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Matthew stood tall in front of his lover's statue, the one he once showed at the college exhibition, now it stored inside his studio. The studio Jin built for him only in their house. Their home.
His eyes glimmer with something deeper than love, even with his better judgement about what love is, he can't put his finger on it. Isn't that strange? He used to wait for the older man his whole life, now he couldn't catch the feelings he felt before. Is that selfish? to be truthful.
Behind those glasses, Matthew's green eyes kept on staring at the statue, as if his world has stop moving by the time he saw it. He climb the stairs, sitting on top of it just enough to carefully adored his own masterpiece. The calloused fingers traced the cold gyps, touching the part he loves the most: Jin's palms, legs, and cheeks.
"Will you love me even when i grow older?" Jin's voice rang inside his head, throbbing with pain and guilt. His heart ache to the point it suffocate him.
Jin had asked that once, while they were tangled in sheets, breathless, sweat cooling between their skin. Matthew had kissed his temple and laughed, “I’ll love you when the stars go out.”
He fell out of love. It disgusted him, how could he feel this way?
"I'm sorry," Matthew murmured.
The words barely leave his lips before they dissolve into the stillness of the studio, swallowed by dust and silence. It’s been years, but the smell of wet clay still reminds him of Jin’s hands. Messy. Gentle. Always warm.
The studio stayed still, patient in its silence. Only the soft hum of rain outside dared interrupt. Even that felt like an intrusion.
Jin was everywhere. And yet not here.
He presses his forehead against the statue’s shoulder, not caring that the gypsum is cold, lifeless. It used to be comfort—now it’s a grave.
“I didn’t mean to stop loving you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I waited. I swear I waited, Jin. I held on for so long.”
But the truth is bitter. It’s not that he wanted to fall for someone else. It just… happened. Like a flower growing through a crack in concrete. Unwanted. Ugly. Alive.
And yet every time the new man says I love you, all Matthew hears is Jin’s laugh. Every time he’s held, all he remembers is the last time he touched Jin—skin still warm, eyes closed like he was just sleeping.
He never looked peaceful in death. That’s a lie people say to comfort the living.
Matthew wipes a tear that’s already dried on his cheek. He hasn’t cried in weeks. He thought the well had run dry. But pain has a way of sneaking back, sharp and fresh, when you least expect it.
He stayed still, fidgeting his fingers. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s just exhaustion.
“I'm sorry,” he says, like that should’ve been enough. “But I couldn’t keep my heart in stone, Jin. I tried. God, I tried."
His voice breaks. A sob follows—low, hoarse, like something cracked open inside his chest.
Then softened, “Did you hate me, when you died? Did you know I’d forget the sound of your voice?”
He covers his face with his hands, his eyes shut, ashamed.
“I’m in love again,” Matthew admitted, barely audible. The words itself has stabbed him with million daggers.
“And it feels like I buried you twice.”
The statue said nothing. Of course it doesn’t.
He stayed like that, drenched in inevitable sadness, until the rain began to come through the cracked window. Cold droplets hit the concrete slab, one by one.
Like a ticking clock, counting down to something he couldn’t stop. His phone buzzed once in his jeans pocket. He ignored it. Again. He already knew who it was.
Always understanding. Always waiting. Always the one left outside.
“You always hide when you're hurting,” Jin used to say, brushing hair back from Matthew’s forehead as they laid in bed. “You go quiet, like pain’s something shameful.”
He had never admitted it, but Jin knew him too well. Knew how to press where it hurt and kiss it better in the same breath.
Jin never needed permission to enter his silence. But someone... someone keep knocking. And Matthew hated himself for keeping the door locked.
His hand found the edge of the statue again, steadying himself. His thumb brushed the curve of the chin—Jin’s chin, down to the faintest cleft he never liked. “It makes me look smug,” Jin used to say, and Matthew had smiled, “You look beautiful."
He climbed down, knees stiff, body aching with the cold that had seeped into the slab.The memory lodged in his throat like a splinter. He finally turned from the statue.
But before he left the room, he looked back once. "Today’s your birthday,” he said, barely above a breath.
15th November.
It felt wrong that the world hadn’t paused for that. That stores were still open, trains still ran, someone had texted him happy Friday like it wasn’t the same day the earth cracked years ago.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. Folded so many times it was soft like fabric.
He placed it at the base of the statue, a prayer disguised as a gift.
It was a sketch. A simple one. Jin’s eyes. Just his eyes. Sharp, warm, a little tired. Laughing.
It was the only part Matthew still remembered how to draw without reference. The rest was slipping.
And somehow, that was the worst grief of all.
He stepped back. Just once. Then turned and walked to the door, closing it behind him like he was sealing a tomb.