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Chapter Text

The town was too small for the kind of nights Yeonjun dreamed about. The streets ended too quickly, the houses sat too close together, and the sky—though wide and infinite—felt like it pressed down on him more than it invited him upward. Summer only made it worse. The air clung heavy to his skin, full of heat and dust and the restless hum of cicadas that refused to quiet no matter how late it got.

But seventeen has a way of turning even boredom into something electric, and Beomgyu was a boy who refused to let silence win.

That night, the two of them sat at the curb of a nearly empty street. The dim buzz of a flickering streetlight painted them in uneven strokes of yellow. Beomgyu leaned back on his palms, one leg stretched out and the other bent, a carton of strawberry milk balanced on his knee. His hair, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead, and he looked like every trouble Yeonjun had ever been warned about—smirking at the world like it was his to play with.

“You ever think about leaving?” Beomgyu asked suddenly, eyes tilted toward the ceiling of stars. His voice was quieter than usual, stripped of the laughter he usually wore like armor.

Yeonjun turned, blinking at him. “Leaving where?”

Beomgyu gestured loosely toward the neighborhood: rows of narrow houses with sagging porches, the gas station that doubled as a landmark, the tracks slicing the town in two. “Here. This place. Don’t you feel like it’s… too small sometimes?”

Yeonjun laughed, trying to shrug off the weight of the question. “For me? You’re the one who acts like he’s auditioning for a movie every time we walk down the street.”

That earned him a smirk, but not the usual quicksilver grin. Beomgyu’s gaze lingered on the sky, expression unreadable. “Maybe that’s because I don’t want to get stuck here forever.”

Something in his tone lodged in Yeonjun’s chest. He didn’t answer right away, staring instead at the road stretched thin under the streetlight. He had thought about it before—leaving, running, chasing something bigger than this town with its chipped fences and cracked sidewalks. But hearing Beomgyu say it made the thought sharper, like a knife pressing at his ribs.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun said finally, voice low. “I think about it all the time.”

"I think... it wouldn't be bad leaving together" Beomgyu turned to him then, and for a moment, under the sputtering glow of the streetlight, Yeonjun felt caught—like Beomgyu could see right through him. It was too much. He looked away.

The festival fireworks were supposed to be the highlight of summer. Families gathered on blankets, kids darted between concession stands, the smell of fried dough and sweet syrup filling the night. But Yeonjun and Beomgyu didn’t bother joining the crowd. They wanted something different.

The bridge was their secret place, though technically it wasn’t a secret at all—just abandoned. Steel beams stretched across the river, skeletal remains of an old train line no one used anymore. Rust clung to its edges, and the climb was reckless, dangerous. Which meant Beomgyu loved it.

“Come on,” he urged, tugging at Yeonjun’s wrist. “Don’t tell me the great Choi Yeonjun is scared.”

Yeonjun snorted, trying to ignore the way his heart sped at Beomgyu’s touch. “I’m not scared. I just don’t feel like dying before I graduate.”

“Then at least you’ll die with me,” Beomgyu shot back, grin wide and wicked.

It should have been a joke, but Yeonjun’s stomach flipped like it wasn’t.

They climbed. Metal groaned under their weight, hot against their palms. The world fell away beneath them until the houses looked like toys, the river a ribbon of darkness. By the time they reached the top, their breath came sharp, but Beomgyu barely seemed to notice. He balanced on the edge like a tightrope walker, arms spread, hair wild in the wind.

“Don’t fall,” Yeonjun muttered, though his voice caught more like a prayer than a warning.

Beomgyu glanced back at him, eyes gleaming. “I won’t. Not if you’re watching.”

And then the fireworks began.

The first explosion ripped across the sky—red and gold, shattering the dark. Beomgyu threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing out over the river, reckless and uncontained. Light spilled over his face, shifting with each burst of color: green, blue, violet. He looked untouchable, infinite, like a boy who belonged to the sky itself.

Yeonjun couldn’t breathe. His chest ached, full of something he didn’t have words for. All he knew was that in that moment, watching Beomgyu illuminated by fire and light, he would follow him anywhere. Even if it killed him.

The fireworks kept bursting, but Yeonjun barely saw them. He only saw Beomgyu. The curve of his mouth as he laughed. The way his arms reached for something beyond the sky. The dangerous, beautiful certainty that if Beomgyu turned to him right now and asked for everything, he would give it. Without question. Without hesitation.

The show ended with a thunderous finale, gold sparks raining down. Beomgyu whistled, clapping like a kid, before turning to Yeonjun with a grin that knocked the breath out of him.

“See? Worth it,” Beomgyu said.

Yeonjun shook his head, but his smile betrayed him. “You’re going to get us killed one day.”

“Then at least we’ll go together.”

The words should have been reckless, but they landed like a vow.

Beomgyu didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped close, close enough that the rusted steel groaned under their combined weight, close enough that Yeonjun could feel the heat radiating off his skin. And then—before Yeonjun could think, before he could even breathe—Beomgyu kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was hungry. Beomgyu’s lips pressed hard, desperate, as though he was afraid Yeonjun might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. Yeonjun’s eyes went wide, and for a heartbeat the world tilted, the river spinning below, the fireworks bursting above.

Then his eyes slipped shut, and he was gone.

The kiss was clumsy, all heat and teeth, but Yeonjun’s chest ached with how right it felt. His hand lifted almost on instinct, fingers brushing Beomgyu’s cheek, tracing the damp line of his jaw. He wanted to memorize it, to hold on, to slow it down—yet Beomgyu only leaned in harder, reckless, insistent, like a storm breaking open inside him.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths tangled, ragged in the night air. Beomgyu’s forehead rested against Yeonjun’s, his laugh shaky, unsteady. “God,” he whispered, voice trembling with something between wonder and fear, “I’ve wanted to do that forever.”

Yeonjun’s chest swelled, too full, too heavy, as if his heart might crack open. His voice was barely audible when he answered, raw and honest in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.

“Me too.”

Beomgyu’s forehead pressed to his, his breath ragged, but the pause barely lasted a heartbeat. His hand slid up, curling into the small of Yeonjun’s back, and before Yeonjun could even steady himself, Beomgyu dragged him back in.

This kiss was rougher, more insistent—like Beomgyu had decided one wasn’t enough, like he needed more, needed all of him. Their mouths collided again, lips parting, heat spilling between them. Yeonjun’s pulse surged, his thoughts scattering like sparks from the fireworks exploding overhead.

He made a soft, startled sound against Beomgyu’s mouth, and that only spurred Beomgyu on. The grip at his waist tightened, pulling him closer, until Yeonjun felt as though there was no space left to breathe, no air except what they stole from each other.

And still—he didn’t want to pull away.

Yeonjun’s hands trembled before finding Beomgyu’s shirt, clutching at the fabric like an anchor. He was the sentimental one, the one who thought too much, but now everything was feeling—heat, breath, the dizzy rush of being wanted this much. His chest ached with it, like something too big to hold inside.

Beomgyu broke the kiss only to press another against the corner of Yeonjun’s mouth, then his jaw, then back to his lips, fast and greedy, as though he couldn’t decide where to stop. His laughter slipped out between kisses—breathless, exhilarated, wild.

“You drive me crazy,” Beomgyu muttered, words muffled against Yeonjun’s skin. “I can’t—” Another kiss, sharp and desperate. “I can’t stop.”

Yeonjun’s head spun. He should have said something, should have slowed them down, but all that came out was a broken whisper against Beomgyu’s lips:

“Don’t.”

The word landed like permission, and Beomgyu kissed him again, and again, until Yeonjun felt consumed—by the heat of his mouth, by the press of his hands, by the wild, hungry certainty that nothing else in the world could matter as much as this.

Above them, fireworks split the sky open in bursts of color. But Yeonjun didn’t look up. All he saw, all he felt, was Beomgyu.

That night, Yeonjun lay awake long after Beomgyu had gone home, staring at the cracks in his ceiling. The fireworks were already fading from his memory, but Beomgyu’s laughter remained, echoing, too loud to ignore. His chest hurt in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, but wasn’t safe either.

He didn’t know it yet, but he had just fallen in love for the first time.

The days blurred after the fireworks, stitched together by heat and humidity, threaded with Beomgyu’s laughter. If Yeonjun had to describe that summer in a single sound, it would be that laugh—sharp, reckless, alive, bouncing off empty streets like it owned them.

It felt like Beomgyu carried summer in his pocket, doling it out to anyone who followed him. Yeonjun didn’t know when he started following, only that one day he looked up and realized he was already running to catch up.

The Corner Store at Midnight

The bell above the glass door clanged as they slipped inside. The store was barely lit, just a tired man at the counter watching static on a small television.

“Distract him,” Beomgyu whispered.

Yeonjun hissed. “What? No—”

But Beomgyu was already moving down the aisle, his steps deliberately loud. Yeonjun groaned, dragging his feet toward the counter. He wasn’t even sure what he said—something about the TV, maybe, or the weather—but when he glanced back, Beomgyu’s jacket was bulging suspiciously.

Minutes later they were sprinting down the street, arms full of sodas and bags of chips, laughter tearing through the night. Yeonjun nearly tripped, breath burning, but Beomgyu’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist, pulling him forward.

“See? Worth it,” Beomgyu panted when they finally collapsed in an alley, snacks scattered around them.

Yeonjun tried to scold him, but the words dissolved under the way Beomgyu’s eyes glowed, wild and free. He laughed instead, the sound ringing with something dangerously close to love.

It was past midnight again when they stumbled into the neighborhood with sprinklers spraying across a perfect green lawn. Beomgyu grinned, the devil himself in human skin.

“No,” Yeonjun said immediately.

“Yes,” Beomgyu countered.

Before Yeonjun could argue, Beomgyu dashed straight through, water drenching his shirt, hair plastered to his forehead. He whooped, spinning under the spray like it was his own private stage.

Yeonjun groaned, but he was already kicking off his sneakers. He ran after him, cold water soaking his clothes, laughter bubbling out before he could stop it.

Beomgyu grabbed his hand, pulling him into a short kiss. For a moment they were just two boys twirling under artificial rain, moonlight and water blurring into silver streaks.

Later, dripping and breathless on the curb, Yeonjun caught himself staring. Beomgyu’s grin was soft this time, eyes half-lidded, almost gentle. Something in Yeonjun’s chest tightened, sharp and unbearable.

He looked away before Beomgyu could notice.

Two days later, they lay in the grass on the edge of town, the field buzzing with crickets. The stars were faint, drowned by light pollution, but Beomgyu pointed them out anyway.

“That one,” he said, nudging Yeonjun. “It’s moving. Satellite.”

Yeonjun followed his finger, catching the faint streak crawling across the sky. “How do you even know?”

“I just do,” Beomgyu said, shrugging. “Don’t ruin it with questions.”

They fell quiet after that, shoulders almost brushing. The night was so wide, the sky endless, but Yeonjun felt the world shrink to the few inches between them. He wanted to close it. He wanted to reach out, to see what would happen if he touched Beomgyu’s hand.

But he didn’t. He stayed still, pretending the ache in his chest was just the grass pressing too hard against his back.

The weeks moved like that—careless nights, fleeting joy, moments strung together like beads on a thread. Yeonjun told himself it was enough. That he didn’t need words for the way Beomgyu made him feel, didn’t need to define the electricity sparking in his veins.

But first love is greedy. It wants more.

And Yeonjun was beginning to realize that Beomgyu, for all his laughter and fire, was not a boy who stayed in one place for long.

The first time Beomgyu forgot, Yeonjun didn’t let himself care.

They were supposed to meet at the old basketball court after dinner—nothing new, nothing serious, just another night in a summer stitched together by a thousand careless promises. Yeonjun showed up early, kicking stones against the fence, humming to himself. The minutes slipped by. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

When Beomgyu finally came running, hair damp from a shower and grin bright as ever, he acted like nothing was wrong. “Sorry, sorry! Lost track of time. You won’t believe what happened—”

And Yeonjun, despite the irritation curling in his stomach, laughed along, because Beomgyu’s stories always came out like fireworks: fast, loud, impossible to ignore.

It was nothing, he told himself. Just Beomgyu being Beomgyu.

But it kept happening.

Sometimes it was an unanswered text. Sometimes a plan rescheduled at the last minute, pushed aside for another group of friends. Yeonjun would wait, patient at first, then restless, then quietly furious in a way he never admitted.

Beomgyu would sweep in hours later, full of apologies that sounded more like jokes, and Yeonjun would forgive him without thinking, because how could he not? Beomgyu had that way of looking at him, eyes sparkling like he was the only person in the room, even when Yeonjun knew he wasn’t.

But cracks don’t stay small forever.

It was a Thursday when the hurt finally settled in Yeonjun’s bones.

His mother had insisted Beomgyu come to dinner. “If you’re always with him, I should at least meet him properly,” she’d said, smiling as she set the table. Yeonjun had agreed, nervous but secretly thrilled—because wasn’t this what people did when someone mattered?

Beomgyu had promised. I’ll be there, he’d said, grinning through the phone. Don’t worry, Jun. I’ll charm her so much she’ll forget you exist.

But when the food cooled and the laughter faded from his mother’s face, the seat across the table stayed empty. Yeonjun’s phone buzzed only once.

Sorry. Got caught up. Rain check?

Yeonjun excused himself, locking the bathroom door before his mother could ask questions. He stared at the screen until the words blurred, something sharp pressing behind his eyes. His reflection in the mirror looked unfamiliar—cheeks flushed, lips bitten raw.

He deleted the message without replying.

They didn’t talk for two days.

When Beomgyu finally found him at the corner store, Yeonjun tried to brush past, but Beomgyu caught his sleeve.

“Jun. Hey. Wait.”

Yeonjun stopped, but he didn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu said, softer than usual. “I really did mean to come. Things just—”

“Things always just,” Yeonjun muttered, pulling his arm free. “You don’t get it.”

Beomgyu’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing. “Then explain it to me.”

But Yeonjun couldn’t. Because how could he explain that every broken promise chipped away at him, that every absence echoed louder than Beomgyu’s laughter could cover? He walked away instead, heart pounding, throat tight.

That night, lying awake, Yeonjun thought about how love was supposed to feel. He’d imagined it soft, steady, like golden light through curtains. But this—this was different. It was restless. It was sharp edges. It was watching fireworks knowing the sky would always go dark again.

And still, when his phone lit up with Beomgyu’s name at 2 a.m., he answered on the first ring.

“Come outside, you know where” Beomgyu whispered, voice slurred with exhaustion or maybe something heavier.

Yeonjun didn’t ask questions. He slipped out into the humid night, heart aching and alive all at once.

Because for all the cracks, for all the ways Beomgyu let him down, he couldn’t stay away. Not yet.

The storm arrived heavy and unannounced. Clouds rolled in thick and fast, swallowing the horizon whole. The streets shimmered with rain, sheets of water hammering down like the world was being rinsed clean.

Yeonjun had gone out without an umbrella—half on purpose, half because he wanted the sting of water against his skin. He was tired of waiting at home for a message that might not come. His sneakers slapped against the pavement, clothes plastered to his body, when he saw a familiar silhouette under the flickering awning of a closed convenience store.

Beomgyu.

He was hunched against the wall, hair dripping, expression unreadable. For a second Yeonjun thought about walking past, pretending he hadn’t seen him. But then Beomgyu looked up, eyes locking onto his, and there was no turning back.

“You’re soaked,” Beomgyu said, voice low.

“So are you,” Yeonjun shot back, harsher than he intended.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the drum of rain on metal.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Beomgyu’s words weren’t a question.

Yeonjun laughed bitterly. “What gave it away? The part where I stopped waiting around for you to show up?”

Beomgyu flinched. “Jun—”

“No.” Yeonjun cut him off, stepping closer, anger rising like floodwater. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up when it’s convenient and expect me to be here. I’m not—” His voice cracked. “I’m not something you pick up and put down whenever you feel like it.”

Beomgyu’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Yeonjun’s laugh was sharp, jagged. “I waited for you, Gyu. Over and over. You don’t even see what that does to me.”

Beomgyu pushed off the wall, standing taller now, eyes burning. “And what about me? You think I don’t notice how you look at me—like I’m supposed to be perfect, like I’m supposed to be this… this answer to whatever you’re searching for?” His voice cracked too, anger tangled with something softer. “I can’t be that for you, Jun. I don’t even know who I am yet.”

The words hit harder than thunder. Yeonjun’s chest tightened, rainwater mixing with the heat burning behind his eyes. “I never asked you to be perfect.”

“Yes, you did,” Beomgyu whispered. “Every time you looked at me like I was more than I am.”

Yeonjun’s breath caught. He wanted to deny it, but the truth hung heavy in the air, undeniable. Maybe he had wanted too much. Maybe loving Beomgyu had always been more about the dream than the reality.

Lightning flashed, white and violent, and for a heartbeat the whole street lit up—their faces inches apart, both trembling, both breaking.

“I loved you,” Yeonjun said, voice raw, almost drowned by the rain. “I still do.”

Beomgyu’s lips parted, but no words came out. He looked at Yeonjun like he wanted to reach for him, like he wanted to close the space between them. But then he turned his face away, water dripping off his chin like tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

It was the kind of sorry that didn’t fix anything. The kind that sealed a door shut.

Yeonjun felt the world tilt, hollow out. For a moment he thought he might collapse right there on the sidewalk. But instead he stepped back, the rain swallowing the sound of his breath.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

And then he walked away, each step heavier than the last, the storm blurring the boy he loved into nothing but a shadow.

The rain didn’t stop when Yeonjun left Beomgyu under the awning. It followed him home, pressed itself into the walls, drummed against his window until morning. When it finally cleared, the silence it left behind was worse.

Days folded into each other. Beomgyu’s absence wasn’t just a gap—it was a presence, a weight that clung to everything. The basketball court looked wrong without him leaning against the fence. The bridge felt colder without his laughter echoing over the water. Even the grass in the field where they once searched for satellites seemed flatter, like it had given up holding their shapes.

Yeonjun kept going back, as if by showing up he could trick the world into returning what he’d lost. But all he found were ghosts.

He sat on the swings at the deserted park, chains squeaking as he shifted. He walked past the corner store, hearing the echo of Beomgyu’s voice daring him to run. He lay on his back in the field, staring at a sky that refused to offer him anything but stillness.

Sometimes he swore he heard laughter—faint, almost real. But when he turned, there was only wind.

Nights were worse. Sleep refused him. He would lie awake, staring at the cracks in his ceiling, replaying every word from that fight until they bled together. I can’t be that for you, Jun. The words hollowed him out.

So he reached for a notebook.

At first it was just words, scattered thoughts scrawled in shaky handwriting. But then they grew into sentences, into whole pages. Not quite diary entries, not quite confessions—something between prayer and poetry. Words he could never say aloud, addressed to someone who would never read them.

Letters.

The First Unsent Letter

Beomgyu,

I don’t know how to stop seeing you everywhere. You’re in the hum of the streetlights, in the puddles after the rain, in the empty chair at my kitchen table. You haunt me, not cruelly, but constantly, like a song stuck in my head that I can’t remember all the words to.

I keep thinking about the sprinklers. How you looked at me when the water blurred everything into silver, like for one second I wasn’t just another boy following you around. Like you saw me.

Do you know what that did to me? How dangerous it felt to hope?

You said I wanted you to be perfect. Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to believe you could be the answer to every ache I didn’t know how to name. I don’t blame you for not being able to carry that. I can barely carry it myself.

But I wish—god, I wish—you had stayed anyway.

I’ll keep writing, even if you never read this. It’s the only way I know how to hold you without breaking.

—Yeonjun

When he finished, he folded the paper carefully, slid it into the back of the notebook. It wasn’t forgiveness, and it wasn’t closure. But it was something. A way to keep loving without letting the ache devour him whole.

And in the stillness of his room, pen heavy in his hand, Yeonjun realized something for the first time: first love didn’t vanish. It carved you open, left marks that no storm could wash away.

He wasn’t ready to let go. But maybe, one day, the letters would teach him how.

Chapter Text

Winter fell suddenly that year, as if the town had grown tired of autumn and pulled a white sheet over itself overnight. Yeonjun woke to silence—the kind that comes only after snow, when the whole world feels muffled, softened, like it’s holding its breath.

He walked through streets blanketed in white, boots crunching, scarf pulled high against the bite of the air. Months had passed since the storm with Beomgyu, but the memory still clung to him like smoke. His notebook was heavier now, thick with letters no one would read. Some nights he wrote until his fingers cramped, words spilling out just to keep from drowning.

That morning, though, the silence pressed too tightly. He ducked into the library—not because he wanted to read, but because it was warm and quiet and promised escape.

The room smelled of paper and dust, the kind of scent that seemed eternal. Shelves rose around him like ancient trees. Yeonjun wandered aimlessly until he saw someone seated by the far window, haloed by pale light.

Taehyun.

He didn’t know him well then. Just another boy from the neighborhood—quieter, sharper, the kind who seemed to see everything but said little. Now, though, framed by snow falling just beyond the glass, he looked like a still point in a restless world.

Yeonjun hesitated, then sat at the next table. The chair squeaked, breaking the hush. He pulled open his notebook and sipped on his coffee, trying to not think about the awkwardness. Taehyun glanced up, eyes dark and clear, unreadable.

“You’re loud,” he said. Not unkindly. Just matter-of-fact.

Heat rushed to Yeonjun’s face. “Sorry.”

Taehyun lowered his gaze back to his book, but a small curve ghosted across his lips. The kind of smile that was easy to miss, but impossible to forget once you saw it.

Outside, snow fell thicker, covering the town in white. Inside, Yeonjun felt something unfamiliar stir—not the reckless fire Beomgyu had lit in him, but a quieter warmth, steady and strange.

In the weeks that followed, Yeonjun found himself seeking Taehyun’s company. At first it was coincidence—both of them at the library, both reaching for the same corner table. But soon it became habit.

They didn’t talk much, not at first. Taehyun read while Yeonjun doodled in his notebook, words spilling only occasionally. Sometimes hours passed in silence, but it never felt heavy. With Beomgyu, silence had been unbearable, always demanding to be filled with laughter or dares. With Taehyun, silence was different. It was a space Yeonjun could rest in.

On evenings when the snow grew too thick, they walked home together, their breath clouding the air. Streetlamps cast yellow halos on the pavement, and the town seemed asleep around them.

“You write a lot,” Taehyun said once, nodding at the notebook clutched under Yeonjun’s arm.

Yeonjun shrugged. “It’s easier than saying things out loud.”

Taehyun considered this, then nodded as if it made perfect sense. He didn’t ask what Yeonjun wrote about. He didn’t press. Somehow, that made Yeonjun want to tell him more than if he had.

Another night, they shared hot drinks at a nearly empty café. The windows fogged, snowflakes swirling beyond the glass. Taehyun cradled his mug with both hands, quiet as always. But when Yeonjun complained about the bitterness of his coffee, Taehyun pushed his cup across the table.

“Try mine.”

Yeonjun blinked. “What if I don’t like it?”

“Then give it back.” Taehyun’s lips quirked into the faintest smile.

It was such a small thing—sipping from the same cup—but it lingered with Yeonjun for days, warmth unfurling in his chest long after the taste faded.

Loving Beomgyu had felt like being set on fire. Loving Taehyun—if this was love—felt like stepping into a still lake at midnight. The water cold at first, but then enveloping, soothing.

And yet, beneath the stillness, Yeonjun sometimes sensed something else. A wall, maybe, or a layer of ice beneath the surface. Something that kept him from seeing all the way in.

The weeks turned into a rhythm—library, walks, cafés, silence.

Yeonjun discovered that with Taehyun, silence wasn’t emptiness. It was a canvas, something stretched between them that made room for breath, for thought. They didn’t need to fill it. And after Beomgyu’s wildfire laughter, the quiet felt like a healing balm.

But sometimes, in the middle of that stillness, Yeonjun felt something else. A faint outline of distance, like a window separating him from warmth inside.

One night, they sat in the library as snow pressed against the glass. Yeonjun scribbled in his notebook, ink bleeding from restless hands. He was writing about the weight of silence when he realized Taehyun was watching.

“What are you writing?” Taehyun asked.

Yeonjun froze. His pen hovered mid-word. “Letters.”

“To who?”

The truth rose like steam: to Beomgyu, to myself, to you. But Taehyun’s gaze was too calm, too steady, and Yeonjun panicked.

“No one.” He closed the notebook too fast, the sound sharp in the hush.

Taehyun only nodded, returning to his book. He didn’t pry, didn’t press. That was his way—leaving space for Yeonjun to come forward if he chose.

But that very space hurt. It was a silence Yeonjun didn’t know how to cross.

The clock ticked softly above them, the only sound against the hush of turning pages and falling snow. Yeonjun’s fingers still hovered over his closed notebook, restless, aching.

He glanced up—and found Taehyun watching him again. Not questioning this time, not prying. Just… watching. His expression unreadable, but his eyes steady, dark and unwavering.

Something in Yeonjun cracked. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the weight of everything unsaid. Maybe it was the simple fact that Taehyun was here, still, despite all of Yeonjun’s half-truths.

Before he could second-guess himself, Yeonjun leaned forward across the narrow space between them. The kiss was soft, fleeting, more breath than contact—like a question whispered against winter air.

Taehyun stilled, then closed his book with quiet finality, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the library. He leaned in again, pressing his mouth to Yeonjun’s a second time, slower, lingering just a little longer.

It wasn’t hungry or hurried. It was careful, deliberate, as though Taehyun was showing him how to breath.

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, the air trembling against Taehyun’s lips, and this time he kissed back. Tentative, uncertain, but real. The kind of kiss that made his chest ache with how gentle it was.

They parted only to lean in again, brushing lips once, twice, soft touches that felt almost like sighs. Each kiss asked for nothing and offered everything.

When they finally settled back in their chairs, the silence had changed. Then he reopened his book, calm as ever, and let the silence hold them both.

Snow lingered that season, blanketing the town in white that never seemed to melt. Days blurred into each other—short, pale afternoons and long, starless nights. For Yeonjun, time became measured not by the calendar but by the hours he spent in Taehyun’s quiet orbit.

They never spoke much, and maybe that was the point.

One afternoon, after the library closed, they walked home together through streets muffled by snow. The world was hushed, their breaths the only sound, until Taehyun slowed and pointed at the ground.

“Look.”

Yeonjun followed his gaze. A trail of bird prints dotted the snow—tiny, hurried marks that zigzagged between the lampposts.

“They’re looking for food,” Taehyun murmured, crouching to trace one print with a gloved finger. “But they’ll vanish by morning. Snow will cover them.”

Yeonjun tilted his head. “So?”

“So… sometimes it’s worth noticing the things that don’t last.”

The words lodged in Yeonjun’s chest. He kept walking, watching as Taehyun’s eyes lingered on details Yeonjun would’ve missed—the way snow clung to branches, the rhythm of dripping icicles, the flicker of a candle in a darkened window.

For the first time in months, Yeonjun felt the world slow down, not demanding anything from him. Just letting him be.

Another evening, the library was nearly empty, warmth humming from old radiators. They sat at their usual table by the window, lamplight pooling on the wood. Yeonjun had meant to write, but the room was so still, so drowsy, that his pen slipped from his hand. Before he knew it, his head had dropped onto his folded arms.

When he blinked awake, the room was dimmer, and Taehyun was still beside him, book in one hand and on the other he was holding his own hand. Yeonjun sat up, embarrassed.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked tired.” Taehyun’s voice was calm, as though it explained everything.

It was only then Yeonjun noticed his scarf had been pulled up around his neck, tucked neatly so the cold draft wouldn’t reach his skin. Taehyun’s fingers, he realized, must have done that while he slept.

His cheeks burned. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

The simplicity of it, the way Taehyun said it without hesitation, left Yeonjun wordless.

On another day, when the snow fell softer, they found themselves in a corner café. The air was heavy with the smell of roasted beans and sugar, windows fogged from the warmth inside.

They sat across from each other, mugs steaming, silence stretching. Finally, Yeonjun asked, “What do you think about the future?”

Taehyun stirred his drink, eyes thoughtful. “It’s like this snow. We can see where it’s falling, but not where it will land.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It’s honest.” He looked up, gaze steady. “The future isn’t about control. It’s about direction. You choose a direction, and the rest… happens.”

Yeonjun frowned, frustration curling in his chest. “But what if the direction you want isn’t what life gives you?”

“Then you adapt.” Taehyun’s tone wasn’t cruel, but firm, immovable.

Yeonjun swallowed hard, fingers tightening around his mug. Something about the way Taehyun said it—so calm, so certain—made him want to argue, to demand more. But the words caught in his throat, unspoken.

Instead, he watched the snow slide down the café window, each flake tracing a path that disappeared too quickly.

And so the days went. Not fiery, not stormy like Beomgyu, but slow, deliberate, strung together like beads on a thread.

Yeonjun found comfort in the rhythm: the scrape of chairs at the library, the sound of boots on icy sidewalks, the faintest curve of Taehyun’s lips when Yeonjun muttered something clumsy.

It was love, though Yeonjun couldn’t name it yet. Not the kind that seared—it was quieter, steadier, a tide that rose without notice until suddenly he was drowning in it.

But beneath the surface of all those silences, something colder stirred. A wall. A distance. A reminder that no matter how close they walked, there was always space between their steps.

And Yeonjun, who had once thought silence was safety, began to wonder if it was only another way to break.

The snow grew deeper as weeks slipped by, each day colder than the last.

One evening, as they walked beneath a sky heavy with falling flakes, Yeonjun’s chest ached with words unsaid. His fingers twitched in his coat pocket, desperate to reach for Taehyun’s hand, but he stopped himself. What if Taehyun pulled away? What if the silence broke and nothing lay beneath it?

“Do you ever think about us?” he asked finally, voice raw against the still night.

Taehyun glanced at him, unreadable. “We’re friends.”

The word stung. Too simple, too final.

“Friends,” Yeonjun echoed, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. But friends don't kiss each other.

Taehyun’s gaze softened, as though he knew the wound he’d opened. But he said nothing more. And that silence—gentle, deliberate, suffocating—cut sharper than rejection ever could.

That night, Yeonjun lay awake again, ceiling blurred by shadows. He thought of Beomgyu’s fire, burning so fast it left him scorched. And now Taehyun—snow instead of flame, steady and careful, but just as cold in the end.

Both loves left him shivering.

The breaking point came on a night that glittered too beautifully to hold.

Snow fell heavy, coating the town in silver light. Yeonjun and Taehyun stopped at the bridge, the river below glazed with ice. The world seemed paused, waiting.

Yeonjun’s heart pounded. He couldn’t keep the words caged any longer.

“I love you.”

The snow swirled around them. Taehyun’s breath hung in the cold.

Finally, he said quietly, “I know.”

Yeonjun’s chest tightened. “That’s it?”

“I love you too.”

The words should have been fireworks. Should have mended every break in him. Instead, they fell heavy, like stones sinking into a frozen river.

“Then why do you sound like it doesn’t matter?” Yeonjun whispered, voice breaking. “Why do you make it sound like it’s already over?”

“Because it is,” Taehyun said simply.

Yeonjun stared at him, disbelief flooding in. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to decide for both of us.”

“I’m not deciding for both of us,” Taehyun replied, voice steady, almost too calm. “I’m deciding for you. For the future you want—the future you deserve. You’re going places, Yeonjun. Bigger places than this town, bigger than me. If I hold you here, if I fight for us, I’ll only drag you down.”

Yeonjun’s throat burned. “You think I care about any of that? I just—” His eyes stung. “I just want you.”

“And I want you.” Taehyun’s tone softened, breaking just slightly. “But love isn’t always enough. Sometimes loving someone means letting them go. Even when it kills you.”

Yeonjun shook his head, tears hot despite the cold. “No. If you loved me, you’d fight. You’d try. You wouldn’t just—just let me go.”

Taehyun’s jaw tightened, his eyes glistening in the lamplight. His hands trembled at his sides. “This is me fighting, Jun. Fighting for the version of you who gets everything he dreams of. Even if I’m not in it.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Snow swirled between them, muffling the world, until it felt like they stood alone in an endless, frozen void.

Yeonjun’s tears blurred the snow into streaks of white. “Then we don’t love the same way. Because to me, not fighting means it’s not enough.”

Taehyun didn’t move, didn’t reach out, though Yeonjun thought he saw his hands trying to reach him at his sides.

“Goodbye, Jun,” Taehyun whispered.

And then the snow swallowed his voice.

Yeonjun turned away, footsteps crunching, each one an echo of something breaking.

Back in his room, Yeonjun sat at his desk, the notebook waiting. The lamplight glowed weak against the window, where snow pressed in like a weight.

His hand shook as he wrote. Not fire, not storm. Just words like frost, fragile and brittle.

The Second Unsent Letter

Taehyun,

You taught me how silence could be gentle. How it could feel like a home instead of a punishment. I never thought I’d find peace in the quiet, until you sat beside me without asking for anything in return.

But now I see silence for what it really is: a wall. You stay on one side, I on the other. I keep waiting for you to open a door, to reach through, but you never do. Maybe that’s your way of loving me. Maybe it’s your way of protecting me from the weight of choosing you.

But I would have chosen you. Again and again and again. Even if the world burned. Even if the snow never melted.

You said love isn’t always enough. Maybe for you. But for me—it had to be. Otherwise what was the point?

Goodbye. Or maybe not goodbye. Just another silence between us.

—Yeonjun

He didn’t sign it with love. Didn’t fold it, didn’t seal it. He just closed the notebook, the pages heavy with words no one would read.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and endless, covering everything.

Chapter Text

One year had passed since that winter. Yeonjun moved to Seoul and transferred to another university to end his degree. Finally, Yeonjun woke to find the snow receding in messy patches, the ground muddy and impatient, the air softer, carrying the faint scent of earth. Branches that had been skeletal only weeks before now wore a haze of green.

He stood at his window, watching the thaw with something like disbelief. After Taehyun, he had felt emptied out, as if winter would never end inside him. But spring had arrived anyway, indifferent to his grief, spilling color into a world he thought would stay grey forever.

The first time he saw Huening Kai was at the market by the square. Yeonjun had gone there reluctantly, clutching his notebook under his arm, the pages heavy with unsent letters. He didn’t want groceries; he wanted distraction.

The wind was playful that day, tugging at sleeves and scattering petals from early blossoms. It caught the edge of Yeonjun’s notebook before he noticed. Pages tore free, fluttering into the street like white birds.

“Wait—!” Yeonjun shouted, chasing after them.

Someone else was already running, laughing as he darted between stalls to catch the tumbling sheets. His hair caught the sunlight, and when he turned, clutching the rescued pages, his smile was so bright Yeonjun felt momentarily blinded.

“Yours?” the boy asked, holding them out.

Yeonjun nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The boy—Huening Kai—grinned, not handing them back immediately. He glanced at the words scrawled across the top page. “‘Dear Taehyun…’” He looked up, curiosity sparking. “Is this a love letter?”

Yeonjun’s cheeks burned. He snatched the pages from Kai’s hand. “It’s none of your business.”

Kai laughed, not unkindly. “Sorry. I just think it’s beautiful, that you write letters. Nobody does that anymore.”

Something in his voice—gentle, sincere—softened the sting. Yeonjun looked at him more closely. He was younger, maybe, or maybe he just carried youth in the way he moved: loose-limbed, open-faced, as if the world had never told him no.

“I’m Kai,” he said simply, as though introductions were the most natural thing in the world. “What’s your name?”

“…Yeonjun.”

“Nice to meet you, Yeonjun.” He said it like a song, like it mattered.

Later, Yeonjun would realize that moment was the crack in his winter. Sunlight spilled through, sudden and blinding. But at the time, all he knew was the warmth of Kai’s smile, and how, for the first time in a year, he didn’t feel quite so cold.

One Saturday, Kai dragged Yeonjun to the edge of town, where an abandoned house sagged beneath ivy and moss. Behind it stretched a wild tangle of earth, forgotten and overgrown.

“Let’s plant something,” Kai said, kneeling in the dirt with a grin.

Yeonjun raised a brow. “We don’t own this place.”

“Then we’re giving it a gift.” Kai pressed a packet of wildflower seeds into Yeonjun’s hand. “C’mon. Don’t think so much.”

So they knelt together in the soil, fingers dirty, laughter spilling as they buried seeds in uneven rows. Kai hummed under his breath, some tune Yeonjun didn’t know, and for a moment the world felt simpler, smaller—just two boys and the promise of color.

A week later, Yeonjun found himself in Kai’s room for the first time. It was cluttered in a way that felt alive—sketches taped to the walls, seashells lined along the windowsill, an old guitar propped in the corner.

“You play?” Yeonjun asked, pointing.

Kai shrugged, pulling it into his lap. “Not well. But enough.”

He strummed a few chords, voice soft as he began to sing. The song wasn’t perfect—notes cracked, timing slipped—but it was sincere, unguarded.

Yeonjun sat on the floor, leaning against the bedframe, watching the way Kai’s eyes closed when he lost himself in the melody. Something inside him loosened, an ache he hadn’t known he was holding.

When the last note faded, Yeonjun whispered, “That was beautiful.”

Kai’s smile was shy this time, softer. “Sing with me next time.”

And Yeonjun thought—maybe I could.

Another day a spring storm caught them on their way home from the market. Rain spilled heavy, soaking through their jackets in minutes. Kai threw his arms wide, laughing, spinning in the downpour.

“Are you insane?” Yeonjun shouted over the thunder, shielding his notebook under his coat.

“Probably!” Kai laughed harder, grabbing Yeonjun’s hand and pulling him into the rain. “But it’s fun!” Then he started running around.

And Yeonjun—who had spent so long clutching silence and fire and sorrow—found himself laughing too, the rain washing everything else away.

The rain came down harder, drumming against the pavement, running in rivulets down their faces. Kai’s laughter rang out, bright and unafraid, and Yeonjun couldn’t stop himself from joining in, breathless, giddy.

Kai spun once more, wild in the downpour, then caught Yeonjun’s hand again and tugged him close. Their chests bumped, their laughter tangling in the storm. And before Yeonjun could make sense of it, Kai leaned in and kissed him—quick, almost clumsy, rain-slick and grinning, like a dare tossed into the thunder.

Yeonjun froze, startled, but Kai only laughed against his mouth, as if the kiss itself were part of the game. “See?” he shouted, pulling back just enough for his eyes to meet Yeonjun’s through the rain. “Told you it’s fun.”

Something inside Yeonjun snapped then—not like breaking, but like a floodgate giving way. He surged forward, kissing Kai back. This time it wasn’t playful. It was fierce, breathless, hungry, his hands fisting in Kai’s soaked jacket as if to anchor himself. The world blurred into rain and warmth and the dizzy shock of wanting.

Kai’s laughter melted into something softer, a gasp against Yeonjun’s lips, before he kissed back just as eagerly, spinning the moment from mischief into fire.

When they finally broke apart, both of them panting, the storm roared on around them—but Yeonjun barely heard it. All he felt was Kai’s hand still tangled in his, steady and real, like sunlight hidden inside the rain.

Another evening, they climbed the roof of Yeonjun’s house, blankets and snacks piled awkwardly in their arms. The air smelled of grass and night-blooming flowers.

Kai lay on his back, pointing at constellations, inventing names when he didn’t know the real ones. “That one looks like a kite. And that one—like a spilled jar of glitter.”

Yeonjun laughed. “You’re terrible at this.”

“Then you name them,” Kai challenged.

Yeonjun hesitated, then pointed. “That one looks like… a pen. And that cluster there—like a notebook.”

Kai turned to him, eyes catching the starlight. “Of course you’d see that.”

Something in his voice made Yeonjun’s chest warm, as if the stars above had leaned closer just to listen. He tried to look back at the sky, but Kai’s gaze lingered, steady and bright, and it was impossible to ignore.

Yeonjun’s breath caught. “What?” he asked, half-smiling, half-uncertain.

Kai only shook his head, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. Then, slowly, carefully—as though he didn’t want to startle him—Kai leaned closer. Their foreheads brushed first, a light touch that sent a shiver down Yeonjun’s spine.

The kiss that followed was soft, almost weightless. A gentle press of lips, warm and tentative, more like a promise than a question. Yeonjun’s eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned in just enough to meet it, to let the quiet carry them.

When Kai drew back, Yeonjun found himself chasing the space between them, their lips brushing once more—featherlight, hesitant, like they were learning the shape of each other’s breath. Kai laughed quietly, the sound low and nervous, before kissing him again, slower this time, longer, until the world felt hushed around them.

Their noses bumped, their hands tangled clumsily in the blanket spread beneath them, and still they kissed—soft, lingering touches that held no rush, only the simple wonder of being close.

When they finally settled, Yeonjun rested his head against Kai’s shoulder, their fingers loosely intertwined. Above them, the stars glittered on, but Yeonjun no longer needed to name them.

Back in the market where they first met, Kai pressed a flower crown onto Yeonjun’s head, petals brushing his hair. People stared, some amused, some confused, but Kai only laughed.

“You look perfect,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a joke at all.

And Yeonjun—who once thought he’d never feel whole again—felt something in him begin to bloom.

Spring was not perfect. There were still moments when Yeonjun woke in the night, haunted by silence, by fire. But Kai’s laughter was sunlight, his touch was soil, and together they coaxed something new out of Yeonjun’s fractured heart.

For the first time, love didn’t feel like survival. It felt like living.

At first, Yeonjun thought the restlessness was just another shade of Kai’s brightness—the way he tapped his fingers when sitting too long, the way his gaze lingered on maps in shop windows, his habit of asking strangers where they’d come from, where they were going.

But over time, Yeonjun saw it for what it was: a horizon pulling Kai’s gaze farther and farther away.

It began one evening on the rooftop. They had returned to their constellation game, the night warm enough now for short sleeves. Kai’s laughter filled the air as he insisted one cluster looked like a rabbit carrying a basket.

Yeonjun leaned back, half-listening, until he noticed Kai had gone quiet. He followed his gaze. Kai wasn’t looking at the stars anymore. He was staring far past them, toward the dark outline of mountains in the distance.

“What are you thinking about?” Yeonjun asked.

Kai smiled faintly. “What it would be like to climb those. To see what’s on the other side.”

Yeonjun’s chest tightened. “Isn’t here enough?”

Kai turned to him then, eyes shining with something Yeonjun couldn’t name. “Here is beautiful. But there’s so much more.”

The moments multiplied. In the market, Kai lingered too long over postcards of foreign cities. On walks, he veered down unfamiliar paths just to see where they might lead. Even in his songs, the melodies grew restless, notes straining upward, unfinished.

Yeonjun tried to ignore it, to hold tighter to the warmth they had built, but love, he was learning, could not silence the truth beating in another’s chest.

One afternoon, they returned to the garden behind the abandoned house. The wildflowers they had planted weeks before were beginning to sprout, fragile green shoots trembling in the breeze.

“Look,” Yeonjun said softly, crouching to touch the leaves. “They made it.”

Kai knelt beside him, smiling. “They’ll be beautiful soon.”

Yeonjun turned to him. “And you’ll be here to see them, right?”

Kai hesitated, just long enough for the air to shift. “Of course,” he said, but his voice carried a crack, thin as glass.

Yeonjun wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe spring could last. But the fracture was already there, hairline but spreading, no matter how tightly he pressed his hands against it.

Later that night, Yeonjun found himself awake, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Beomgyu’s fire, Taehyun’s snow—how both had hurt, but how at least he had known the shape of their leaving.

Kai’s love was different. It was sunlight, fleeting by nature, always moving, always searching for the next horizon. And Yeonjun… Yeonjun needed something that stayed.

Still, when Kai curled against his back in sleep, arm draped carelessly across his waist, Yeonjun held him tighter, pretending for a moment that warmth could be permanent.

It was late spring when the truth finally bloomed between them.

The air was heavy with the sweetness of lilacs, the garden behind the abandoned house now awash with wildflowers. Purple and yellow and white swayed together in the breeze, a riot of color against the crumbling walls. Yeonjun had imagined this moment—standing here with Kai, hands dirty, laughter in their throats—when they first planted the seeds. He had imagined permanence.

But Kai stood with his gaze tilted toward the horizon, as if even here, surrounded by their creation, he was already leaving.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kai said softly, kneeling to touch a bloom. His fingers brushed the petals as though apologizing for something.

Yeonjun’s chest tightened. He already knew.

“There’s a music camp this summer,” Kai continued. “Far south. By the sea. I… I think I need to go.”

Yeonjun stared at him, the garden tilting around him. “Need?”

Kai looked up, eyes wide and earnest. “Yeonjun, I love this—us. I do. But there’s this… ache inside me. This pull. If I stay, I’ll feel it tearing me apart. I want to see the world, write songs from places I’ve never been, meet people who speak in voices I’ve never heard.”

“And what about me?” Yeonjun’s voice cracked, softer than he intended.

Kai stood, closing the distance, hands catching Yeonjun’s. “You’re part of me. Everything I’ve felt with you—it’s shaped me. I’ll carry it wherever I go.”

Yeonjun shook his head, eyes burning. “Carrying me isn’t the same as staying.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of flowers in the wind. Then Kai leaned in, pressing his forehead to Yeonjun’s.

“I wish I were the kind of person who could stay,” he whispered. “But I’m not. And you deserve someone who can.”

Yeonjun’s hands trembled, caught between holding tighter and letting go. He wanted to beg, to plead, but the truth lay clear in Kai’s eyes—this wasn’t about not loving enough. It was about a love that couldn’t root itself.

So he kissed him instead. A kiss tasting of lilacs and salt, of beginnings and endings tangled together. Kai kissed back with the same tenderness, the same ache, until the sky above them turned gold with evening.

When they finally pulled apart, the garden swayed in full bloom, the flowers they had planted thriving in ways their love could not.

That night, Yeonjun walked home alone, petals still clinging to his jacket. He thought of how fire had burned, how snow had frozen, and now, how blossoms fell softly, silently, even as the world brightened around them.

Love, he realized, could break you in every season.

The Third Unsent Letter

Kai,

The garden is still alive. I go back sometimes, though it feels like trespassing on something we made together. The flowers have grown taller than I expected, bending toward the sun with a kind of hunger I recognize. They don’t ask permission to bloom—they just do. I think of you every time.

You once told me I should stop thinking so much. That I should laugh louder, run into the rain instead of hiding under roofs. I didn’t know how, until you pulled me there with you.

I’ll never forget the sound of your guitar on quiet afternoons, the way you invented constellations and made the universe feel smaller, friendlier. I’ll never forget your hand pulling mine into the storm, telling me that life could be joy, even when it was wet and messy and cold.

I know you couldn’t stay. I think, deep down, I always knew. You weren’t built for one garden, one city, one pair of arms. You were made to chase horizons, to write songs out of foreign air. I don’t blame you for it. But knowing doesn’t soften the ache when I walk home alone.

One love burned me. The other froze me. You—you let me breathe again. And maybe that’s why this hurts differently. Love that ends in laughter still ends.

I hope the world is as beautiful as you dreamed. I hope when you stand before the sea, or climb those mountains, or fall asleep beneath stars that don’t belong to us, you think of me for a moment. Not with sorrow, but with warmth.

Because even though you left, even though spring never lasts, I am grateful. For every seed you planted in me. For every bloom that taught me I could still grow.

—Yeonjun

The letter closed, Yeonjun folded it carefully and slipped it into his notebook. He didn’t know if he would ever send it. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to reach Kai’s hands. Perhaps it was only meant to keep the memory blooming in his own chest, even as summer pressed closer, heavy and new.

Chapter Text

The summer air was thick enough to choke on, cicadas drilling into Yeonjun’s skull as he walked without direction. The garden Kai had left behind was wilting now, stems bowed under the heat, blossoms browning at the edges. He hadn’t touched it in weeks. He couldn’t. To look at it was to remember hands entwined with his in the dirt, laughter spun into sunlight. It was to remember what had bloomed, and what had left.

He needed escape, even for an hour. Somewhere cool, somewhere unmarked by memory.

That was how he found the bookstore.

It was wedged between a bakery that smelled of warm bread and sugar, and a tailor’s shop with suits too neat for this heat. The door was painted a fading blue, its brass handle worn from use. Above it, a simple sign: Moonlight Books.

The bell chimed when he pushed the door open, releasing a rush of air-conditioning that prickled his sweat-damp skin. He exhaled, grateful. The shop was small, quiet, filled with the soft musk of paper and ink.

And there was someone behind the counter.

A boy, tall and broad-shouldered, hair falling in soft brown waves that caught the light from the window. He was reading, elbows resting on the wooden desk, long fingers curled around the spine of a book so worn it seemed to breathe history.

When the bell rang, the boy looked up.

“Welcome,” he said.

His voice was low, steady, carrying none of the performative brightness Yeonjun was used to from clerks and cashiers. It wasn’t a greeting practiced for strangers. It was simple, genuine, as if Yeonjun’s presence required no effort, no disguise.

Yeonjun froze for a heartbeat. Something about the gaze—calm, unhurried—felt disarming. He nodded once, muttered a thanks, and retreated to the shelves.

The store was lined wall to wall with books, some stacked haphazardly, others arranged with meticulous care. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the blinds. Somewhere deeper in the shop, a fan hummed lazily.

Yeonjun trailed his fingers along spines without reading the titles. He wasn’t looking for anything. He only wanted to breathe, to disappear for a while into pages that weren’t his own.

But he felt it—the boy’s presence, quiet but steady, like gravity. Not intrusive, not heavy. Just there. The kind of attention that didn’t demand but didn’t let him vanish either.

He pulled a random book from the shelf, flipping through without focus. His mind kept circling back: Welcome. Just that. Just a voice that had no sharp edges, no restless wings, no distant echoes.

When he finally approached the counter, the boy set down his own book, marking the page with a thin ribbon.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

Yeonjun hesitated, then gave the faintest smile. “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

The boy’s lips curved—not a grin, not a smirk, just the smallest shift, warm enough to soften the air. “Sometimes those are the best kinds of finds.”

Yeonjun glanced at the name tag pinned to his shirt: Soobin.

Soobin rang up the purchase—Yeonjun still couldn’t remember, later, which book it was—and slid it into a paper bag. But before handing it over, his fingers lingered on the edge, as if anchoring the moment.

“Hope it gives you what you need,” Soobin said, voice steady, unhurried.

Yeonjun looked up. Their eyes met. And something—something wordless—settled in Yeonjun’s chest. Not fire, not snow, not blossoms drifting in the wind. Something different. Something that didn’t rush or vanish. Something that stayed.

When he stepped back into the summer heat, cicadas loud in the trees, the world felt subtly changed. He carried the bag in one hand, but what weighed more was the memory of a smile, a voice, a steadiness he hadn’t known he was longing for.

That night, he lay awake with the book unopened on his desk. The sound of cicadas pressed against the windows. And instead of replaying old goodbyes, he found himself thinking of beginnings.

Soobin.

The thread began there—thin and new, invisible to anyone else. But strong enough that Yeonjun felt, for the first time in a long time, he might not unravel.

Yeonjun went back to the bookstore.

At first, he told himself it was coincidence. That he just happened to be nearby, that the heat drove him inside again, that it was convenient. But convenience didn’t explain why his steps always curved toward the blue-painted door, why his fingers twitched at the thought of Soobin’s voice saying Welcome.

The second time, Soobin remembered him.

“Back already?” he asked, a note of quiet amusement in his tone.

Yeonjun felt his ears warm. “Just… browsing.”

Soobin nodded, unbothered, and returned to the book in his hands. But Yeonjun noticed the way he shifted his chair slightly, angling himself so that when Yeonjun passed by, they might exchange a word, a glance, something light as air but strangely grounding.

They fell into a rhythm.

Yeonjun would drift through the aisles, pretending to search for something specific. Soobin would ask what he liked, recommend titles with a soft certainty, his hands brushing spines like they were old friends. Sometimes Yeonjun bought a book, sometimes he didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter.

The storm came sudden and merciless.

One moment, the world outside was a pale summer evening, the sky dimming toward dusk. The next, the heavens cracked open, and water came down in a sheet so heavy it blurred the street into watercolor.

Yeonjun stopped dead at the doorway, half in, half out. He froze near the entrance, staring out at the downpour.

“You’ll get soaked,” Soobin said, stepping beside him. His voice was matter-of-fact, but gentle. “Stay until it slows.”

When Yeonjun turned, he found himself looking up slightly. He hadn’t realized how tall Soobin was until they stood side by side. He gave a small nod and stepped back into the shop.

They sat together on the wooden bench by the door, listening to the rain crash against the street. For a while, neither spoke. And yet, it wasn’t silence—not the kind that chilled, not the kind that demanded to be filled. It was comfortable, like the quiet that settles between two breaths.

After a long moment, Soobin tilted his head. “Do you like the rain?”

Yeonjun shrugged. “Sometimes. Depends.”

“On what?”

Yeonjun thought of Kai—how he’d pulled him into storms, spinning and laughing until their clothes clung like second skin. He thought of Beomgyu, how rain had always turned into fights about nothing and then passionate kisses, shouts swallowed by thunder. He thought of Taehyun, who would watch the sky with that unreadable expression, refusing to step outside at all.

And then he looked at Soobin—calm, patient, waiting for his answer without pressure.

“On whether I have someone to wait it out with,” Yeonjun said softly.

Soobin’s smile was small, almost shy, but it reached his eyes.

They stayed until the rain lightened, until the storm softened into a drizzle. Soobin handed him an umbrella from behind the counter. “Borrow it,” he said. “Bring it back next time.”

Yeonjun hesitated, then took it. Their fingers grazed briefly on the handle—barely a brush, yet the warmth lingered as if it had been more.

He stepped into the soft drizzle, umbrella unfolding above him. The world smelled of wet earth and asphalt, of endings and beginnings. And for the first time in too long, Yeonjun didn’t feel like he was walking alone.

He returned the umbrella three days later. Told himself that was the only reason he came back, but the lie was thin, transparent even to himself.

Soobin took it back with a nod, folded it neatly, set it aside. “Thanks,” he said, as though Yeonjun had done him a favor.

That was how it always was with Soobin: unassuming, unadorned. And yet, every gesture carried weight.

It wasn’t long before Yeonjun began to notice the echoes.

The way Soobin listened reminded him of Taehyun—attentive, sharp. But where Taehyun’s silences had been walls, Soobin’s were bridges. He listened not to withhold, but to invite.

The way Soobin laughed—quiet, bubbling up unexpectedly—reminded him of Kai. But Kai’s laughter had been restless, a bird already lifting off toward the horizon. Soobin’s laughter stayed. It settled in the air like sunlight through blinds, warming everything it touched.

And there was something of Beomgyu, too. Not the chaos, not the fire that consumed, but the spark—the ability to make Yeonjun feel seen, alive, lit from within. Only with Soobin, the flame didn’t scorch. It glowed.

It was disorienting, to see fragments of the past reflected in someone new. But instead of hurting, it soothed. As if all the lessons he had endured—burn, freeze, bloom—were being gently threaded into something whole.

One evening, Yeonjun caught himself watching Soobin shelve books, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes. The thought came unbidden, startling in its clarity: Maybe this is it.

The realization frightened him. It also rooted him.

Because for once, love didn’t feel like a storm he had to survive. It felt like a place he could finally rest.

They started hanging out more often. Having little picnics in between of their classes, riding bikes along the Han River, movie nights, and more. They became close as the months went by.

It was late when it happened.

The bookstore had closed an hour ago, but Yeonjun lingered as Soobin stacked returns in the quiet. The air smelled of old pages and faint rain—summer storms had come again, soft this time, pattering against the windows.

Yeonjun leaned against the counter, watching. He told himself he was just keeping company, but his heart beat too fast for the lie to hold.

“Soobin,” he said, his voice lower than intended.

Soobin turned, arms full of books. “Hm?”

For a moment, the words caught in Yeonjun’s throat. He saw himself in every ending, holding pieces of what was left. And the fear surged: What if this ends too? What if I can’t survive another goodbye?

“I…” He faltered, fingers curling against the wood of the counter. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

Soobin set the books down. His gaze was steady, searching Yeonjun’s face. “Do what?”

“Love.” The word was almost a whisper. “Every time I tried, it broke me. I keep thinking—what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

Silence fell, heavy but not suffocating. Soobin stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until Yeonjun could feel the warmth of his presence.

“You’re afraid,” Soobin said softly. “That’s okay. I am too.”

Yeonjun blinked. “You?”

Soobin nodded. “Because loving you means I’ll see every scar. Every piece you think is too broken. And I’ll have to fight to show you that none of it makes you less.” His voice trembled, just barely, but his words were clear. “I’m not afraid of loving you, Yeonjun. I’m only afraid you won’t let me.”

The room seemed to tilt, the storm pressing harder against the windows. Yeonjun’s chest ached with the weight of it, with the unbearable gentleness.

“Why?” he asked, almost desperate. “Why? You don’t even know all of me.”

Soobin’s eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t need to know all of you to love what I see. And whatever you think is too broken—I want to learn it. Carry it with you. Because Yeonjun…” He hesitated, breath catching, but then his words landed like a vow. “Because I’ve loved you quietly for longer than you realize. And I can’t pretend anymore.”

The words struck deep, carving through fear with something stronger. Yeonjun’s breath shook. His hands trembled as they lifted from the counter. He hesitated in the space between them, every muscle taut with uncertainty.

And then Soobin reached out. Large, warm hands enveloped Yeonjun’s, grounding him. Not pulling, not pushing. Just holding.

“Let me,” Soobin murmured. “Just this once—let me prove that love can stay.”

Yeonjun’s breath stuttered, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away.

The silence was thick enough to break.

Yeonjun’s hands were still trapped in Soobin’s, their palms pressed together, heat pulsing where skin met skin. His chest felt tight, his throat raw, as though the words he had buried for years were rising all at once.

Soobin’s eyes didn’t move. They held him with an intensity that wasn’t sharp, wasn’t consuming, but steady—like a tide that always returned, no matter how the shore shifted.

And Yeonjun gave in.

He leaned forward, half in fear, half in surrender. The first brush of lips was clumsy, almost startled, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right. He kissed like a man testing the edge of fire, expecting to be burned.

But Soobin didn’t flinch.

Instead, his hands shifted—one sliding to the back of Yeonjun’s neck, fingers threading gently into his hair, the other settling firm and protective at his waist. The pressure was grounding, anchoring, pulling Yeonjun closer without force.

So Yeonjun let go.

The kiss deepened, slow but certain. It wasn’t frantic; it didn’t need to be. It carried weight, not haste—the kind of weight that said: I’m not leaving. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not when storms come again.

Yeonjun’s chest ached. He remembered Beomgyu, whose kisses had been like fire consuming everything in its path. He remembered Taehyun, whose kisses had been careful, restrained, full of unspoken words he could never bring himself to say, restrained by logic and the inevitability of parting. He remembered Kai, whose kisses had tasted of sunlight and spring, sweet and fleeting as petals scattered on the wind.

And then there was this.

Soobin kissed him like earth. Like a promise that no fire, no frost, no wind could uproot.

Yeonjun’s body trembled—not from fear now, but from the release of it, the unraveling of knots he had carried too long. He clutched at Soobin’s shirt, needing something solid, something that wouldn’t dissolve when he opened his eyes.

When they broke apart, their foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the small space between. Yeonjun’s chest heaved as though he had been running for miles, though his feet hadn’t moved an inch.

“I—” Yeonjun started, but the words dissolved.

Soobin smiled, soft and sure. His thumb brushed Yeonjun’s cheek, warm against the dampness he hadn’t realized had gathered there. “See?” he whispered, voice steady, lips brushing so close that the air itself seemed to tremble. “Still here.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he didn’t brace for the fall.

The storm outside had calmed to a soft drizzle, the world hushed as though it, too, was holding its breath. And in that quiet, Yeonjun realized he wasn’t just kissing Soobin—he was kissing every piece of himself he thought unworthy of love, every scar, every fracture. And Soobin kissed them back, one by one, without flinching.

They stayed there, lingering, their hands still locked. Time didn’t stretch or collapse. It simply held, the way Soobin did.

And Yeonjun, for the first time, believed that maybe love could hold too.

The storm had passed by morning.

Yeonjun walked home in the pale wash of dawn, Soobin beside him. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, not on purpose, not by accident either. The streets were wet, glistening with fragments of light that had survived the night.

Neither of them spoke much. Words felt unnecessary, heavy with everything they had already said. Instead, there was the sound of their footsteps, the rustle of Soobin’s coat as he walked close enough that Yeonjun could feel his warmth, even in the cool morning air.

For the first time, Yeonjun didn’t dread the silence. He let it cradle him, like a song without lyrics.

The days that followed weren’t dramatic. They didn’t blaze with fireworks or drown in grand declarations. They unfolded like paper, simple, delicate, each crease an ordinary moment that built into something extraordinary.

Soobin started showing up in ways that Yeonjun had never expected but always secretly wanted. Sometimes it was a text in the morning: don’t skip breakfast. Sometimes it was appearing at Yeonjun’s door with groceries, tall frame filling the doorway, insisting that cooking together would be “less tragic” than Yeonjun’s takeout habit.

Other times it was quieter. Sitting on the couch together in the evening, Soobin bent over a book, Yeonjun scrolling absently through his phone. No pressure to fill the silence, no desperate need to impress. Just the sound of pages turning, the occasional brush of Soobin’s knee against his.

At first, Yeonjun found himself waiting for the catch. For the fire to consume itself, for the snow to melt away, for the spring to end. Every smile, every touch, every laugh felt like a gift he might have to return.

But Soobin never wavered.

When Yeonjun forgot to reply for hours, lost in his own head, Soobin didn’t sulk. He showed up anyway, knocking gently, carrying warm drinks.
When Yeonjun spiraled, confessing his fear that one day Soobin would wake up and realize he was too much, too broken, Soobin listened, nodded, and said simply, “Then I’ll remind you tomorrow, and the next day, until you believe me.”
When Yeonjun laughed—truly laughed, loud and unrestrained—Soobin’s face lit like it was the only sound in the world worth protecting.

One evening, they sat together on Yeonjun’s floor, the remains of dinner between them—two bowls, chopsticks clattering lazily on the plates. Music hummed faintly from his speakers, soft enough to blur into the background.

Yeonjun leaned back against the couch, watching Soobin gather the dishes. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

Soobin looked over his shoulder, amused. “What, clean up?”

“Yeah. Be here. Do all this.” Yeonjun’s voice softened, words stumbling into vulnerability. “You don’t have to stay.”

Soobin set the bowls down. He crossed the room, crouched in front of Yeonjun, and took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I know I don’t have to,” Soobin said gently. “I want to.”

Something in Yeonjun’s chest cracked then—not like breaking, but like a shell giving way to light.

Nights with Soobin became Yeonjun’s favorite thing. Not because they were extraordinary, but because they weren’t. Because they were steady. Because he could fall asleep with the warmth of Soobin’s arms around him, wake up to the quiet of another body breathing beside him, and realize that love didn’t have to feel like running, or fighting, or reaching for something that was always slipping away.

It could feel like this.

Love, he learned, wasn’t only in the confessions or the kisses. It was in Soobin bringing him tea without asking. In the way Soobin remembered his favorite part of a story and brought it up weeks later. In the way he stayed, not in grand gestures, but in a thousand small, ordinary choices.

And little by little, Yeonjun stopped bracing for the end.

One night, as rain tapped lightly against the window again, Yeonjun whispered into the quiet, “I’m scared.”

Soobin stirred behind him, half-asleep, and mumbled, “I know.” His hand found Yeonjun’s beneath the blanket, fingers weaving slow and sure. “Me too. But I’m not leaving.”

And in the hush of that moment, Yeonjun finally believed it.

Chapter Text

The drawer had been half-hidden, tucked beneath folded sweaters Yeonjun rarely wore. Soobin hadn’t been looking for secrets; he had just been searching for an extra blanket.

But the stack of envelopes was there, neat and deliberate. Each marked with a name.

Beomgyu.
Taehyun.
Kai.
And finally—his own.

Soobin froze, fingers brushing against the paper as though it might burn him. For a moment, jealousy pricked—sharp, instinctive—but it didn’t linger. What lingered was ache. Ache at the thought of Yeonjun pouring pieces of himself into letters that had never been read, bleeding words into silence because he had no one left to tell them to.

He sat on the edge of the bed and, slowly, carefully, began to read.

Beomgyu’s letter was fire—apologies written in ash, longing buried in sparks that never faded. Taehyun’s was snow—measured words, precise and restrained, but carrying the weight of love he had convinced himself was impossible to keep. Kai’s was spring—bright, aching with sweetness, grief tucked between petals.

Soobin’s chest tightened with each one, his throat thick. He wanted to go back in time, to find Yeonjun in each of those moments and hold him, tell him he deserved more than heartbreak disguised as love.

And then, trembling, he unfolded the letter with his own name on it.

This one was different. It spilled with warmth, with hope, with a longing that didn’t fear its own depth. Yeonjun had written of him not as someone lost, not as a memory, but as a future. As an anchor.

Soobin barely noticed the tears blurring his vision.
The Fourth Letter

My Dear Soobin,

I don’t know how to write this without trembling, but maybe that’s the truth of it: you make me tremble. Not out of fear, not out of doubt, but out of the terrifying beauty of realizing I finally want forever.

I’ve loved before. You know that. You’ve seen the ghosts in my eyes. Fire that left me ashes, snow that melted in my hands, spring that vanished with the wind. Every time, I told myself it was the end, that love wasn’t built to last for someone like me.

And then you.

You don’t blaze. You don’t vanish. You don’t wilt. You stay. You’re steady in ways I never knew I craved. You hold me when I’m shaking, not to stop the trembling but to let me know I don’t have to tremble alone. You make silence feel like music, like I don’t have to fill it with anything except the sound of my breathing beside yours.

I used to think love had to hurt to be real. That the ache was proof of depth, that the burn was proof of passion. But you’ve taught me something different. With you, love isn’t a storm to survive—it’s a home to rest in.

So this is my vow, written clumsy and unpolished on paper because sometimes I’m too afraid to say it aloud: I choose you. Today, tomorrow, and every day after. I choose mornings of coffee and laughter. I choose nights of rain and quiet. I choose the ordinary hours with you, because with you, nothing is ordinary.

And if one day you falter, if you doubt, if the world feels too heavy—I’ll choose you then too. Again, and again, until the end.

You are not my past. You are my present. You are my future. You are the man I love.

Always yours,
Yeonjun

The door creaked then, soft as a secret, and Yeonjun stepped inside. He paused, eyes catching on the envelopes scattered across Soobin’s lap. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy.

Then Yeonjun smiled—small, wry, almost shy. He crossed the room, slid easily onto Soobin’s lap, and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

“You found them,” he murmured.

Soobin swallowed, wrapping his arms around Yeonjun’s waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” Yeonjun’s fingers threaded gently through his hair. “I was going to show you eventually. They’re just… ghosts, I guess.”

“They’re pain,” Soobin whispered. “And you carried it alone.”

Yeonjun tilted his head, watching him with eyes that glimmered in the low light. “Not anymore.”

He reached for the letters, gathering them into his hands. One by one, he stacked them, then held them out. “I’m going to throw them away. All except yours.”

Soobin’s heart twisted. “You don’t have to. They’re part of you. Part of how you got here.”

But Yeonjun shook his head. “It's been years, babe. I already have the closure I needed. What I want now isn’t to hold on to the past. It’s to live you—the man I love. The one who stayed.”

Soobin kissed him then, slow and lingering, tasting the finality of the words.

Later, when Yeonjun carried the stack downstairs to the recycling bin, he didn’t notice the neighbor watching from across the hall. A kind, elderly woman, curious about the neat envelopes in his hand.

She smiled warmly. “Ah, letters. I’ll take those for you, dear. The post office is just around the corner.”

And Yeonjun, distracted and tired, didn’t correct her.

The next morning, in three different corners of the city, three different men opened their mailboxes to find a familiar name written on an envelope.

Beomgyu.
Taehyun.
Kai.
Yeonjun...

Their fingers stilled on the paper. Their hearts remembered.

And somewhere across town, Yeonjun woke in Soobin’s arms, blissfully unaware that the past he had finally released was already making its way back into the world.