Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sunghoon never meant to walk this far.

He told the members he’d just take a night walk, maybe clear his head before bed. But his feet had a mind of their own, dragging him down familiar roads that felt more like wounds than streets.

The district of Gangnam had changed.
Of course, it had—ten years will do that to any place. New neon signs blinked where old cafés used to stand. Fashion boutiques had replaced family-run bakeries. Even the air felt different, colder somehow.

And yet, it felt like it hadn’t changed at all.

His shoes tapped against the familiar cracked pavements of Gangnam, and for a split second, it was as if he was still a teenager—fresh from practice, sweat drying on his skin, heart racing from the thrill of chasing dreams on these same streets.

Taking a deep breath, he let his fingers trail along the cold bricks of the old BigHit building. The paint was chipped, and graffiti now bloomed across its walls like stubborn weeds, each tag a reminder that time had passed without asking him for permission.

Ten years should’ve been enough to forget.

Yet Gangnam still whispered to him—like it remembered everything he had tried to bury.

Because time could change skylines, repaint streets, and erase faces from billboards. It could make the familiar feel strange, strip color from once-vivid memories.

But the ache in his chest was the same.

How do you forget someone who gave you so much to remember?

Forgetting the person who once filled your every thought is already hard. But forgetting the memories—the way they used to make you smile without trying—that was the kind of cruelty he wasn’t sure he could endure.

And the worst part? Trying to forget the person you spent your whole youth with.

Jongseong and Sunghoon.

They used to be best friends. ParkParkz. Born in the same year. The epitome of moon and sun. BigHit’s black-and-white trainees—complete opposites, yet fitting together like matching jigsaw puzzle pieces. The unit everyone thought would survive I-LAND together, especially after they both made it through the brutal part 2 eliminations. Viewers expected them to debut side by side. To step into the new world as ENHYPEN, shoulder-to-shoulder.

The day-and-night duo. Once inseparable, always standing within arm’s reach, a bond that felt unbreakable.

Sunghoon’s frown deepened as his steps slowed, the cracks in the pavement pressing into his mind as much as his soles. He turned his head toward the abandoned building where they had once spent endless hours training. The sight hollowed him out, the rush of memories sharp enough to make him dizzy.

His mind flashed to the night before the finale—the dim room light, the quiet hum of an air conditioner, and the weight of Jay’s whispered words. They still echoed in his mind, like a secret he had never dared to speak aloud.

Sunghoon paused, taking a shaky breath. The air felt heavy, as if the city itself had reached into his chest and curled icy fingers around his heart.

And in that moment, the space between the past and present didn’t just blur—it collapsed entirely.

INT. I-LAND — LATE NIGHT (FLASHBACK: SEPTEMBER 17, 2020)

The night before everything changed.
The room was quiet, but their hearts were not.

The lights in the room were dimmed, the only glow coming from the soft blue of a tablet’s screen and the warm flicker of a small bedside lamp. The air was filled with faint rustles—of chip bags crinkling, quiet laughter, someone’s voice humming along to the music playing low in the background.

The boys were sprawled across the common room, limbs tangled in shared exhaustion, heads resting on throw pillows and each other’s shoulders. A rare moment of peace before the storm.

Jay and Sunghoon had quietly claimed the farthest bed—wrapped in the comfort of being close.

They lay side by side, turned slightly toward each other, their legs brushing beneath the blanket. Sunghoon could hear Jay’s fingers drumming against the sheet, restless. He glanced at him, sensing the weight of something unsaid before Jay even opened his mouth.

“You think we’ll both make it?” Jay’s voice was quiet but cracked, like he was afraid of the answer.

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Of course we will. We’re a unit, remember?”

“But… what if I don’t make it?”

The question landed heavier than Sunghoon expected. He felt his chest tighten—not just from fear for Jay, but from the thought of facing this without him. He rolled onto his side, closing the gap, his hand reaching out, not to soothe but to anchor.

“Don’t say that.” The words came out softer than intended, his voice wavering. “You’ve worked too hard for this, Jay. You’re going to make it. We both will.”

Jay let out a slow breath. “Still. What if I don’t?”

Sunghoon’s throat felt dry. For a second too long, he said nothing, because the truth was—he didn’t know. But he couldn’t let Jay hear that. So he reached out, his hand brushing the air before closing around Jay’s fingers. A quick squeeze, like a promise he’d force the universe to keep.

“I know we will,” he whispered, but the words didn’t come out as confidently as he had hoped. He squeezed Jay’s hand—just once, quick, like a prayer. “We’re going to make it. Together.” His voice broke at the end, as if he was suddenly afraid of the promise, afraid of what would happen if it wasn’t true.

Sunghoon’s eyes flickered toward Jay who nodded faintly, but his eyes stayed open—dark orbs staring right into Sunghoon’s. Sunghoon quickly looked away, unable to meet the gaze that he longed for but feared. He turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling until the rhythm of his breath steadied, pretending to sleep so Jay wouldn’t worry.

He felt Jay shift, knees brushing his. And then—so softly he almost thought he imagined it—he heard:

“I just wanted to stand next to you—on the stage, or anywhere.”

Sunghoon’s breath caught. He kept his eyes closed.

Then came the words that lodged themselves into his ribs and never left.

“I love you.”

A secret. A prayer. Words Jay thought no one else heard.

But Sunghoon heard them. Every syllable. And he tucked them away like something precious he couldn’t afford to break.

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t feel the same—God, he did—but because if he spoke, the moment would change. And he wanted to keep it exactly as it was.

He lay there, memorizing the sound of Jay’s whisper, the warmth of their knees touching. Knowing that in the morning, the world would pull them apart, and they might never find their way back to this bed, this stillness, this truth they almost shared out loud.

So he stayed still, holding the confession in his chest like it belonged to him alone.

And outside, the night deepened.

By morning, everything would change.

Funny, isn’t it?
How someone can be both a chapter you’ve closed and a sentence that still echoes.

It’s been ten years, and Sunghoon still remembers the sound of Jay’s voice—the way he used to call Sunghoon’s name like it belonged only to him, like it was something safe.

The way his voice could go so quiet you almost missed it—except you didn’t. Not when it mattered.

We promised we’d debut together. We promised we’d never let this industry change us.

They were just boys when they said it. But they meant it.

But time has a way of testing promises, doesn’t it?

Sunghoon made it to the final lineup. But he didn’t.

And that’s what haunts him up to this day.

Having the chance to pursue his dreams—their dreams—but at the cost of leaving Jay behind.

Some nights, he still dreams of the quiet moments in I-LAND. Of Jay laughing while he rolled his eyes. Of how Jay’s shoulder felt when he leaned on it—solid, warm, too much like home.
Of one night in particular—when Jay whispered something into the dark, thinking Sunghoon was asleep.
He wasn’t. He’s never forgotten.

And yet, when everything fell apart, I didn’t call him. And he didn’t call me back.

Those moments come back like ghosts—gentle, but impossible to forget.

Maybe they were both too proud. Or too scared. Or maybe they knew—deep down—that if they talked, it would hurt more than staying silent.

Sunghoon wonders if Jay thinks he forgot.
Because I didn’t. I never could.

He was a good dream.
And now, I’m about to see him again.
And I don’t know if I’m ready.

Because some ghosts don’t wait forever.

Jay adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, eyes following the shifting crowd. Departures. Arrivals. Hellos. Goodbyes. Somewhere in the mix, he’d be both.

His gaze cut through the crowd, searching, just like he always did—like he couldn’t stop even if he tried. He held his breath, fighting the urge to look for a flash of familiar eyes, a laugh that still haunted him in the quiet moments.

Ten years.

Ten damn years, and I still catch myself turning when someone laughs like him... when someone speaks his name.

And every time someone speaks his name, Jay’s heart lurches—a desperate tug that pulls him back to a time when the world made more sense. When he wasn’t alone. When it was just him and Sunghoon.

Jay used to think time would make it easier. That distance would dull the ache. But this isn’t distance. It’s a pull. A gravity that has only grown stronger with time.

Here he is, older, busier, supposedly wiser, and yet… just the thought of seeing him again makes his hands shake.

Ten years passed and he’s still feeling the weight of those memories like a thousand pounds of silence.

A blast of cold air from the automatic doors swept through the terminal. The air smelled faintly of brewed coffee, jet fuel, and the lingering trace of cologne on someone’s hoodie—and just like that, he was standing on the borderline between past and present.

They stood on the curb outside the coffee shop a few blocks from the company building, a paper cup of coffee warming Jay’s hands while the coldness of winter nipped at his ears. Sunghoon had been beside him, watching the street like it was the only thing worth seeing.

His hand tingled—aching to intertwine with Sunghoon’s. To brush a thumb across his cheek and say it out loud.

I love you.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Fear was louder than his heartbeat.

He didn’t remember when he’d first started liking Sunghoon. Maybe it had been before they’d even met—back when Sunghoon was still a name in figure skating circles and Jay was a trainee clinging to his own fragile dreams.

It had been twelve years since the day their eyes first met.

Their memories together had blurred into a single reel of overlapping moments—calloused fingers brushing against soft ones on shared microphones, shoulder bumps during late-night rehearsals, laughter muffled behind a water bottle.

It had been ten years since he last felt his warmth.

That one night—the night before the finale—when they lay on the same bed, their breath clouding in the September air. Sunghoon had been beside him, shoulder pressed against his, eyes closed. The space between them was a single breath, but it felt like an ocean Jay could never cross.

He almost said it out loud then—almost closed the gap. But he didn’t.

Instead, he memorized the slope of Sunghoon’s shoulders, the faint furrow in his brow, the tremble in his inhale before he spoke about something ordinary, like the weather.

Jay knew the second the cameras rolled and the music started, the stillness would vanish, and the world would try to own pieces of them that belonged to no one else.

So he just whispered the words.
He said them while Sunghoon had already fallen asleep.
He told himself there’d be another chance.
But there wasn’t.

And the worst part?
He knew that Sunghoon had not heard him that night anyway.

A boarding call snapped him back to the present. The smell of burnt espresso and jet fuel replaced the winter air. But the ache? That stayed.

He was my best friend. No—he was more than that. He was the part of me that always felt like home. A presence I didn’t know how to live without and somehow I convinced myself I could.

When Jay didn’t debut, he told himself it was okay. That, maybe, fate had other plans. But every path he stepped on after that, a part of him still expects to see Sunghoon, laughing somewhere in the distance, the way he used to. He knows it’s foolish, but it’s impossible to shake the echo of that laugh in his head. The sound of a life that once felt full.

They were so close. Too close, maybe. Close enough to feel dangerous. Close enough to scare them both.

And instead of fighting for him, Jay let go.

I didn’t say goodbye properly…

And now fate’s laughing in his face, bringing Sunghoon back into his orbit as if it’s nothing.

But to Jay, it’s everything. It always has been.

Like they didn’t leave things unfinished.
Like they hadn’t loved each other in all the ways they were never allowed to say.

His eyes drifted to the departure board—‘Incheon’ glowed bold letters, taunting him.

Am I actually ready to face him?

What do you even say to the person who knew your soul before the world did?

“Hi”?
“Sorry”?
Or maybe just…
“I missed you.”

The plane touched down with a soft jolt, and Jay held his breath as if doing so would stop time. Through the window, Incheon sprawls beneath a pale sun, its silhouette unfamiliar and yet intimately the same.

He blinks once, twice. Ten years.
Ten years since he last stepped on this soil.
Ten years since he stopped calling it home.

The scent of jet fuel fills his nostrils—sharp, metallic. It burns, like a memory that cuts too deep. The familiar hum of the terminal, the stream of Korean over the loudspeakers... it all rushes back, an overwhelming flood of things he can never forget.

It all came rushing back like no time had passed at all.

But it had passed. And it had taken so much with it.

But time isn’t enough. Not enough to undo the years or the silence that came with them.

His name had once meant something here.

Now, it was just another story left unfinished.

The thing about Incheon, Jay thinks, is that it remembers. It doesn’t forget you the way other places do. It holds on to the ghosts. And Jay... he’s just another one of those ghosts now, his name lost to the noise, just another voice that no one remembers.

He takes a deep breath, hoping to feel something—anything. A spark of recognition, maybe.

But nothing comes.

Because somehow, everything had changed.

His reflection in the glass is a stranger’s. Older, sure. More jaded, maybe. But still the same boy who left.

Jay stood at the edge of the airport terminal, watching the planes and people come and go, the buzz of travelers a distant hum in his ears.

The thought of Sunghoon, so close yet so far, felt too much.

It brought him back to the festival in Vegas where he’d stood beside his wife, both of them holding onto fragile hopes wrapped in paper lanterns. The memory felt surreal now—just another life he could never fully claim.

EXT. SUNSET PARK, LAS VEGAS — DUSK (FLASHBACK: AUTUMN 2027)

Some paths lead us forward.
Some lights guide us home.

The first thing Jay noticed was the music—soft, honeyed chords of an acoustic guitar drifting from a makeshift stage near the food trucks. The musician sat under fairy lights strung between poles, singing into the golden afternoon like he had all the time in the world.

“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone...”
“I can see all obstacles in my way...”
“Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind...”

The air smelled of cinnamon and cooling stone—the kind of scent that only lingered in desert cities in the fall, where warmth never truly left but softened at the edges. The wind was gentle, brushing past the strings of golden lights and festival booths like a whisper.

Jay’s eyes wandered. Around him, families laughed, friends clustered, lovers walked hand in hand, children dipped their brushes into paint cups. Lanterns, still dry and unlit, were being adorned with prayers, dreams, and quiet griefs.

A festival volunteer had handed them the lantern kit when they arrived. It was simple but ceremonial. Inside were one rice paper square shell, one floating wooden base, a black marker, two stubby paintbrushes, and a small battery-operated tea light to place at the center.

Jay had taken one look at the blank lantern and thought: What the hell am I supposed to write on a clean slate?

But then his fingers started moving anyway.

Jay sat cross-legged on the grass beside the water, sleeves rolled up, marker stains blooming like bruises on his hands. His lantern—square, fragile, made of biodegradable rice paper and bamboo—crinkled softly under his touch.

He began with a lotus—delicate strokes, precise petals. He shaded its center a soft lavender and let the color spill outward like breath.
Next came crocuses, clustered near the corners. They were early spring flowers, brave enough to bloom through the frost.
Then daffodils—their sunny yellows almost too hopeful for how heavy Jay’s chest felt.
And last, a blue iris. He drew it slowly. It was quiet, dignified, a flower that always seemed to whisper: there’s something I want to tell you.

Jay’s hand stilled for a moment as he stared at the blue petals he had shaded carefully. He didn’t know who he was speaking to—himself, maybe. Or the boy he used to be, still crouched somewhere in the dark.

He had taken his time. Each flower he drew wasn’t just decoration—it was memory. It had meaning. It was everything he couldn’t always say aloud.

Beside him, his fiancée—legs folded beneath her, her own lantern cradled in her lap—was quieter, but more graceful in her movements. She didn’t say much as she decorated her own lantern, but Jay caught the glance she gave him once, the one that lingered a little longer than necessary. As if she were studying him, memorizing the soft curve of his lips, the way the golden light of early sunset touched his lashes.

She was always like that. Present, but never loud. But Jay liked that kind of silence—peaceful.

Jay paused to watch her.

They had known each other for years—family connections, societal expectations, dinners they were forced to attend side-by-side. And still, she surprised him.

Her brush moved in delicate arcs. She painted butterflies, each wing fragile and translucent.
And then, like secrets swimming in moonlight—jellyfish, suspended in swirls of blue and silver.

Jay didn’t ask why. But he noticed the tenderness in her strokes, the gentleness in the way she looked at the water.

As the sun dipped lower, spilling orange and rose across the water, Jay reached for the marker again. On one side of the lantern, just below the blue iris, he wrote in Japanese kanji:

「明けない夜はない」

And on the opposite panel:

「やまない雨はない」

Words he clung to in the loneliest winters of his life. Not because he fully believed them, but because part of him needed to.
Because if the night had to end, then maybe—just maybe—he could keep walking.

His fiancée looked over, reading the words with a slight nod. She didn’t ask what they meant to him—she didn’t need to.

They both knew what they were walking into—this marriage. This future. It wasn’t love, not in the way stories always promised. But maybe it was something else. A kind of loyalty. A shared decision to keep going.

When the last color dried and the sky began to melt into orange and lavender, a few volunteers stood at the lake’s edge, guiding people gently, reminding them to light the candles and hold their lanterns low to avoid tipping.

Jay took his time appreciating the scenery. The lake reflected the warm blush of dusk, trembling softly as others knelt by the edges and let their lanterns go. The music had softened now, replaced by a solo piano track played over the speakers.

His fiancée stood up, waiting for him.

But Jay hesitated.

Not because he didn’t want to let go, but because part of him always feared it. Letting go felt like forgetting. Like giving up. Like surrender.

But maybe this was something else.

Maybe this was hope.

Jay picked up his lantern. His fingers trembled only slightly. He stepped toward the water, shoes crunching over fallen leaves. She walked beside him, the two of them aligned not by romance, but rhythm—a strange, shared tenderness.

The lake reflected the dusky sky, rippling gently with every breeze. Lanterns already floated in clusters, gliding across the surface like paper stars that had forgotten how to fly.

Jay knelt and placed the lantern on the water, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer on the paper.

But before he let go, he closed his eyes.
And he wished.

Let life be less cruel.
Let this next chapter not be another cage.
Let me be strong enough for it—for the sky, for this future, for her.
Let me finally stop running.
Let the skies be wide and kind.

When he let go, the lantern wobbled once, then steadied. It joined the others, soft light glowing from within, colors reflecting on the water like stained glass.

He imagined himself above the clouds—hands steady on the controls, chasing sunrises in endless blue. A pilot. A dream he had never dared to voice out loud in his younger years. But here he was—FAA certified—finally a PPL. On the cusp of a life he had built from the ruins.

And yet… a part of him still aches for something nameless. Something he had long buried beneath expectation and duty.

Beside him, his fiancée let go of her lantern. She didn’t close her eyes. She watched him instead.
And she wished, too. But not for herself.

Please, she thought. Let the world be kind to him. Let fate be kinder than it’s been. Let us both find something real—even if it’s not each other.

She had seen the fragments he tried to hide—the midnight restlessness, the silences that lingered too long, the sadness that sometimes bled into his smile.

And yet, she had agreed to marry him. Not for obligation, but because she believed two wounded souls might still make something warm together—even if not perfect, even if not fairytale.

They stood side by side, arms nearly brushing. No words. Just the sound of music in the distance, and the heartbeat hush of hundreds of floating lights.

The lanterns drifted forward slowly, bobbing under the touch of ripples. Around them, the lake began to shimmer with floating light. Golds. Pinks. Soft blues. A constellation born on the surface of water.

Jay breathed in and looked ahead. The wind caught his jacket. The horizon was smeared with dusk and flame. His hand brushed lightly against hers—not tightly, not possessively, but in quiet solidarity. And in that moment, he didn’t look back.

Just forward.
Toward the life he chose to step into.
Toward the boy who survived the darkest times.
Toward a sky that might, after all, hold something like peace.

Even if it still hurt.
Even if the night hadn’t fully lifted.
Yet.

Jay took a deep breath as he approached the restaurant entrance. The soft sound of crashing waves reached him even from here, mingling with the low hum of instrumental jazz leaking through the walls. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the building, lit gold by the sun.

He smoothed the imaginary crease on his shirt, even though he already looked picture-perfect—he always did. Still, nerves tugged at his fingertips. The world outside felt vast, but inside, the space seemed to close in as the anticipation gnawed at him. This wasn’t just a normal dinner—it was a reunion.

He adjusted his posture, inhaled once more, and pushed the door open.

Inside, the ambiance was as grand as he had imagined. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the restaurant, spilling sunlight across the polished floors. Tables were scattered with candles flickering gently beneath the soft music. The scent of lavender and sea salt hung lightly in the air.

A host stood at the reception desk just inside the door, scanning a digital list on the screen in front of her. She looked up as Jay approached, a polite smile curving on her lips.

“Good afternoon, Sir. May I have your name, please?” she asked, her tone warm but professional.

“Jay—Jay Park,” he replied smoothly, though the hint of anxiety in his voice betrayed him.

The host’s fingers danced over the keyboard as she searched for his reservation. There was a brief pause. She glanced up at him, her smile remaining professional but with a subtle recognition in her eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Park, we have you booked for a table under Mr. Yudai. Right this way, please.”

Jay exhaled in relief, following her toward the back of the restaurant. The Marina Restaurant & Bar was beautifully arranged, with its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the harbor and the sun. Jay couldn’t help but notice the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses, the gentle ambiance of familiar voices that didn’t belong to him.

They walked past tables already filled with guests, and Jay’s eyes scanned each one briefly. His pulse quickened when he saw the familiar faces at a corner table—his friends.

Laughter bubbled from their table, and his chest tightened just a little as he recognized their voices, their presence. He hadn’t seen them in so long.

Before he could take another step, a shout cut through the soft hum of the room.

“Jay hyung!”

Jay’s heart leapt in his chest. He turned toward the sound, and there was Jungwon—his smile wide, his arms already open as he jogged toward him.

Without thinking, Jay opened his own arms in return, and the next thing he knew, Jungwon nearly collided with him in an embrace so tight, it seemed to pull away the weight of the years between them.

“We missed you so much!” Jungwon laughed, his voice laced with excitement and affection.

Jay chuckled, squeezing him back before pulling away slightly, only to be surrounded by people he once shared precious moments with.

“Jay!” K almost yelled in excitement as he hugged him tight.

Jay laughed as his K hyung almost swayed and lifted him up, and soon enough, a swarm of familiar voices called out, hands patting his back, arms pulling him into half-hugs.

The warmth of his friends enveloped him, and for a moment, he was overwhelmed—flooded by the comfort of faces from his youth, all of them now in different places, yet still the same.

The room hummed around them, a perfect contrast to the quiet in Jay’s chest. He smiled, though it felt a little soft, uncertain, yet real.

God. It feels like no time has passed at all.

For a brief, fleeting second, he was eighteen again. Standing beside the boys in matching white long-sleeves and vest-like gear, gracing the stage as they danced and sang Into the I-LAND. They were just kids then—young, scrappy dreamers who wished to make it out alive from the brutal, hellish journey of the survival show.

They were once dreamers, fragile but sharp, their hopes jagged and with edges that could cut through anything.

And now? They’d made it.

Some were dreamers who found greater dreams, carving out new paths in fields they’d never imagined.

The dreams, the titles, the professions, and even the love they never knew they would find.

Jay made it. Not with ENHYPEN, not with the boys, not with Sunghoon—but with a life that looked good from the outside. A stable job. A kind wife. A house without music. A life carved not by his own hands.

A mix of excitement, warmth, and nostalgia bloomed in his chest, momentarily calming his nerves. The years of distance between him and these faces seemed to vanish in an instant. They were here. He was here.

“Sunghoon! Come over here!”

Jay was pulled out of his reverie when he heard someone call that name.

That damn name.

It echoed his bones, like a cold drop of rain sliding down his spine.

The sound of that name sliced through his thoughts like a cold draft. Jay’s chest tightened immediately. His breath stalled in his throat. His hand—unconsciously—tensed at his side. A flicker of dizziness passed over him, the world growing still for just a beat.

He took a sharp breath, forcing his feet to move, as if his body was betraying him. Every step felt heavier now.

The name was too familiar. Too much. It had been years. A decade, in fact. And he hadn’t been prepared for the rush of memories that surged with it.

Sunghoon.

Even saying it in his head felt like he was touching a scar.

His vision flickered, his heart skipped, and in that instant, everything felt like it was pressing on him.

Stop it, Jay. It’s just Sunghoon.

But no. It was more than that.

Jay turned his head, slowly—cautiously—as if rushing would crack something inside him that wasn’t ready to be faced.

There, by the drink table, stood Sunghoon—tall, composed, wearing a charcoal blazer over a beige dress shirt, a glass of wine in hand. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes… his eyes had frozen.

The same eyes Jay used to know like constellations. The same eyes he hadn’t let himself think about for years—but haunted him like ghosts.

His one and only unit.

He tried to appear nonchalant, his fingers twitching at his sides as he walked toward the table where his friends gathered. And then, like a wave breaking on the shore, there he was.

He had stepped forward, his hand reaching up to push a strand of hair behind his ear, his sharp eyes scanning the room. But when he spotted Jay, everything slowed down.

For just a second, Jay caught that flicker in Sunghoon’s gaze—a momentary hesitation, the slightest flicker of nerves before he locked eyes with him. There was a tremor in the air between them. The distance felt like miles. Sunghoon took one, two, three steps toward Jay.

And it was strange.

Each step seemed deliberate, like he was aware of every inch of space he was closing, as if the air between them was something fragile, something that could shatter.

Jay’s pulse thudded in his ears. He wanted to speak. To move. But the words wouldn’t come. His body was frozen, as if the years of silence were a weight too heavy to carry at once.

Sunghoon’s footsteps echoed in Jay’s mind. Every movement—every shift of his posture—felt amplified. The nervousness in his gaze… Sunghoon had always been good at hiding it, but now it was there, betraying him in the smallest ways.

And then, they were face to face.

A beat. A moment so quiet it felt like it was wrapped in glass.

“Man, it’s Jay! You two finally met again!” Heeseung’s voice cut in with a laugh, light and unaware of the gravity rippling through the room. “Our iconic black-and-white duo, back in one frame!”

The yin and yang who used to balance each other like no one else.

Jay tried to smile, but it felt too tight, too strained, like a mask he hadn’t put on in a long time.

For a moment, the room seemed to dim. Not because of the lighting—but because of time.

Time and the ten years they didn’t talk.

The ten years of “what ifs,” of unsent messages, of wondering who would break the silence first.

Sunghoon opened his mouth, and Jay could feel the weight of the words that hovered between them.

“Jay…” Sunghoon’s voice was soft, almost tentative. “It’s… nice to see you again.”

There it was. The simplest greeting. But it was too much. Too much at once. They carried a weight Jay hadn’t been ready for. His chest tightened again. His breath was shallow as he searched for words, but they felt miles away.

Say something, he urged himself. Anything.

“I—” His voice cracked slightly. He tried again, forcing a smile, though it felt like a mask that didn’t fit. “You haven’t changed much.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to say. It wasn’t enough.

He wanted to say “me too.”
He wanted to say “I thought about you every year on that day.”
He wanted to ask “do you still like chamomile tea?”

But his response was a deflection, a shield. A weak attempt at hiding the storm of emotions he couldn’t name. Jay felt his fingers curl into his palms, his hands trembling ever so slightly, but he was certain Sunghoon would never notice.

Sunghoon’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary, and then he shifted, as if trying to regain his composure. But Jay could see it—the same vulnerability in him that was stirring in himself.

God, this is impossible. Why is this so hard?

Jay’s mind whirled with words he couldn’t say. Memories flashed through him like fireflies in the dark.

He used to joke with Sunghoon about how “natural” they looked together on stage, their performances seeming like they were meant to be. He used to tell him, “You’re going to make it. I know you will.”

And Sunghoon would smile, just a little bit shy, always too modest about it.

Jay could still feel it—the heat of the spotlight, the adrenaline, and their shared moments of quiet before each stage, just the two of them huddled in the corner, checking their makeup, exchanging quiet words that never seemed too important, but meant everything.

I’m not good with words, but I really like you.

The thought hit him like a wave: I never said it.

I never said I love you. Not out loud.

The noise of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the soft music—began to dull, as if the world was stepping back to give them space. It was just the two of them now.

The seconds stretched. Time itself felt suspended, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Jay’s heart raced. His mind screamed, trying to find the words he had buried for so long. The anger. The regret. The longing. But it was like trying to speak underwater—his voice tangled in the weight of things left unsaid.

And Sunghoon was just standing there. His face unreadable, but his body taut, like he was holding himself together just as much as Jay was. But their eyes—those eyes—told a different story.

It wasn’t just about the time lost. It was about the people they’d become. The distance. The silence.

Yet, in this moment, neither of them could deny that the connection was still there. Faint, but undeniable. Like a thread that never truly broke, no matter how much time had passed.

Jay blinked, his chest tight with an ache he didn’t know how to name. Maybe they weren’t so far apart after all.

It was just the two of them. Standing again at a threshold neither of them had ever dared to cross.

Not yet.