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Wonjin always believed that love was supposed to feel like fire. That’s what everyone said, right? A blaze that consumes you. An ache that makes your chest hurt. The kind of thing where you can recognize it immediately. The type of fire you can’t mistake for anything else.
What he and Jungmo had… it wasn’t like that.
It was quiet. A candle instead of a wildfire. They’d linger in practice rooms long after the others left, humming songs that only the two of them knew. They shared headphones, split snacks, shared beds like it was the most natural thing in the world. If anyone teased them for being too close, Wonjin would laugh it off. It’s obvious! DUH! They were best friends. Brothers, almost. Platonic.
At least that’s what he told himself.
—
That night, the dorm was unusually silent. You could hear the rain pattering against the windows, the sky dim and grey, the roads empty but neon lights hung around. Wonjin was lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone with heavy eyelids. Jungmo sat on the floor beside him, strumming his guitar softly, whispering a song into the quiet room.
Wonjin glanced down at him. His long fingers hovering over the strings, hesitant, like they were searching for something unspoken.
“You’ve been off lately.” Wonjin teased, nudging his shoulder with his foot.
Jungmo smiled faintly, but didn’t look up. “Maybe.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
For a moment, Jungmo ignored the question and kept playing. Then, with a sigh, he set the guitar aside. He tilted his head back against the couch, his hair brushing Wonjin’s knee. His eyelids drooped heavily, making Wonjin’s chest tighten.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jungmo said slowly, “about us.”
Wonjin raised his eyebrow. “Us?”
Jungmo nodded. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, as though the words weighed so much to release all at once. “I don’t think I can keep pretending anymore.”
Wonjin’s heart stumbled in his chest. He didn’t know why. He forced out a laugh, easing out the uncomfortable silence that sat between them. “Pretending what? That you lost a game against me?”
But Jungmo didn’t laugh. He sat up instead, shifting closer, so close that Wonjin could see his hands shaking.
“That it’s just friendship.” Jungmo whispered.
The words hung in the air, torturous and discomforting.
Wonjin froze. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He tried again. “What do you mean?”
“I mean–” Jungmo’s voice broke, but he pushed forward, every word like a confession he carved from his ribcage.
“I’m in love with you, Wonjin. Not the way friends or brothers love each other. Not like stupid crushes you get when you’re in middle school. I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”
Time froze. Wonjin could hear the rain getting heavier, his own pulse beating so loud that he couldn’t hear Jungmo’s heavy breathing.
Jungmo’s gaze didn't waver. His eyes glistened, desperate, afraid, hopeful all at once. “Please… tell me you feel it too.”
Wonjin’s throat went dry. His mind scrambled for a base to start on, the certainty he always believed he had.
But all he could think was: this isn’t fire. This is not what love is supposed to be.
Wonjin swallowed hard. “Jungmo… you’re my best friend.”
Jungmo flinched; Wonjin’s words, soft yet sharp, cut through him like paper slicing a fingertip.
“No, listen,” Wonjin said quickly, sitting up straight, reaching for Jungmo’s shoulder. His hand hovered, then fell back into his lap. “I care about you so much. You’re the person I trust more than anyone. I can’t imagine life without you. But I thought we were just friends? Isn’t that what this is?”
Wonjin’s voice cracked, softer now, pleading. “Isn’t that enough for you?”
Jungmo’s eyes shut tight. A shaky breath escaped him, something between a laugh and a sob. “Enough? For me? Wonjin, I’ve been yearning my entire existence for you. Do you know how many chances I let slip waiting for you to see me?”
Wonjin’s stomach sank. He wanted to rewind the moment, hit his head with common sense, swallow his words back down, to pretend that none of this was ever spoken aloud. But Jungmo’s pain was there. Bare, raw, and irreversible.
“I thought you knew,” Jungmo whispered. His hands gripping his pajama pants, white knuckled. “Every time I stay up late waiting for you to come home. Every time I bought you something that reminded me of you, the excuse to sit next to you, the songs I’d share hoping you’d hear what I couldn’t say out loud. I thought you felt it too.”
Wonjin’s lips trembled. “I… I didn’t know.”
Silence fell heavy between them.
Jungmo stood up, his frame casting a shadow across the room. He looked down at Wonjin with an expression that shattered the other. Something between love and defeat, as if Jungmo already lost before he ever had the chance to win.
“The worst part is that,” Jungmo started again. “You don’t even realize it.”
He turned towards the hallway. His footsteps were slow, hesitant, like he’s waiting for something to be said.
Wonjin wanted to call after him, to beg him to stay, to promise he’d figure it out, that maybe one day Wonjin could love Jungmo like that. But the words were never spoken out loud.
He sat there, frozen, his heart pounding in his chest.
—
Later, lying in his bed, Wonjin stared at the ceiling. His chest ached, not like fire, but like something colder. A kind of grief he couldn’t name.
Images replayed over and over: Jungmo’s trembling hands, his breaking voice, the way his eyes had searched for an answer Wonjin couldn’t give.
For the first time, Wonjin wondered if he’d been wrong all along. If love didn’t always feel like fire. Maybe sometimes it was quiet and unassuming. Maybe it had been right there in front of him, in the late night cuddles and shared laughter and lingering touches. Wonjin was too blind to even notice it.
But now, it was far too late.
Because the moment had come and gone, and all Wonjin had offered was friendship.
And for Jungmo, it’ll never be enough.
—
Wonjin pressed his hand to his chest, trying to steady the hollow hole etched into his heart. He thought of knocking on Jungmo’s door. Maybe Wonjin just needed time.
But he didn’t move.
The rain kept falling, drowning out the words he would never say.
And somewhere down the hall, Jungmo lay awake too, with a heart that had finally spoken, only to be left unanswered.