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Junil showed up late. Not late like late for practice or late for curfew, late like the night had already settled into the bones of seoul, the streets gone quiet except for the faint hum of a distant bus and the soft rain tapping against the alleyway windows.
Haneum had left the door unlocked, he always did when Junil texted him.
There wasn’t much said over the phone, just a soft 'are you home?' and Haneum’s curt reply: 'Yeah'.
Now Junil stood in the doorway, hood pulled over his hair, the rain clinging to his sleeves like tiny pearls, his face was pale under the weak yellow light, and his eyes, dark, glassy, looked like they hadn’t known sleep for a while, not since the rumors started.
Haneum didn’t say anything at first, he stepped aside, letting Junil slip in, the wet soles of his sneakers squeaking against the old wooden floor, the room smelled faintly of home-made ramen and mint, the same as always.
Junil sat down on the edge of the bed without a word, his hoodie was still damp, his fingers, resting loosely in his lap, trembled just a little.
Haneum stayed standing for a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching him, not in a harsh way, not like he was interrogating him, just watching, the way he always did when Junil came like this, carrying something heavy he didn’t know how to put down.
There had been whispers online. Photos taken out of context, old stories pulled up again and chewed on by strangers who had never met him. It didn’t matter how many times inkode told them not to look, or how much the company “handled it.” Rumors had a way of crawling under the skin, settling into the spaces between ribs. Haneum knew that feeling.
Junil’s knee bounced restlessly.
“You didn’t eat,” Haneum said finally, not really a question. Just an observation. His voice was flat, steady.
Junil shook his head without looking up. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Haneum didn’t push. He went to the kitchen corner, barely more than a sink, a shelf, and a hot plate, and filled the kettle. The apartment was so small that the sound of running water filled it entirely. When the kettle clicked, he poured hot water into a paper cup of ramen and placed it on the low table in front of Junil.
“Eat,” he said.
Junil stared at it like it was a test. His lips pressed into a thin line, but eventually, he picked up the chopsticks and started stirring. The steam fogged his eyes. For a long while, neither of them said anything, the only sounds the quiet slurp of noodles and the faint rain outside.
Haneum sat next to him, leaning back against the wall. His hands rested loosely on his knees. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t say, 'It’ll be okay.' Haneum was never good with words like that. They sounded cheap coming from his mouth.
But he was there.
Junil finished half of the ramen before setting it aside. His shoulders dropped a little, as if the warm food had at least stopped the trembling for now. He let out a long breath, shaky and quiet, and finally, he spoke:
“They keep saying things I didn’t do.” His voice was thin. “Stuff from years ago. Stuff that’s not even true.”
Haneum glanced at him, but didn’t interrupt.
Junil rubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, dragging down his skin like he wanted to peel it off. “I don’t know how to stop it. Even if the company says something, they won’t believe it. It’s like-” His voice cracked for the first time. “-it’s like I’m already ruined.”
Haneum shifted, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees. “You’re not,” he said simply.
Junil laughed, short, hollow. “You always say things like that, so cold.”
Haneum turned his head to look at him properly. Junil’s hair was sticking to his forehead. His lips were pale. He looked small, smaller than usual.
Without a word, Haneum reached out and pulled Junil down by the back of his hoodie until his head rested against Haneum’s shoulder. It wasn’t gentle, Haneum wasn’t good at gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It was something in-between, firm enough to keep him still.
Junil froze for a second, then exhaled, the tension in his shoulders slowly loosening as he let himself lean in, his tears finally dropping.
The room was quiet again. Rain softened outside, turning into a thin mist. Somewhere in the building, someone turned on a TV, the muffled sound leaking through the walls, but here it felt like the world had shrunk to the size of this narrow bed, this shared breath.
“You don’t have to talk,” Haneum said after a while. His voice was low, almost a murmur against Junil’s hair. “Just stay.”
Junil closed his eyes. His fingers curled into the fabric of Haneum’s sleeve, weak but deliberate, like he was anchoring himself.
They stayed like that for a long time. No comforting words, no empty promises. Just Haneum’s steady breathing, the faint smell of his body wash, the solid weight of him beside Junil, like a wall that wouldn’t move even if the world pushed.
And for Junil, who had been running out of places that felt safe, that was enough.
-
My dearest neumnil