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The evening air in Paris carried a warmth that spoke of spring, but for Chan, it felt cold against his skin. He stood on the quiet balcony of a small apartment overlooking Montmartre, his fingers tracing the rim of a chipped coffee cup he hadn’t the heart to throw away. That cup — Jeongin had bought it for him at a flea market on their last day together.
Chan could still see him in his mind’s eye: soft brown hair tousled by the breeze, his grin shy as he held out the cup. “It’s silly, I know. But it reminded me of you. Old, but kind of charming.”
And Chan, laughing, had pulled Jeongin into his arms, kissing him right there between stalls of vintage books and postcards, their lips tasting of cheap wine and stolen moments.
But that was then.
Now the night was unusually quiet. Even in a city as restless as Paris, there came moments when the world seemed to hold its breath — and Chan, alone on his balcony, felt the heaviness of that stillness wrap around him. The streetlights cast pools of gold on the rain-slick pavement below, and a faint breeze carried the scent of wet stone and blooming jasmine.
Chan’s mind drifted, as it so often did, to Jeongin.
He could almost hear him laugh, that soft, breathy sound that used to fill this apartment. Almost see him leaning against the doorway, guitar in hand, strumming nonsense chords just to make Chan smile. Those memories hurt the most — the quiet ones, the domestic ones.
He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and turned to go inside. That’s when his phone buzzed against the iron railing.
A single message.
> Jeongin: Hi… How are you?
Chan stared at the screen, his heart thudding loud in his chest. He blinked, as if the words might disappear, as if he’d imagined them.
Jeongin.
He hadn’t heard from him in months. After that last tearful call where they’d both said “take care” instead of “don’t go.” Since then, silence. The kind that felt like a punishment, though neither of them deserved it.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed, erased, typed again.
> I’m fine.
No. That was a lie. He deleted it.
> I miss you.
Too raw. Too soon. He erased that too.
Finally, his fingers settled on:
> Chan: I’m fine. And you?
He hit send before he could change his mind. The message floated into the digital void — across oceans, across time zones, across all the broken promises.
Chan waited, pacing the small balcony, glancing down at the dark street below, where the world went on, oblivious to his storm of feelings.
The phone buzzed again, a soft vibration that felt deafening in the silence.
> Jeongin: I miss you. I’m sorry for everything.
Chan’s breath caught. His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. How could two sentences undo him so completely?
He thought of replying — thought of saying me too, or don’t be sorry, or come back. But the words tangled on his tongue, refused to be typed. Instead, he sank down onto the cold floor of the balcony, phone in hand, staring at that message as if it could somehow bring Jeongin back.
He whispered into the night, to no one at all:
“I’m sorry too.”
But the wind was the only one to hear him.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Chan stayed there, fingers numb, heart wide open and aching. He imagined Jeongin, wherever he was — maybe looking out at the sea, maybe crying too, maybe just as lost.
The city around him stirred again, the spell of stillness broken. But for Chan, time remained frozen, caught between a message sent and a message longed for.
He wanted to believe this was the start of something — a bridge being rebuilt. But deep down, he feared it was just another echo of what could never be.
And yet, he kept the phone close, waiting for Jeongin’s name to light up the screen again.
Chan didn’t need photos to remember. He carried Jeongin in the creases of his mind, in every chord he played, in the silent spaces between breaths. Nights like this, when the city was too quiet and the ache of missing him too loud, the memories came uninvited — but he never turned them away.
It always began the same. The taste of spring on Jeongin’s lips. The warmth of his hand slipping into Chan’s as they crossed the Seine, their fingers laced tight as if trying to hold their future together.
Chan closed his eyes. And he was back there.
Paris had been theirs once. The small apartment above the bakery, where the smell of fresh bread woke them before the sun. Mornings tangled in each other, bare skin against warm sheets, whispering promises in languages only they understood.
He could still hear Jeongin’s sleepy voice: “Five more minutes…” and the soft giggle when Chan gave in and stayed, kissing his hair, his shoulder, the curve of his jaw.
They’d race down the stairs, hand in hand, to share one coffee and one croissant, laughing because they were too broke to afford more. But it was enough — back then, it was always enough.
Then came the rain — the kind that didn’t wash things clean but made everything heavy. Jeongin’s studies demanded more of him; Chan’s music consumed him. Days passed where they barely saw each other except in passing, exchanging tired smiles and worn-out kisses.
The fights weren’t loud. That’s what hurt most.
“You’re never here,” Jeongin would say softly, almost as if he didn’t want Chan to hear.
And Chan, exhausted, would whisper back, “I’m trying. I’m doing this for us.”
But the distance had already crept in, like the cold that seeped through the cracks of their old apartment in winter.
One night, after a stupid argument about nothing at all, Jeongin had stormed onto the balcony. The rain was falling hard, and Chan followed, pulling him close despite the chill.
Jeongin had looked up at him, rain and tears mingling on his face. “Kiss me,” he’d pleaded. “Just kiss me, please.”
And Chan did. A kiss desperate and deep, a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, of everything they wanted to say but didn’t know how.
The neighbors had banged on the walls that night, shouting for them to keep it down as they tried to love each other into wholeness again, as if touch could mend what words could not.
The end. It happened on a grey evening, when the rain had finally stopped but the streets still glistened, reflecting the city’s dim lights like fragments of shattered glass.
The small apartment that once felt like a sanctuary now felt too small, its walls heavy with the weight of all the unspoken words. Chan sat on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against his knee, fingers motionless on the strings. Jeongin stood by the window, arms folded, as if holding himself together.
Outside, Paris carried on — the hum of cars, the distant chatter of lovers beneath umbrellas — but inside, time seemed to slow, stretch, suffocate.
“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Jeongin’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it sliced through the quiet like a blade.
Chan looked up, eyes searching Jeongin’s face, trying to find the boy he’d fallen in love with on a spring afternoon by the river. But Jeongin looked tired, his cheeks hollowed by too many sleepless nights, his eyes dimmed by too much holding back.
“We can fix this,” Chan said, and even as he spoke, he heard the desperation in his own voice. He set the guitar aside, stood, crossed the room. “Jeongin, please. I’ll make time. I’ll —”
Jeongin shook his head, stepping back until his spine met the cold windowpane.
“It’s not just about time, Chan. It’s… it’s us.” His breath fogged the glass. “We don’t talk like we used to. We don’t laugh. I feel like I’m losing myself here, and I don’t want to lose you too. But staying — it’s hurting both of us.”
Chan’s heart raced, his mind reeling. “Don’t say that. Please.”
Jeongin’s lips quivered. “I love you. God, I love you so much. But I need to go. I don’t even know where I’m going yet, but I need to breathe.”
The room spun around Chan. His knees felt weak. He wanted to reach out, to pull Jeongin into his arms, to kiss him until the world made sense again. But he didn’t. Because in Jeongin’s eyes, he saw the truth — this wasn’t anger, or spite. This was surrender.
“Is this goodbye?” Chan’s voice cracked.
Jeongin closed his eyes, and a single tear traced his cheek.
“I don’t want it to be. But I think it is.”
They stood in silence. The kind of silence that only comes when hearts are breaking but words have run out.
Chan finally stepped forward, cupped Jeongin’s face, and kissed him — softly, reverently, like a prayer. A kiss that tasted of rain, and salt, and all the things they never said.
Jeongin melted into it, fingers clutching Chan’s shirt as if he could stay just a little longer. But when they pulled apart, his hands fell away.
“I’ll always love you,” Jeongin whispered.
“Then stay,” Chan begged, his voice shaking.
Jeongin smiled, sad and beautiful. “If I stay, we’ll only keep hurting each other.”
He grabbed his bag — the one that had been packed for days, though neither of them admitted it. And he walked to the door.
Chan didn’t follow.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, the apartment fell silent except for the sound of Chan’s quiet sobs.
Outside, the rain began again, gentle at first, like the city weeping with him.
When Jeongin left, he took the sunlight with him. The apartment became a hollow shell, echoing with the ghosts of their laughter.
Chan tried to move on. He tried to fill the space with music, with friends, with work. But at night, when the city fell asleep, it was Jeongin’s name that slipped from his lips in a whisper.
And even now, the taste of Jeongin’s kiss lingered — soft as spring, sweet as hope, bitter as goodbye.
Chan opened his eyes. The city stretched before him, beautiful and indifferent.
The memories would never fade. And maybe, Chan thought, that was both the blessing and the curse of loving someone like Jeongin.
It started with the texts — hesitant, fragile, full of longing. But soon, that wasn’t enough.
Chan remembered the first time his phone rang, the screen glowing with Jeongin’s name. His breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t move, as if answering might break the spell of their reunion.
But his heart overruled his fear.
“Hello?” His voice was soft, trembling.
And there — across thousands of miles, through static and distance — Jeongin’s voice.
“Hey…”
It was breathless, tentative, as if Jeongin couldn’t believe he’d really called.
Chan closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, the city’s neon glow spilling through his window.
“I missed your voice,” Chan whispered.
And Jeongin laughed — that quiet, familiar laugh that once filled their apartment, and now filled the empty space between them.
Night after night, they talked.
Jeongin’s voice would crackle over the connection, softened by sleep, blurred by time zones.
“What are you doing?”
“Just… lying here. Listening to you breathe.”
Sometimes they spoke for hours about nothing at all — the weather, the books Jeongin was reading, the chords Chan was working on, the taste of morning coffee, the shape of the moon. Even though they were thousands of miles apart, they were still under the same moon.
Other times, they spoke about everything.
“Do you still sleep on the left side of the bed?” Jeongin would ask.
“I don’t sleep much at all,” Chan would admit.
One night, when the world outside was silent and only the hum of the city lights remained, Jeongin’s voice dropped to a whisper, raw and honest.
“I hear your songs everywhere,” he said, voice trembling with emotion. “On the radio. In cafés. Sometimes… sometimes I think I hear you playing outside my window.”
Chan’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened unconsciously on the guitar resting in his lap, the wood worn smooth beneath his touch.
“I wrote them for you,” he said, the words heavy with truth. “Every one.”
The line went quiet, except for the faint sound of Jeongin’s breath — uneven, shaky. And then, so soft Chan almost missed it — a choked sob.
“Jeongin…” Chan whispered, his heart breaking at the sound.
“I’m sorry,” Jeongin said, trying to steady his voice, but the tears kept coming. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.” Chan’s voice was thick with emotion. “Don’t hide from me. Not you. Not now.”
And so Jeongin cried quietly — the kind of tears that only came when you tried to be strong for too long.
He thought Chan couldn’t hear. But Chan did. Every tear. Every breath. Every word unspoken.
Chan sat there in the dark, his own tears falling freely, his guitar forgotten in his lap. He ached to cross the distance, to wipe Jeongin’s tears away, to hold him until the world felt safe again.
But all he could do was listen. And love him in the silence.
That night, neither of them hung up. The call stayed connected until dawn painted the sky with pale gold.
Jeongin’s breathing evened out as he drifted to sleep, the sound a fragile comfort in Chan’s ear.
Chan stayed awake, listening, guarding that peace Jeongin so rarely found. And as the sun rose over the city, he whispered words Jeongin wouldn’t hear — but maybe, somehow, would feel.
“I love you. I never stopped.”
Chan wrote a letter. Dozens of them.
It wasn’t meant to be a letter at first — just a way to get the ache out of his chest, to shape his sorrow into words. But once he started, he couldn’t stop.
The first became the second. The second became the third.
> Jeongin,
Your kiss tasted like spring, like promises we couldn’t keep. I still remember that night — the neighbors banging on the walls as we laughed, as we tried to hush each other between kisses.
Do you remember, too?
The bed felt too small because we couldn’t stop touching. The world outside didn’t exist. I thought nothing could break us. I thought love would be enough.
It wasn’t, was it?
> Sometimes I see your face in the crowd. I race after it. But it’s always someone else.
Sometimes I dream of you, and I wake up crying. I tell myself I’m over you. That I’m stronger now. But then I see that damn cup on my table — your cup — and I know I’m lying.
Everything in this place whispers your name. The sweater you left. The half-finished song. The indentation on the pillow where your head used to rest.
> If you ever read this — I’m sorry. I should have fought harder. Or maybe I should have let you go sooner. I don’t know anymore. All I know is: I miss you. I love you. Still.
Chan never sent the letters.
Each time he finished one, he would fold it carefully — as if the way he creased the paper could somehow protect the fragile hopes inside.
And then, with hands that trembled more than he liked to admit, he would open that drawer. The drawer he never touched except for this.
Inside, Jeongin’s sweater lay folded, the fabric still faintly carrying the scent of him — soft detergent, a hint of cologne, the warmth of memory.
Chan would lay the letter atop it, smoothing it down gently, as if tucking the words in for the night.
Dozens of letters now. A stack that grew with the months, a silent testament to the love he couldn’t let go.
The sky over Paris was soft and overcast that morning, the kind of gray that made the city’s colors gentler, as if the world were holding its breath.
Chan hadn’t planned to come to the flea market that day. He told himself it was coincidence, that he was just wandering, but in his heart he knew — part of him always drifted here. To the place where Jeongin, years ago, had bought him that chipped, hand-painted mug, laughing as he haggled with the vendor in broken French.
He walked slowly, aimlessly, fingers in his pockets, the familiar hum of vendors and tourists in his ears. And then —
He froze.
There, just ahead. By the same stall where the mug had been found.
Jeongin.
Hair a little longer, body wrapped in a coat that didn’t quite hide how thin he’d grown. His face older, maybe, but still Jeongin — still his Jeongin, if only in the way his hands moved, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he spoke to the vendor.
Chan’s breath caught. The world blurred at the edges.
Jeongin turned.
Their eyes met.
And in that moment, the noise of the market, the chatter of tourists, the music of an accordion player somewhere down the street — it all faded.
There was only them.
Jeongin stared as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His lips parted, but no sound came. Slowly, tentatively, he took a step forward.
Chan did the same.
Closer now. Close enough to see the tears welling in Jeongin’s eyes, close enough to feel his own heart pounding so hard it almost hurt.
They stopped just inches apart.
Neither spoke.
Chan’s hand twitched at his side, aching to reach out. Jeongin’s breath hitched. His eyes searched Chan’s face, as if memorizing it all over again.
And then, in a voice so quiet it was almost lost in the breeze —
“Can I… can I kiss you?”
Chan’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.
Jeongin’s hand came up, trembling, brushing a tear from Chan’s cheek. And then his lips met Chan’s — soft, hesitant at first, then deeper, as if trying to make up for all the empty nights, all the words they hadn’t said.
The kiss tasted like salt and rain and the bittersweet ache of coming home.
When they finally pulled apart, Jeongin’s forehead rested against Chan’s.
“I’m sorry,” Jeongin whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry for leaving.”
Chan shook his head, blinking back fresh tears.
“Don’t. Don’t be sorry.”
But Jeongin needed to say it. Needed to explain.
“I thought it was better for both of us. I thought… if I stayed, we’d hurt each other more. That maybe we’d fall out of love. I was scared.”
Chan let out a shaky breath.
“I was scared too.”
They stood there, the market moving around them, like they were inside a quiet bubble of their own making.
“But I never stopped loving you,” Chan said. “Not for a second.”
Jeongin’s fingers laced with Chan’s, holding on tight.
“Me neither. I don’t want to lose you again.”
“Then let’s not,” Chan said, voice steadier now. “But let’s go slow. Let’s… learn each other again. Take our time.”
Jeongin nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek.
“Okay. I’d like that. I want to know you all over again.”
The air between them felt fragile, like if they moved too quickly, spoke too loudly, it might shatter.
Jeongin let out a soft, shaky breath, his thumb still brushing the back of Chan’s hand, as if grounding himself in the reality of it — this is real, this is now.
Chan glanced down at their joined hands, at the way Jeongin’s fingers clung to his like he was afraid to let go again. He gave them a small squeeze, and that was all it took for Jeongin to fall forward, into him, wrapping his arms around Chan’s waist.
For a long, quiet moment, they just stood there.
The sounds of the market slowly returned — the murmur of voices, the clink of coins, the rustle of paper bags. But none of it touched them.
Chan rested his chin on Jeongin’s shoulder, eyes closing as he breathed him in — the faint scent of cologne, soap, and rain. The scent he’d tried so hard to forget and failed.
“I missed you,” Chan whispered, his voice so soft Jeongin almost didn’t hear.
“Every day. Every night.”
Jeongin trembled against him.
“Me too,” he said, his words muffled against Chan’s coat. “There wasn’t a single day I didn’t think of you. I tried to move on. I tried so hard. It felt like you’re everywhere. You’re in me.”
They pulled back, just enough to look at each other, faces inches apart, breath mingling.
“What do we do now?” Jeongin asked, voice small, uncertain.
Chan’s lips curved, sad but hopeful.
“We go for coffee. We talk about boring things like work and what books we’re reading. We take walks. We... take our time. No big promises. Just… us. Learning each other again. Can we do that?”
Jeongin nodded, wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“Yeah,” he said, voice steadier now. “Yeah, I want that. I want all of it. I want you — the real you, not just the memory.”
Chan exhaled, the tension in his chest easing, just a little.
“I want you too. The you that’s here, now. Not the one I’ve been chasing in dreams.”
Jeongin gave a watery laugh, the first one in so long that it felt unfamiliar on his lips.
“So where do we start?”
Chan glanced around, the market alive with color and life. His gaze landed on a little stall nearby — the same one where, all those years ago, Jeongin had bought him that silly chipped mug.
He smiled.
“How about a new mug?”
Jeongin followed his gaze, and he smiled too — a real, soft smile that lit his eyes through the tears.
“Yeah. A new mug sounds perfect.”
And so they walked, side by side, hands brushing but not quite holding, two hearts learning the rhythm of each other again. The city around them bustled on, but for them, the world had slowed — just enough to begin again.
Years passed, as years do — quietly, almost without notice.
There was a moment when they knew — when both their hearts understood, without doubt, that they had found their way back.
It was in the small, ordinary things.
In the way Jeongin would press his cold hands to Chan’s neck in winter, laughing at the yelp that always followed. In the way Chan would leave notes in Jeongin’s coat pocket — simple things like buy milk or don’t forget your scarf, always signed with a small heart.
It was in the quiet meals shared at their small kitchen table. In the nights when they fell asleep side by side, the world beyond their window forgotten. In the mornings when one would wake before the other, just to watch the soft rise and fall of the chest they’d missed for so long.
They didn’t speak often of the years apart. The pain had softened, like the edges of old photographs. What mattered was what they had now.
And what they had was enough.
Two cups on the counter.
Two coats on the hook.
Two hearts that, after everything, had found their way back — not as they had been, but as they were now: older, maybe. Wiser, certainly. Still learning.
And always, always choosing each other.
Every day.
In every small, quiet way that mattered.