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The nights were always worst between two and three in the morning — that awful, lingering space where the world seemed to fall asleep without him. Outside, the city was quiet. Not silent, not really. A distant car passed by every now and then, a dog barked several floors below, and someone’s TV buzzed faintly through paper-thin walls. But to Zhang Hao, lying awake in the dim mess of his apartment, everything still felt too quiet.
His bedroom was a wreck of undone things. The laundry basket sat half-folded in the corner, one sleeve of a sweatshirt dangling over the edge. Empty tea mugs gathered on the bedside table like offerings to a god that never came. A candle had burned all the way down days ago, but he hadn’t thrown it out. He kept telling himself he’d clean up tomorrow.
Tomorrow hadn’t come in a year and a half.
The phone screen cast a faint blue glow on his face as he lay back on the bed, scrolling with no purpose. His pillow was too flat, and the mattress had long since lost its shape — but the ache in his chest wasn’t something better bedding could fix. He scrolled because he couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t sleep because he kept thinking.
It wasn’t always like this. He used to enjoy the stillness of the night. Late-night conversations that turned into laughter, into warmth, into sleep without dreams. He used to feel safe in the dark.
Now, every quiet hour was a battlefield of memories.
He lay in bed most nights, staring at the ceiling or scrolling through his phone, but real sleep — the kind that softened things, that made the morning feel tolerable — had stopped visiting him months ago. It wasn’t insomnia. Not really. It was more like grief had its own waking hours, and it liked to keep him company between two and three in the morning.
His apartment was dim and quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge in the next room. The streetlight outside flickered against the window. Hao lay on his side, blankets pulled halfway up, phone resting against his chest as his thumb lazily scrolled through social media. He wasn’t really seeing any of it. Photos of birthday dinners, vacation posts, blurry concert footage — it all passed by like static.
And then an ad appeared. It didn’t fade in so much as pop , bright yellow against a bubblegum pink background. Cheerful music played — a bouncy, synthy jingle that looped twice before the voice came in.
“Feeling blue? Haunted by the past? Well, don’t be!”
A cartoon sun with sunglasses spun across the screen, radiating smiley-faced sparkles. Hao blinked
“Here at Brighter Days Inc., we believe that memories shouldn’t hurt! That’s why we’ve created a fast, friendly, and FDA-adjacent way to remove those pesky heartbreaks and unwanted emotional baggage!”
A pop-up animation appeared: a sad stick figure version of a person getting zapped in the head by a cute little ray gun — then immediately grinning, arms raised in joy.
Hao’s thumb hovered over the screen, ever so curious. This had to be a joke. An absurd ad targeting people who liked therapy memes or self-help podcasts. He almost scrolled past it. Almost .
“Whether it’s a nasty breakup, a friendship gone sour, or just too many feelings, Brighter Days™ is here to help. Through our patented, science-ish Memory Release Procedure™, you can say goodbye to that special someone... forever!”
The music behind the voice picked up, jaunty and cloying. It reminded Hao of old toothpaste commercials, the kind that tried a little too hard to sound reassuring. The screen shifted. Now there was a testimonial video playing — overly enthusiastic actors in pastel sweaters.
“I used to cry myself to sleep thinking about my ex,” chirped a woman with unnaturally white teeth. “Now I can’t even remember his name! Thanks, Brighter Days!”
Then the jingle returned with a sing-song chorus.
“Brighter Days are just ahead,
Wipe those thoughts right from your head!”
Hao let out a quiet breath. A laugh, maybe — or something close to it. He should’ve clicked away. He knew better.
“No way memories can get erased. That’s ridiculous. We’re not in some sort of music-video-inspired world where the main character gets to forget memories that haunt them.”
He took another reluctant look at his phone. The catchy jingle made his shoulders go up and down ever so slightly.
“...but what if it really worked??
He sat up a little in bed. The sheets rustled. The glow of the screen cast yellow across his face as he watched the final part of the ad fade in.
Book your free Emotional Readiness Consultation today! Your brighter days are just one appointment away — Brighter Days Inc., a subsidiary of Memoview™ Industries. Side effects may include dizziness, dream voiding, and mild personality fog. Brighter Days Inc. is not legally responsible for the accidental erasure of meaningful memories. (But we try our best!)
A single button pulsed on the screen.
[ Schedule Now ]
Hao stared at it for a long time. The ad had gone still. The music stopped. But the colors stayed, unnaturally vibrant.
He didn’t feel hopeful. Not exactly. But there was a strange numbness tugging at him — a thought that had been building quietly for months, maybe longer.
One question rang in his head over and over again:
“What if this is the only way out?”
🌞
The café smelled like burnt espresso and too much cinnamon. Hao had chosen the booth by the window, the one with the uneven table leg and the peeling seat. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt fitting. Maybe because the light there wasn’t as bright.
He’d arrived twenty minutes early. His hands were cold despite the warm mug in front of him, and his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing under the table. He stared out the window, watched the clouds move across the glass like they were in a rush to be somewhere else.
When Ricky finally arrived, he came in like he always did — a small whirlwind of movement, sunglasses on his head, drink in hand, grin already halfway formed.
“You look like shit,” he said as a greeting, sliding into the booth across from Hao.
“I know,” Hao replied.
Ricky sipped his iced coffee and raised an eyebrow. “So what’s this all about? You’re not dying, are you? Please don’t say you’re dying. I haven’t emotionally recovered from My Policeman yet.”
“I’m not dying.”
“Okay. Good. So what then?”
Before Hao could answer, Gunwook appeared beside them with a rustle of windbreaker fabric and a half-hearted smile. He looked tired too — not in the same way as Hao, but in the way people did when they’d been worried for a while and were trying not to show it.
They settled into silence, the three of them sitting with drinks they didn’t touch.
“I have something to tell you,” Hao said, after a while. His voice was quiet but firm. It surprised even him a little.
That got both of their attention.
“I made a decision,” he added. “And I need you to hear me out before you say anything.”
Ricky set down his cup slowly. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
“There’s a company,” Hao began, fingers curled tightly around the warm ceramic of his mug. “I found it online. It’s called Brighter Days Inc.”
He paused, but neither of them spoke. Gunwook tilted his head slightly, waiting.
“They... they remove memories.”
“I’m sorry?” Ricky said with a blink. “They do what now?”
“They offer a procedure. To selectively erase memories. People. Events. Emotions tied to them.”
Gunwook frowned, but didn’t interrupt. Meanwhile, Ricky stared—definitely not a good one.
“I’ve been reading about it,” Hao continued. “It’s been tested. They’re legit. And I already scheduled a consultation.”
Silence bloomed at the table like a slow-moving crack.
“You’re not serious,” Ricky finally said.
“I am.”
“Jesus, Hao.”
Hao didn’t look up. He focused on the condensation running down the side of Ricky’s cup instead, watching one droplet slide down and disappear into the cardboard sleeve.
“Tell me this is some kind of twisted joke,” Ricky muttered.
“It’s not.”
Gunwook spoke for the first time. He was calmer, gentler — like he wanted to understand where Hao was coming from. “What kind of memories are you trying to erase?”
Hao’s throat felt too tight. “You know who.”
“Hanbin,” Gunwook said. Not a question. Just a name, soft and heavy in the air.
Hao nodded. The quiet that followed was worse than yelling. It was the kind that made Hao want to run.
“I don’t understand,” Ricky said, his voice sharp now. “You’re going to let some creepy company scramble your brain because of a breakup?”
“It wasn’t just a breakup,” Hao said, louder than he meant to. “It was—It was everything. He was everything. And then it ended. And I don’t know how to be a person anymore. I’ve tried everything. And I can’t... I can’t keep living in this half-life where he’s in everything, everywhere, all the time.”
Gunwook’s expression softened, but not in a comforting way. It was the kind of softness people used when they didn’t know what to say.
“I’m not saying it wasn’t real,” Hao went on, quieter now. “I loved him. I still— I don’t know. That’s the problem. It’s been a year and a half, and I feel like I’m stuck in a loop I can’t get out of. I want out. This is the only way I can think of.”
“You want to erase him,” Gunwook said gently.
“Yes.”
“And what happens after? You wake up one day and there’s just... a hole where he used to be?”
“That sounds better than what I have now.”
Ricky exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what this place is actually going to do to you. What if they mess something up? What if they delete more than they should? What if you lose something you didn’t mean to?”
“I’ve thought about that.”
“And you’re still going?”
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” Gunwook said. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
“I already scheduled it,” Hao said, trying not to sound defensive. “Today. Five p.m.”
“That’s in a few hours, Hao,” Ricky snapped. “And you’re just telling us now?”
“I didn’t want you to try to stop me.”
“Obviously.”
They fell into silence again. The café had filled with other people while they talked, but Hao couldn’t hear anything beyond the thudding of his own heart.
Eventually, Hao pushed his untouched drink aside and stood up.
“I just wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to disappear without saying anything.”
Gunwook stood too. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’ve been thinking about this for months.”
“You’re grieving.”
“I’ve been grieving.”
“And you think this is healing?”
“I think it’s the closest thing I’ll ever get.”
Ricky stared at him. His face was unreadable now, but something behind his eyes had shifted — not anger, but resolve.
“Brighter Days, right?” he said. “Fine. Go. But don’t expect me to sit here while you let some sketchy cartoon nightmare company erase the best thing that ever happened to you.”
Hao’s expression changed — the quiet grief twisting, warping into something else.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low.
But Ricky had already pulled out his phone. “I’m calling him.”
Before he could unlock the screen, Hao reached across the table and smacked the phone out of his hand. It clattered to the ground, skidding across the café floor with a loud, metallic crack. Several heads turned.
“Don’t you dare call him that,” Hao hissed.
Ricky blinked. “What?”
“Don’t you dare call him the best thing that ever happened to me,” he snapped, standing now, his hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t you say that. Not after everything.”
Ricky stood too. “But he was. You both were. You just—things got fucked up. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”
“It was real, and look where it left me.”
“You left each other, ” Ricky shot back. “That’s what people do when they’re scared and stubborn. You both wanted to be right more than you wanted to fix it. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth saving.”
Hao’s chest rose and fell rapidly. The lights in the café were suddenly too bright, the noise too sharp.
Gunwook stood too, like he wasn’t sure if he needed to pull them apart or just hold the moment still.
“You know I’m right,” Ricky said, softer now. “You’re exactly what the other needed. You just didn’t know how to bend without breaking.”
Hao shook his head, stepping back. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It does if you still love him.”
There it was. The worst thing someone could say when you’re trying to forget.
Hao closed his eyes for a second, just long enough to gather himself. When he opened them again, they were glassy.
“I have to go,” he said.
He turned and walked toward the door, brushing past the waiter returning with water, past the hum of the espresso machine, past the stares that had gathered around them like smoke.
🌞
Brighter Days Inc. didn’t look like a place where people went to forget.
It looked like a boutique dessert shop — the kind that served overpriced boba in bear-shaped cups and sold notebooks with glittery quotes on the covers. Its windows were spotless, decorated with pastel decals: cartoon clouds, grinning suns, heart-eyed flowers. The pink awning above the door shimmered faintly in the afternoon light.
Outside, a chalkboard easel sat with a hand-lettered sign in bubblegum pink:
Welcome to your Brighter Day! 💖☁️
Appointments: FULL (yay!)
Sadness is temporary. You’re forever!
Hao stood in front of it for a long time. He didn’t feel ready. He didn’t feel convinced. But maybe that’s what made him perfect for the service.
The door opened with a cheerful chime — not a ding or a bell, but a glimmering trill like something from a dollhouse commercial. As he stepped inside, the temperature dropped by a few degrees. The air smelled faintly of strawberries and something sterile — not quite cleaning fluid, not quite metal, but something… clean. Maybe a bit too clean.
The waiting room was empty, but it wasn’t dull. It looked like a child’s idea of peace: walls painted mint green and lavender, pale couches shaped like clouds, and a glowing kiosk where a receptionist would normally sit. On the wall, a screen played a slow, looping animation of a cartoon heart getting bandaged by smiley-faced plasters. Above it, in cheerful script:
“You’re not broken. Just heavy. Let us lift the weight.”
The music playing overhead was soft and slow — the Brighter Days jingle, but stretched into something lullaby-like, almost mournful under its sweetness.
Hao stepped up to the kiosk.
✨ Welcome, Zhang Hao! ✨
We’re so happy you’re here.
Please tap to check in. 😊
He tapped the screen. The glass was warm under his finger, like someone had just touched it before him.
✅ All set! Your Happiness Specialist will be with you shortly! In the meantime, relax and enjoy this peaceful moment.
(Remember: letting go is the first step to moving forward.)
He sat down on the nearest couch. It was too soft. Too embracing. The kind of seat that made it hard to stand up once you sank into it. He looked around. No clocks. No visible security cameras. No windows. Just pastel, everywhere. Like he was inside a candy store that had decided pain didn’t belong.
A candy bowl sat on the table beside him. Inside, yellow-wrapped sweets stamped with smiley faces and printed text that read: Forget-Me-Nots . He didn’t touch them.
The jingle looped overhead again.
Brighter days are just ahead… wipe those thoughts right from your head…
The song was catchy, annoyingly catchy. He was just about to bop his head to the music, when the door at the far end of the room hissed open.
A man stepped out. Late thirties, maybe. Hoodie. Slippers. Neatly combed hair. His face was still flushed, like he’d just woken up from a long nap. He moved softly, smoothly. Calm in a way that didn’t feel earned.
“Goodbye, Jihoon!” sang the nurse behind him, smiling too wide. “You did great today!”
Jihoon nodded. “Thanks so much! I had a wonderful time.”
He strolled across the waiting room and made a beeline for the candy bowl. As he leaned down, Hao noticed a strange mark around his forehead — not a scar, not a wound, but a faint red imprint across his skin. A perfect curve above his eyebrows and around his temples. Like something had been pressed there and left its shape behind.
Jihoon picked up a candy and unwrapped it slowly, savoring it like it was the best part of his day. He popped it in his mouth and turned to Hao with a sunny grin.
“Oh hey,” he said. “First time?”
Hao nodded stiffly.
Jihoon beamed. “You’re gonna love it. The yogurt-making session is so fun.”
“…Sorry?”
Jihoon laughed gently. “You know — with the instructor in the pink apron? We made little fruit cups and decorated lids. It was super relaxing. Really helped me clear my mind.”
He paused, brows knitting briefly. “Or was it a cupcake-making session? Huh. One of those. Either way — I feel so much better now.”
He said it with the certainty of someone who didn’t just forget something painful — but who had no idea he’d ever had anything to forget in the first place.
“I feel like myself again,” Jihoon added, rubbing absently at his temple. “Lighter. Like something just… disappeared. Not in a bad way. Just in a done way.”
Hao stared at him. His lips parted, but no words came out. He didn’t know what to say to someone who had no idea they were missing something.
Jihoon didn’t seem to notice. He waved as he walked toward the exit. “Good luck!” he said. “I hope you get the class with the fruit station. That one’s my favorite.”
And then he was gone.
The chime rang again. The door slid shut. The room fell quiet.
The jingle resumed.
Wipe those thoughts right from your head…
Hao sat frozen on the too-soft couch, his hand drifting up to his chest. He pulled out the necklace from beneath his collar — the thin silver chain, the tiny sun pendant Hanbin had given him. It felt cold in his palm.
He gripped it hard enough that the edge dug into his skin.
The worst part wasn’t Jihoon’s weird cheerfulness.
It was the possibility that this was exactly what Hao had signed up for — not peace, not clarity — but replacement. A fruit cup and an empty smile in place of something once holy.
And yet, he didn’t move.
The door across the room hissed open again. A woman in pink stepped through. She looked like the nurse from the commercial — peach-colored lipstick, soft smile, and a clipboard held at a perfectly comfortable angle. Her name tag read: Nurse Joy 💫
“Zhang Hao?” she said sweetly.
He stood up.
“Right this way,” she said, turning toward the inner corridor.
“We’re so excited to begin your brighter day!”
🌞
They hadn’t planned to go to Hanbin. At first, it was just a panicked conversation outside the café — Ricky pacing in tight circles, Gunwook trying to search the clinic’s address on his phone with shaking fingers. Both of them talking over each other, finishing each other’s fears.
“What if they delete more than just Hanbin?”
“What if it scrambles his whole personality?”
“What if he forgets who we are?”
“What if he doesn’t want to come back?”
They had never seen Hao like that before — so determined to be done with something he hadn’t even healed from. So quiet. So resigned. That kind of silence felt dangerous.
“Let’s just call the clinic,” Gunwook had said. “Maybe they have a cancellation line, or like, a regret form.”
“They’re not a library,” Ricky snapped. “They don’t check memories out. They erase them.”
He stopped pacing, and there was a long beat of silence between them. And then finally, Ricky said it.
“Let’s go to Hanbin.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You want to tell the ex that his heartbroken ex-boyfriend is about to delete all memories of him because he never got over it?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s… messy.”
“It’s necessary.”
Another pause. Then, quietly, Gunwook said: “Do you even know where he is now?”
Ricky pulled out his phone. “Not exactly. But I know someone who does.”
Finding Hanbin didn’t take as long as they expected.
He was at a recording studio on the other side of the city — a clean, minimal space tucked on the fifth floor of an old building, with heavy soundproofed walls and floors that creaked just a little too much.
The receptionist let them up, no questions asked.
Hanbin was sitting alone in the booth when they arrived, hunched over his laptop, headphones on. He looked… the same. A little more tired around the eyes. His hair longer. But still Hanbin. He didn’t look up when they entered.
“Hey.”
Hanbin glanced over. Then blinked.
“…Gunwook?”
Hanbin’s eyes finally landed on Ricky, narrowing slightly as if trying to read something unsaid in his face. His voice was wary, low.
“What’s going on?”
The room seemed to still, the faint hum of the studio equipment the only thing breaking the silence. Ricky and Gunwook exchanged a glance — short, uneasy — before Ricky spoke, each word heavy and deliberate.
“It’s Hao.”
Hanbin didn’t respond, but the shift in him was immediate. His shoulders stiffened, his expression faltered for a split second, and then—nothing. Stillness. Like he was holding something back, bracing.
“He found this place,” Ricky went on. “Brighter Days Inc. Ever heard of it?”
Hanbin shook his head once, sharp.
“It’s a clinic,” Gunwook added quietly. “A memory removal one. Full wipe. Permanent. Not just blocking someone on socials — like, gone from your head. For good.”
There was a brief pause.
Hanbin’s voice, when it came, was clipped and almost too calm.
“And?”
“He signed up,” Gunwook said.
“He’s already there,” Ricky added. “Probably sitting in some weird pastel waiting room as we speak.”
For a moment, Hanbin just stood there, unmoving. His eyes didn’t blink. His breath hitched, barely. Then he rose from his chair so abruptly it screeched against the floor, the sound slicing through the tension like a knife.
“You’re serious?”
Ricky’s jaw tensed. “Do you think we’d joke about this?”
Hanbin didn’t answer. He didn’t look at either of them, not directly. His gaze was somewhere distant, as if trying to picture it—Hao in a white room, alone, getting ready to forget him forever. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. His hands hovered mid-air for a second before curling slowly into fists at his sides.
“I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I knew he was struggling, but… I thought he’d call. I thought he’d at least—”
He cut himself off.
Ricky took a step forward. His tone softened, but the words still carried weight. “We didn’t think you’d care.”
That made Hanbin flinch.
“We figured,” Ricky continued, “that maybe it didn’t mean that much to you. That maybe you already made peace with losing him. Maybe even forgot him on your own.”
Finally, Hanbin looked at him — really looked, his eyes sharp, angry in the way grief sometimes is.
“Well, you were wrong.”
He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, pulling it on with shaking hands. The zipper caught halfway but he didn’t bother fixing it. His movements were rushed now, impatient, purposeful.
“Where is it?” he asked, already heading for the door.
Neither of them answered immediately, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his reaction.
“Where,” Hanbin repeated, pausing just long enough to turn and meet Ricky’s eyes, “is he?”
And there, in the tightness of his voice, in the tremor he was trying so hard to hide, they knew:
He had never stopped loving him either.
🌞
The hallway was long and too quiet. Every step Hao took echoed softly, swallowed up by the curved, cream-colored walls. The lights overhead were gentle, indirect — no bulbs, just a warm glow that hummed like a lullaby. There were no doors. No windows. Just Nurse Joy walking one step ahead of him, clipboard in hand, humming the Brighter Days jingle under her breath.
He couldn’t remember the last time he heard real silence.
Not in his head. Not in his chest.
He clutched the necklace in his hand, hidden inside his sleeve.
Eventually, they reached the room.
It looked like a massage suite at a luxury spa: pale walls, a reclining chair in the center, a screen mounted on the far end of the wall playing a soft animation of flowers blooming in reverse. A tray stood to the side with a small machine — sleek, white, humming faintly. From it extended two delicate wires, each tipped with a soft, silver node shaped like petals.
“Please sit,” Nurse Joy said gently.
He did.
“The process is painless,” she continued, flipping to a page on her clipboard. “Clients report a mild tingling sensation, followed by light disorientation. Most memories are fully detached within eight minutes.”
Hao swallowed.
Joy smiled. “We’ll begin with Memory Mapping. This step involves identifying and disconnecting the emotional anchors tied to the subject.”
She handed him a white box.
“Please place inside any physical objects that may tether the memory you wish to release.”
He hesitated for a split second, then opened the box.
One by one, he placed them in.
The photo booth prints — the ones with smudged hearts drawn on the corners. A crumpled concert ticket. The love letter folded eight times, edges worn soft. The teddy bear Hanbin had won him at a fair. Its fur was matted and one eye was loose.
Each time he let go, the box felt heavier.
When he reached the bottom of the list, Nurse Joy nodded approvingly. “Wonderful. You’re doing so well, Hao. Just one final item, and we can begin.”
She gestured toward his chest.
“The necklace.”
He froze, and h is fingers curled instinctively around it.
Joy’s smile didn’t falter. “Everything tied to the memory must be released,” she said gently. “That’s how we ensure a clean, stable reset. The necklace is recorded as part of the central memory structure.”
He looked down at it. The silver sun hung quiet against his skin, catching the soft light.
“It’s just a pendant,” he whispered.
She tilted her head, still calm. “But you wear it every day.”
His breath caught.
“It’s mine,” he said. “It’s not even… it’s not a letter. It’s not a photograph. It’s not—”
“But it is,” she said, voice smooth as buttercream. “It’s a vessel. You’ve imbued it with memory. It anchors you. It’s okay to let it go.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can,” she said, stepping forward. “Just lift it over your head and place it in the box. We’ll take care of the rest. You’ll feel so much better.”
“No—” His voice cracked. “Please, don’t—don’t touch it.”
For the first time, Joy frowned. It was slight — but there.
“Hao, we cannot proceed with incomplete detachment. It will compromise the cleanse. Please. Let’s be brave together.”
But he was shaking now. His hands gripped the necklace like it was the last thing keeping him upright.
“I want to forget,” he said, but his voice was barely a whisper now. “I want to forget—but not this. Not this part.”
Joy waited.
The machine behind her beeped softly, patient. Ready.
Hao looked at the box. The photos. The bear. The crumpled letter. All of it waiting to be sealed and scrubbed from his mind.
And yet the necklace…
His mind began to flood. Images all at once. The warm weight of Hanbin’s hand. The sound of his voice saying come home safe. The night he gave Hao the necklace with a look so full of certainty it felt like a promise.
The sob came before he could stop it.
And then he was on his feet.
“No,” he gasped, staggering away from the chair. “I don’t—this isn’t what I want—I thought I did, but I don’t—”
He got off the chair frantically, chest heaving. The necklace still hung around his neck, hot now — burning with the weight of everything he hadn’t let go of. Amid his panic, h e shoved the box away, spilling its contents across the floor.
“Hao—” Joy started, but he was already at the door.
🌞
Zhang Hao was running as fast as he could. The clinic’s doors hissed open behind him, but he didn’t look back. He stumbled down the steps and into the night like the ground might open beneath him if he stayed another second. His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up, driven by something primal — fear, grief, disgust, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he had to get out .
Out of that pastel-colored nightmare. Out of that sugar-sweet hell. Out of the lie that forgetting would make him whole again.
The street was almost empty. Just the hum of distant cars, the dull buzz of a flickering streetlamp, the sticky grip of city heat. He didn’t know how long he ran. A block? Three? At some point, he turned a corner into a dim alley lined with closed shops and vending machines. His body collapsed against the brick wall, his breath catching, burning.
And for a moment, everything went silent. Then the memories started to pour in.
Not just the obvious ones — the big milestones. But the small, stupid things too.
Like Hanbin’s laugh, rough and low, usually when Hao wasn’t even trying to be funny.
The way Hanbin would pull him close when he was too tired to speak, just resting his chin on Hao’s shoulder like it was home.
Or how he always carried two sets of earbuds — one for him, one for Hao — because he said music only made sense if they heard it at the same time.
Hao remembered the nights they’d fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed after a fight, pretending not to care, only to wake up tangled in each other anyway. He remembered Hanbin's hands — always cold at first, but warm within seconds — tucking stray hairs behind his ear. He remembered riding buses in silence, eating ramen at 2 a.m., sharing jackets when one of them forgot theirs, yelling, apologizing, kissing like it was a habit neither of them could break.
The necklace around Hao’s neck pulsed with memory. He gripped it so tightly it bit into his skin.
And suddenly he was crying again — not the quiet, well-behaved kind, but messy sobs that tore out of his chest before he could stop them.
He slid to the ground, back against the wall, knees pulled in, head buried in his arms.
He had almost erased all of it.
He had almost let them .
And for what?
Peace?
He thought forgetting Hanbin would fix him — would give him space to breathe. But the only time he’d ever truly felt safe, truly seen, truly alive was when Hanbin was around.
He thought of what Ricky had said. That Hanbin was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
And now, in the dark, alone and breaking, Hao finally believed it.
The kind of love they had wasn’t perfect. It had been messy. Too passionate. Fragile in the way things are when two people are scared to ask for what they really need. But Hanbin had never stopped trying . Never stopped showing up.
And Hao had tried to bury that.
His chest ached more than it ever had in 1 year and a half.
“But he doesn’t want me anymore,” Hao whispered, voice hoarse. “Even if I remember. Even if I love him. He’s not coming back.”
His hands curled into fists.
“I ruined it.”
He was shaking now. With sorrow. With shame. With the unbearable truth that remembering wasn’t the end of pain — it might just make it worse.
Because what if Hanbin really had moved on? What if Hao was just a closed chapter? What if no matter how hard he held on, he was the only one still holding?
The sob that tore out of him then was the kind that left him breathless. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle it.
And that’s when he heard it: footsteps.
Fast, sharp, frantic.
He lifted his head, blinking past tears. At first, it was just a silhouette down the road — backlit by the streetlamps, moving with wild urgency. Then came a voice.
“Hao—!”
His heart stopped. He knew that voice. Every crack, every breath of it.
“Hao!”
Hanbin turned the corner into the alley — jacket open, hair windswept, chest rising and falling like he’d been running full-speed for blocks. His eyes darted around until they locked on Hao, curled on the pavement like a collapsed memory.
For a second, they just stared at each other. Zhang Hao could barely speak, could barely breathe. And Hanbin was real — not a memory.
He was here.
Still running. Still coming for him.
Hanbin didn’t stop running until he was in front of him.
Hao looked up from the ground, eyes red, cheeks wet, chest still heaving. He couldn’t speak — couldn’t even think — as Hanbin dropped to his knees in front of him like nothing else in the world mattered.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Just the sound of their breaths. The faint hum of the city behind them. The weight of every day that passed between them pressed into the space between their knees.
Then Hanbin whispered, “I thought I was too late.”
Hao shook his head weakly. “I almost did it.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to forget you.”
Hanbin’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“But I couldn’t,” Hao said, voice cracking. “Even when they tried to take it from me — I couldn’t let you go.”
Something in Hanbin’s expression broke. He reached out, slowly, gently — like he was afraid Hao might disappear — and touched his shoulder. Hao leaned forward and fell into him, trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry. I tried to move on. I told myself it was better this way. That I had to erase you to survive.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Hanbin murmured, pulling him in. “I should’ve called. I should’ve said something. I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t,” Hao sobbed. “I was angry, but I never stopped loving you.”
Hanbin pressed his forehead to Hao’s, his own tears falling now.
“I never stopped loving you either.”
They stayed like that for a long time. In the middle of a quiet alleyway, on the concrete floor, holding onto each other like the world might tilt if they let go. Neither of them cared who saw. There was no one else anyway — just two hearts trying to beat in sync again after too long apart.
“I was so scared,” Hao whispered. “That even if I remembered everything… you wouldn’t come.”
Hanbin’s arms tightened around him. “Of course I came.”
“You ran.”
“I would’ve broken down the whole building if I had to.”
Hao let out a wet laugh. “I left everything behind. All of it. The photos, the letters. Even that stupid bear.”
Hanbin smiled faintly. “You kept the necklace.”
Hao touched it instinctively, the silver sun still resting against his skin.
“I couldn’t let it go.”
Hanbin looked at him like he was seeing something holy.
“Then we still have a chance,” he said.
Hao let out a shaky breath. His forehead leaned against Hanbin’s again. There was still so much between them — wounds that hadn’t closed right, things they never said, time that didn’t pause for heartbreak.
But all that mattered was that Hao was still in love, and that Hanbin had come back, also feeling the same way.
They stayed there, quiet, pressed together on the pavement, breathing like the world wasn’t going to rush them this time.
No promises. No grand fixes. Just this .
Just a promise for brighter days ahead—together.