoo.
It rang twice.
“Hannie?” came the soft reply. “I’m at the library right now. Do you wanna join?”
Jeonghan didn’t even answer right away. He didn’t need to.
Wonwoo’s voice dropped. “Wons,” Jeonghan finally whispered.
A pause. Then a sigh. “Hey… what happened? It’s him again, right?”
A quiet, broken, "Yes."
That was all it took.
Fifteen minutes later, Jeonghan slipped through the hushed library doors, his presence barely registering to the students buried in textbooks and laptops. He spotted Wonwoo tucked into a corner seat, surrounded by highlighters and neatly tabbed documents.
Jeonghan didn’t even greet him. He just collapsed into the seat beside him and let his head fall against the cool surface of the table. His bag thudded softly against the floor.
Wonwoo didn’t say anything at first. He just let Jeonghan sit there and breathe—quiet, shallow, careful breaths that tried to mask the tears threatening to spill.
“Han,” Wonwoo said gently. “You need to move on.”
Jeonghan just nodded. Not because he agreed. But because there was nothing left to say that he hadn’t said before.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the crook of his elbow. “I thought I’d be okay when I see him again.”
Wonwoo’s face softened. “None of this is your fault, Jeonghan. What happened in the past… you weren’t even part of it. But you’re the one left hurting in silence.”
Jeonghan blinked up at him, eyes wet but resigned. “He’s my partner. For a research paper. In urban design.”
Wonwoo stilled. “What?”
Jeonghan sat up straighter. “Number 10. We both picked number 10.”
“Damn.” Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, lips pressed into a hard line. “How did he react?”
Jeonghan looked away. “Nothing. As always. Like I’m no one.”
The weight of those words hung between them.
“Do you want me to talk to Mingyu?” Wonwoo offered quietly. “Maybe he can—”
“No.” Jeonghan cut him off, shaking his head. “Don’t involve him in this. I know Seungcheol and Mingyu are still close… them and Seokmin. That trio didn’t change.”
Wonwoo frowned. “But you changed. You’re the one hurting.”
Jeonghan gave a hollow laugh, something between tiredness and bitter nostalgia. “I’m used to it.”
And he was.
More than anyone should ever have to be.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of faces and footsteps, like he was underwater and the world was moving too fast to catch.
Now, he stood on the volleyball court, gym lights humming above as the team gathered. It should have been grounding. His sanctuary. The one place he didn’t have to think about him.
But today was different.
Their coach stood in front of them, arms crossed. “No training today. I have an announcement.”
The players murmured among themselves. Jeonghan furrowed his brows and stood quietly near the back.
“The captain,” the coach said, “is graduating this semester. That means we need to name a new one before the season starts.”
Everyone turned—almost instinctively—toward him.
Jeonghan stiffened. “I… I don’t think it’s for me.”
“Just try,” one of his teammates said. “We’ll vote or whatever, but you have to try.”
Others nodded.
There were no jokes, no sarcasm.
Just quiet, genuine support.
Their coach looked at him, eyes steady. “Think about it, Yoon. You’ve been the backbone of this team for years.”
Jeonghan just nodded.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Then walked out with his gym bag slung across his back, the late afternoon light washing over the court like gold dust.
******
That evening, he stood in his apartment, pacing.
He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Scrolled to Seungcheol’s name.
Hovered over it.
Then locked his phone again.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and moved to the bookshelf.
Tucked between thick architecture books and music scores was something he hadn’t opened in a long time—his old photobook. A relic of days that felt like a different life.
He sat down on the carpet, the lights in his apartment dimmed low, and opened the book slowly.
Photo after photo. Faces frozen in time. Laughter. Summer skies. Childhood memories.
There they were—six of them. Always six.
Mingyu, carefree and always too tall. Wonwoo, calm and observant. Seokmin with his wide smile. Jisoo, gentle and golden. Seungcheol, confident and protective.
And himself—Jeonghan—always smiling, always pretending.
He stopped at one photo in particular.
All of them were there. Mingyu with his arm around Wonwoo, Seokmin mid-laugh, Jeonghan in the center.
And at the far right—Seungcheol and Jisoo.
Holding hands. Smiling like they had the whole world in their palms.
Jeonghan’s fingers grazed the image. His throat burned.
He had loved Seungcheol for as long as he could remember. Since scraped knees and summer popsicles. Since childhood sleepovers and shared secrets.
But Seungcheol had never looked at him the way he looked at Jisoo.
Not once.
He’d always put Jisoo first. Always protected him. Loved him out loud. Courted him in high school like they were living in a movie, and Jeonghan had been the quiet spectator in the background of every scene.
He saw it all.
The good days. The bad ones. The fights. The make-ups. The declarations.
He had held Jisoo while he cried over Seungcheol. Had watched Seungcheol panic when Jisoo went silent. Had cheered for them even when his own heart broke a little more each time.
And when the end came—when Jisoo got that acceptance letter from Boston University, his dream school—Jeonghan knew what was coming.
A breakup.
An ending.
A fracture in their perfect six.
And Seungcheol?
Seungcheol shattered.
But never once did he come to Jeonghan.
Not to cry.
Not to lean on.
Not to look at differently.
Jeonghan sat back against the couch, photobook still open on his lap. He stared at the frozen moment of Seungcheol and Jisoo's hands entwined.
He had loved silently. Endured quietly. Pretended endlessly.
But unrequited love doesn’t go away with time.
Sometimes it just finds new ways to ache.
******
Jeonghan sat in the quiet of his apartment, lights low, the city stretching endlessly beneath his floor-to-ceiling windows. The photobook lay open beside him, fingers still pressed gently to the image of Jisoo and Seungcheol—smiling, hand in hand, a perfect picture of youth and promise.
But that picture… it was a ghost now.
A remnant of something that once existed. Something that cracked open and crumbled right in front of them.
He had seen it.
He had felt it.
That night lived inside Jeonghan’s chest like a splinter that never quite dislodged.
Three years ago.
The night before the break.
It had been a celebration, technically. Jisoo had announced over dinner—soft voice, shaky smile—that he had been accepted into Boston University. His dream school. Full ride. Everyone cheered. Everyone hugged him.
Everyone, except Seungcheol, who sat beside him silently, staring down at his untouched plate.
The tension was immediate. Thick and suffocating. Like the silence between them had a heartbeat of its own.
After dinner, Jeonghan slipped away from the noise, seeking a moment alone in the garden behind the house. The stars were out that night. He remembered because he was looking at them, trying to steady his breathing, when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Nini…” Jisoo’s voice was soft. Too soft.
Jeonghan turned.
And his breath caught.
Jisoo’s eyes were red. His cheeks glistened with tears. His lower lip trembled, like the weight of what he was holding in had finally become too heavy to bear.
“Nini… I’m breaking up with Cheol,” he whispered.
The world tilted.
Jeonghan’s heart thudded hard in his chest. “What… what do you mean?”
“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” Jisoo said, voice cracking like thin glass. “I’m sorry.”
Jeonghan stepped closer. His hands clenched at his sides. “You can do long-distance. You can call. You love each other so much—you’ve been together for years. You’ve made it through so much already. Time zones… distance… you two can survive that. Jisoo—”
But Jisoo just shook his head, more tears slipping down his face.
“No,” he whispered. “Cous… that’s not the problem.”
Jeonghan froze.
His breath caught. Then—slowly—it clicked.
It wasn’t the distance.
It wasn’t the change.
It wasn’t even Boston.
“You don’t love him anymore,” Jeonghan said, voice low and trembling.
Not a question.
A truth.
Jisoo closed his eyes, and nodded. Once.
A soft, heartbreaking movement that broke the night in half.
Jeonghan stared at him, the weight of it settling deep in his stomach like a stone.
“You’re going to tell him?” he asked, barely able to get the words out.
“I have to,” Jisoo said, hugging himself. “Not because I want to hurt him… but because it’s the right thing to do. For me. For him. He deserves someone who loves him the way he loves.”
Jeonghan stepped forward then, pulled his cousin into his arms. Held him tightly.
They cried together.
One letting go of a love that had run its course.
And the other crying for a love that never even had a chance to begin.
Jeonghan pressed a kiss to Jisoo’s forehead. His voice broke as he whispered, “Jisoo… you are very, very brave. Remember that, okay?”
Because he meant it.
Jisoo was brave.
It takes a kind of strength Jeonghan never had—to walk away from something beautiful because your heart no longer lived there.
To choose yourself.
To say goodbye when staying would be easier.
Jisoo had loved Seungcheol deeply, but he also loved himself enough to let go.
Jeonghan?
Jeonghan was the opposite.
He stayed.
Quietly. Painfully. Permanently tethered to a love that was never his.
A love that didn’t want him back. A love he never had the right to claim.
He had lived in the shadows of Jisoo and Seungcheol’s love story like a ghost in someone else’s home. He celebrated their anniversaries. He helped pick out birthday gifts. He was the one who stitched their smiles back together after every fight.
And no one knew.
Not Seungcheol.
Not Jisoo.
Only Wonwoo.
Only the night.
Only the aching spaces inside him that refused to forget.
He traced the edge of the photograph again, lips trembling.
Three years since that night.
Since Jisoo left for Boston. Since the six of them had become five.
Since the light behind Seungcheol’s eyes had dimmed.
But it never turned to Jeonghan.
Not even then.
Not even after the breakup.
And now—now they were back in the same orbit. Same class. Same air.
And Jeonghan was supposed to pretend he could handle it.
Supposed to sit beside him and talk research and architecture and pretend that his heart wasn’t still breaking for a boy who never chose him.
His phone buzzed beside him.
A message from Wonwoo.
“Thinking about him again?”
Jeonghan didn’t reply.
He just stared out the window, at the glittering city beneath him, and whispered to the dark,
“I never stopped.”