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Summary
Sometimes, with a push of a shoulder, a tug of a sleeve, Donghyuck wishes he could go back—go back to the times when the lines of their friendship were defined and well-guarded, when he didn’t have to think about the meaning behind each word, each glance, each touch that they shared. Because back then, all of those meant nothing at all. They’d laugh, cry, hug, and smile the way friends often do, friends and friends only. There was a clear distinction.
All push, no pull.
6 months, 26 weeks, 182 days: all that time spent rubbing the line of their quintessential friendship, coloring an image that passed beyond the edges of the page.