Archive of Our Own ^beta

Flowers teach us that nothing is permanent: not their beauty, not even the fact that they will inevitably wilt, because they will still give new seeds.

Remember this when you feel joy, pain, or sadness. Everything passes, grows old, dies, and is reborn.

– Paulo Coelho

The sun casts fleeting patterns across the side of the tent.

Are you leaving?

He looks down and meets a pair of eyes gazing up at him, two dark pools glimmering in a field of skin. Despite the sweat clinging to her furrowed brow, her body shivers relentlessly, chasing a warmth that will never come. With each tremor, the thudding in his own chest grows heavier.

Outside, he hears the last of the tents being folded up, the last of the mules trotting away. Their families are among the exodus, their footsteps fading into the distance. He knows they will not wait. For a long moment, he watches as the light in the tent begins to dim before closing his eyes. He wraps his arms more tightly around her and presses his nose into her hair, just as he’d done countless times before.

No. I’m not.

A kiss to her temple.

Not when you haven’t finished telling me that story I like.

Through the shudders, he feels a smile press against his collar.

Alright, then. Where was I?

From far in the distance, he hears the winds of the approaching storm begin to howl.

Start from the beginning, will you?

–fall

fall

falling

falling—

Geonwook's eyes blinked open.

He sat on the stone floor of the pavilion, listening to the distant clash of spears from soldiers drilling in the fields below.

His gaze moved slowly across the room, not in search of anything, but in quiet recognition. As a child, this had been his favorite spot in the palace to hide away during the rare times he wanted to be alone. Even in the fading light of sunset, memories stood out sharply from every corner: chips in the paint from play-scuffles with his brother, lines scratched on the far pillar where he'd measured his height, year after year. The pavilion had remembered it all.

But beyond its walls, the world was shifting. War was being waged, though it had not yet reached the capital. His father swore it never would, always leaning past his aides during counsel to dismiss him, his youngest son, with a flick of his hand. But Geonwook had heard the anxious murmurs in the courtyards, had seen the dread in his brother's eyes. Even the plum blossoms peeking through the panels around him seemed to sense the dark shadows that crept north, their petals stubbornly remaining shut.

The moon began to peer through the trees, and a soft pat-pat of footsteps approached the stairs to the pavilion. Before the visitor spoke, Geonwook already knew who it was.

"Pack your things,” came the whisper from the steps. Though his mother’s voice was steady, it trembled at the edges, like silk fraying under strain. "We must leave quickly. Your brother and father are already heading north to Uiju, where it will be calmer."

This too, he had predicted. Releasing a slow exhale, he voiced the reply he’d been rehearsing in his head for some time now.

"If the palace falls, I wish to fall with it."

In the shadows, he saw that her hair was down, and she was dressed not in her royal garments, but in the plain clothes of a commoner. A light caught in her eyes for a quick second, revealing the slightest glint of unshed tears. Sorrow squeezed his chest at the sight of it, and with every bone in his body, he willed a prayer to his ancestors, begging them to protect her. When the quiver of his lip stilled, he listened to his mother as she spoke to him for the last time.

"Be brave, son," she said quietly, already turning to leave. "And when the war ends, we will walk and laugh together in these gardens once again."

:: :: ::

In the clearing across the river, there was a young man who practiced archery against the ash trees from time to time. He was often accompanied by other soldiers and always surrounded by the sound of laughter.

Today, he and his friends had cast their bows aside and were sparring with practice swords, shouting and filling the air with the clacks of wood against wood. The archer was the smallest of them, yet he fought impressively, striking with quick and precise movements.

Geonwook watched as the man lunged toward his opponent, his robe sliding open just enough to reveal the firm slopes of muscle along his chest before vanishing again. The sight, though it had lasted only for a second, startled Geonwook. He hadn't expected such strength to lie beneath those robes.

Instinctively, he leaned forward, squinting for a better look, when he realized with a start that the archer was staring directly back at him – mirroring his gaze with curious, almost laughing eyes. Heat rushed up Geonwook's neck, and he opened his mouth, grasping for an excuse–

"Sir?"

He spun around. Yuseop, his own sparring partner, stood waiting with a wooden sword in each hand.

"Is something the matter?"

As a son of the king, Geonwook had been taught that to falter was to show weakness. He quickly cleared his throat, nodding toward the commotion on the opposite bank.

"Just thinking how fearsome our enemy must be, that even our archers have taken up swords."

Following the prince's gesture with a glance, Yuseop gave a small smile before offering him the hilt of one sword.

"Shall we continue, sir?"

They faced each other once more, yet Geonwook's gaze strayed. Across the river, the archer now stood with his back towards him, broad shoulders shaking with laughter at his comrades. Yuseop commenced their match with a diagonal blow to his side, which Geonwook blocked without looking.

Their training continued as the sun crawled across the sky. All the while, Geonwook's eyes continued to betray him, wandering again and again to that distant figure across the river, who never once turned back.

:: :: ::

Another counsel meeting, another grim report. A messenger had arrived from the south, the back of his hair matted with long-dried blood. The Japanese had taken the city of Gumi, he reported, and were now approaching inland. The general dismissed him from the court before turning to the room with a heavy expression.

"Beyond this, the townspeople are growing restless," he warned. A pause to look straight at Geonwook. "Rumors are spreading that the king, queen, and crown prince have abandoned the capital… leaving our people to die."

Afterwards, Geonwook trudged slowly by the river, the conversation circling around his mind. Should he have fled with them, his family? Were they safe? And another thought that struck him like cold water: if the enemy reached the capital tomorrow, would he be ready?

He took another step, deep in thought, when suddenly, many things happened all at once. An arrow hissed past his face, sending a short and powerful gust that shook the strands of hair from his forehead, and he leapt back, hands darting to his scabbard. Behind him came cries of alarm and the sharp ring of swords unsheathing as his guards flew into defense.

And then, silence.

Without moving, Geonwook slid his gaze sideways from beneath the rim of his hat. There, across the river, stood the archer.

The young man was frozen, eyes wide in dawning realization, before he snapped into a deep bow. His voice rang out across the water.

"My apologies!" His head stayed low, showing that the tips of his ears were bright red, the color of magnolia berries. The sound of his voice, nearly breathless, carried a certain boyish sincereness to it – a sound so endearing that the moment Geonwook heard it, he had already forgiven him.

"Do you threaten the prince?" a guard yelled from behind him, other voices clamoring in to raise similar concerns. The archer straightened his back but kept his head ducked, a mortified expression on his face, one that – in all the afternoons Geonwook had spent watching him across the river – he had never once seen. Biting his lip to keep from laughing, he lifted a hand.

"Enough." His eyes never left the archer. "This soldier was merely working on his terrible aim. How else do you expect us to defeat the Japanese?"

"A court-martial is still in order, sir. If the arrow had hit you…"

Geonwook shook his head.

"Surely, our courts have more pressing matters to weigh than a single stray arrow." He turned to face his guards, his tone light and teasing. "Let me punish him myself. I could use a new sparring partner."

From the corner of his eye, he caught the archer’s face brighten, then quickly sober again, as if remembering the disgrace he was in. The flicker of that smile was enough to draw Geonwook's own to the surface at last.

"Your name?" Geonwook called across the bridge. 

The man met his eyes with the hint of a grin. "Seok Hyunwoo," came the reply.

:: :: ::

In a matter of weeks, Geonwook and Hyunwoo had become inseparable.

Despite their difference in height, Hyunwoo proved an excellent sparring partner, matching Geonwook’s speed and size with precision and power. Even beyond the training grounds, their kinship was blooming fast. Hyunwoo seemed to always know what the other was thinking before he spoke, always laughed at the same absurdities, always shed the same tears. Not a day passed where they weren't together, and during the times they were apart, Geonwook found his thoughts constantly drifting towards the other. The sound when he laughed, the squint in his eyes when he was concentrating, the sturdy lines in his fingers as they wrapped around an arrow – these fleeting moments filled the silences in his mind.

Though their upbringings had been worlds apart, there was something in Hyunwoo’s unflinching solitude that felt familiar, as if he’d known him all his life. He had left his family years ago, during the first grumblings of war, journeying alone from the east with his late father’s bow to chase that noble dream of every young man: to defend his kingdom. They shared the same resolve, the same pride, and Geowook came to regard him as an equal. So when he offered Hyunwoo half of his bedroom in the palace, away from the crowded barracks below, it felt not like charity, but instead, the most natural thing in the world.

When the Japanese army (which, for months, had been in combat without a break) eventually reached the capital that summer, they were defeated in merely a handful of days, quickly retreating back south. The victory finally broke the spell of darkness that had been looming over the city for the past year, and one by one, the shops and drinking houses began to dust open their doors until all the main streets had sprung back into life.

As the days bled into autumn with no signs of a second invasion, the soldiers began to grow reckless, drinking, seeking out women, and forgetting the discipline of practice. Only Geonwook and Hyunwoo returned to the riverbank everyday, without fail, to train.

One afternoon, however, Hyunwoo was late. Geonwook waited, spinning his blade aimlessly for some time, until eventually growing irritated by the bright sun in his eyes and went in search of his comrade. It was around the southern end of the palace that he finally caught sight of him, standing near the paneled window at the end of the corridor. He began to take a step closer, opening his mouth to tease him – when another voice rang out, light and high. Instantly, Geonwook stilled, then stepped into the shadows.

A small woman in a simple, faded blue hanbok stepped into the corridor, bowing with a tray of tea and rice cakes in her arms. It was Hana, one of the younger maids who was known even beyond the palace for her beauty. He could not hear their words, but he watched closely at the way Hyunwoo and Hana ducked their heads together as they spoke, bashfully, like children. And slowly, it began to dawn on him. The image before him was one he had seen a hundred times before, painted in sweeping murals that lined the palace halls – those delicate scenes of men and women, the subtle gestures between lovers.

The floor gave a sudden creak beneath him. Hyunwoo lifted his head toward the sound, but before he could be caught, Geonwook slipped away. His face was burning, his steps nearly breaking out into a run as something bitter and shameful bloomed in his chest. It was envy – not of the man, but of the woman.

:: :: ::

He spent the rest of the day in the pavilion where he'd last seen his mother, skipping stones across the pond and plucking restless chords on his lute until the sky deepened into indigo. Only when the night markets below the hill grew quiet did he make his way back into the palace, praying that Hyunwoo would be fast asleep. 

The palace was silent, save for the distant song of a lone magpie that the night breeze had carried indoors. Geonwook padded on light feet to their shared room and, sensing the stillness inside, carefully slid the door open. Immediately, his eyes fell to the space where Hyunwoo usually slept, on the floor by the window, and saw that it was empty. His bedding sat in his place, neatly folded against the wall, undisturbed from the morning. Ignoring the cold pit that was forming in his stomach, he began to shake off his robes, turning to head toward his own bed, before he stopped.

So there he is, was all he thought.

Stretched across the silk covers of Geonwook’s bed was Hyunwoo, his eyes closed, breathing softly. His hands were curled atop one another, and drenched in moonlight, his features looked ceramic, like lines carved along the surface of a pale buncheong vase.

Geonwook remained still, watching the rise and fall of the other man's chest. He had seen Hyunwoo sleep too many times to know better: it was an act. He was awake and had, for some deliberate reason, taken the royal bed – perhaps to provoke him. A flash of irritation ran through him, but he bit his tongue and swiveled back around, teeth gritted, to lay out Hyunwoo's unused bedding. Before he could, however, a hand caught his wrist.

A long moment passed before either of them spoke.

“You’re an awful actor, you know,” Geonwook said at last, turning.

Hyunwoo had propped himself up on one elbow, dark hair falling into his eyes. His face looked drowsy, almost sullen, though his grip was firm.

“If you weren't going to come to the riverbank, you could've sent a messenger,” said Hyunwoo. A petulant look passed over his features. "I waited for you until the sun set."

Guilt pricked at Geonwook. Lost in his own feelings, he hadn’t realized how long Hyunwoo had waited for him – although at the same time, anger rose just as quickly. After all, it was Hyunwoo who had been late in the first place, lingering in the corridors to play with a woman.

The fingers around his wrist went loose. Hyunwoo’s hand slipped away, sliding down to reach behind the bed. When he straightened again, he was holding a square tray, covered with a simple wrapping cloth. Geonwook looked at him quizzingly, and Hyunwoo offered him a small smile.

“You weren’t at dinner either,” he murmured, pressing the tray into Geonwook’s hands.

Beneath the cloth lay a plate of pink and white honey rice cakes that were shaped into half-moons. Geonwook’s heart sank upon the realization that they were the very ones he'd seen Hana give earlier that day. His first thought was to reject them, lifting his arms to push the tray away, when his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.

Hyunwoo laughed heartily, the sound cutting through the tense air between them. Flushing, Geonwook fought back his own sheepish smile and sank onto the edge of the bed, reaching to bite into a rice cake. Hunger overcame pride, and soon he was eating without restraint. As the ice in his heart melted, he braved a glance at Hyunwoo, who was watching him eat with his head resting on an elbow, his expression unreadable. Geonwook returned his gaze to the tray on his lap, listening to the night breathing softly through the trees, before he spoke.

“That servant girl gave these to you, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but how…?” Hyunwoo blinked. “So you were watching?”

Geonwook stuffed the last of the cakes into his mouth and gave an infinitesimal nod. He chewed slowly, his mind racing to form his next sentence, then swallowed hard.

“I’ll give you a word of advice,” he began, mustering the authority of a prince. “For soldiers to chase romance… now, at a time when the enemy could strike again at any moment… When none of us are promised tomorrow… It's selfish. Why burden a lover with grief?”

Silence stretched. Geonwook felt his ears burning and kept his head pointed down, unwilling to reveal how raw the words left him. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Hyunwoo’s lips part, then close again.

At last, Hyunwoo spoke, careful and deliberate.

“I think the opposite,” he said quietly. “If tomorrow is never promised… isn’t that all the more reason to hold someone today?”

The words landed like an arrow close to the heart. The archer had given voice to the very longing he'd kept buried – for the kind of love he had always denied himself as a son of the king. A love that he had silently been hoping for from one man in particular, though the reality of his delusion now crashed down on him. He had always known such feelings could lead nowhere, but the meaning behind the archer’s words pierced him all the same: the heart of his beloved belonged to another.

"So you're pursuing her," he managed, feeling the resignation of a swallow flying into a storm it cannot outpace.

But Hyunwoo shook his head. 

"What are you going on about now?" he murmured, rolling onto his back to look at the ceiling. "If I’ve bothered you because you’re in love with her, you have nothing to worry about. I’m not foolish enough to stand in a prince’s way.”

“I – what nonsense. That’s not...” Geonwook cleared his throat to untangle the words inside. “I’m not in love with her.”

Hyunwoo tilted his head down for their eyes to meet. His expression softened, stripped of its usual playfulness.

“Well, alright,” he said. “Neither am I.”

A pause lingered, long enough that Geonwook almost believed the other had fallen asleep, until Hyunwoo’s voice stirred the silence again.

“You advise me against romance, then?”

Geonwook shifted his gaze upwards, toward the rafters on the ceiling. “I’m only warning you not to be careless,” he muttered.

“What a shame,” said Hyunwoo, sighing. “There was someone I wanted to pursue.”

Heat coiled in Geonwook’s chest again, sharp with jealousy, though he fought to mask it. The thought of Hyunwoo taking a lover had already weighed him down the whole day; there was not much more he could take. He closed his eyes.

“Who?”

In the dark, he heard a faint exhale of air escape Hyunwoo’s lips before he spoke.

“The one I waited at the riverbank for. The one who didn’t come.”

Geonwook’s breath caught in his throat. His body stilled, as if any movement might shatter the fragile revelation that hung between them. For the first time that night, he dared to meet Hyunwoo’s gaze completely, unflinchingly – and the look he found there burned stronger than any flame.

“Are you saying what I think you mean?” His ears were pounding with the sound of his heartbeat. 

The corners of Hyunwoo’s lip tilted upwards, ever so slightly. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” the archer replied. “Show me.”

Geonwook’s body began to move on its own, the challenge trembling through him. Slowly, he leaned closer, bringing his palm up to press against Hyunwoo’s abdomen, and faintly registered the muscles there, hardened from a life of exertion. He slid it up towards the broad plane of his chest and there, he felt it – the same wild rhythm as his own, beating in unison like war drums. His eyes shot back and forth between Hyunwoo’s, desperately in search of the smallest warning to stop. When none came, he bent down until his hair touched skin, the faint, sweet smell of honey lingering between their mixed breaths.

A hand slipped up the back of Geonwook’s neck, fingers threading into the hair there. Nails grazed lightly at his scalp and tugged, tilting his head back a fraction of an inch. 

“And what about your ‘word of advice,’ Prince?” His eyes gleamed, a cosmos in the moonlight.

A thumb grazed a circle at the end of Geonwook’s nape, and in an instant, every clever reply vanished from his mind.

“Forget it,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, and closed the distance between them. 

Their lips met tentatively at first, then deeper, hungrier – making up for the words they didn’t dare to speak aloud. Geonwook clutched at all he could grab ahold of, startled by the heat of him, startled too by his own courage, by the depth of his desire. Their kisses then began to wander, the silk beneath them sighing with every movement, lapping at their sides like tides as their bodies melded together, two rivers trickling into one. The room seemed to shrink until it held only the fever of their breaths, as Geonwook showed Hyunwoo his answer, again and again and again.

Later, as rays of light began to creep in from the horizon, the prince lay with his head pillowed against the archer’s shoulder, watching the quiet rise and fall of his sleeping chest, just as he’d done countless times before.

:: :: ::

The first snowfall of the year. Two bodies huddled under a quilt on the ondol floor.

Can I tell you something? 

What is it?

The first time we met, do you remember–?

When you tried to kill me?

Hey, I never meant to–!

Haha, it’s alright, I know. Your mistake is forgiven.

Well, you see, that’s the thing. It wasn’t exactly a mistake.

Oh?

That day, I purposefully shot the arrow towards you because I… I wanted your attention.

A bark of laughter, warm and pure.

Aren't you just trying to salvage your reputation as an archer?

And, left unspoken: 

(It was already yours. Long before then.)

:: :: ::

When the Japanese struck again, it was by complete surprise. Waves of nobori banners appeared over the hills at dawn, their drums rattling like a storm through the frost. The Joseon army scrambled for their armor, and Geonwook found himself shouting orders left and right, sword in hand, charging with the vanguard across the bridges of the river.

He was a skilled fighter, among the best in the kingdom. Those who had seen him in action would say that he fought as if possessed – his movements fluid, his blade relentless. He lost himself in this trancelike state completely, blocking and striking with instinct more than thought, driving his sword into every gap that armor left bare. His own armor, painted with the blood of his enemies, rattled against his body as he pressed on, blind to the blistering winter winds, sustained only by the fever of battle.

Only when a thunderous crack split through the clash of steel did this fever break. Geonwook shot his head up, following the sound with his eyes, and felt his blood run cold. Firearms. He’d heard of them, those foreign weapons that spat out fire, promising death. Against such weapons, the swords of Joseon could not prevail.

He whirled toward Hyunwoo, who had been fighting close by his side, guarding his flank. Beneath the layers of blood and sweat, he was almost unrecognizable – a thought that flickered vaguely as Geonwook scanned him once over for wounds. Finding none, he shouted his orders. “Get to the palace walls! Use your bow, and aim for the ones with muskets!”

Hyunwoo nodded, eyes flicking to his and lingering there for a short second. Then he was off, sprinting toward the bridge to cross the river. Geonwook forced himself not to look after him, knowing he could not afford the weakness. Beneath all his jests, he had faith in Hyunwoo’s aim; if anyone could thin the line of musketeers, it was him.

The battle dragged on until the sky turned black. Geonwook’s muscles screamed, his blade growing heavy, but he knew victory was almost within reach. With one more push he began to lift his sword, preparing to charge through the last of the attackers, when he noticed a sensation at his back. Heat, he registered, in the dead of winter. Then, he heard the crackle. 

Upon turning, his body stood frozen, unable to comprehend the sight before him. The darkness in the sky was not night, but smoke, rising in black plumes above the palace where flames were bursting between  pillars, basking the snow around it with a halo of trembling light. Through the thickening smoke, he caught a flash of movement in the distance – shadows running from the fire, tossing dead torches behind them. There were no weapons in their hands nor armor on their backs – only the familiar, soft shapes of cotton and silk he’d seen so often, fluttering in the streets below the palace. At last, Geonwook understood. The townspeople are growing restless, the general had once said. The words now echoed in his mind, a haunting reprise.

Before the thought could settle, another voice rose up to drown it – this time, his own. Hyunwoo. His chest seized in alarm as he remembered, not long ago, those familiar brown eyes that had peered up at him behind sweat-drenched hair, ready to heed his command. Get to the palace walls! 

In an instant, any sense of duty toward his name, his kingdom, or his men vanished entirely as Geonwook broke out into a run, tearing across the battlefield in search of his archer. When he reached the river, he stopped short, his chest seizing, and cursed aloud. The bridge was engulfed in flames, red ribbons of scorching heat crawling greedily along its length until it cracked apart, hissing as splintered chunks plunged into the icy, black current below.

He stood helpless, the distance between them now a chasm of both water and fire. The air was thicker here, the smoke harsh, and when he cried out Hyunwoo’s name, each syllable slashed his throat, filling his lungs with ash. Shadows and sparks darted across his vision while the roar of the blaze drowned out the fading screams of men, and he stumbled forward, choking on air, until his knees gave way near the river’s edge and sent him plummeting towards the ground.

Though his consciousness was starting to flicker in and out, he managed to lift his head. Through the wall of gray, a figure began to take shape across the water, crumpled on the shore. The curve of broad shoulders. The fall of dark hair. Everything was blurring together, but he strained his eyes, calling out his lover’s name like a mantra, mustering what little strength he had left to stay awake – and as he squinted through the thickening smoke – the clouds gradually began to part, and soon he was able to see–

in the clearing across the river– 

a young man who would practice archery against the ash trees, and–

–fall

ing–

–alling

falling

falling

falling

falling

falling

fall–

– crash.

The cup split apart on the floor, porcelain shards scattering across the floor beneath the lamplight as her father rose from his seat. He did not look at her. From where she knelt, Gunhae could see the veins in his neck drawn taut, his breath measured and thin. The tea seeping into her robe was beginning to burn her knee, but she didn’t dare move. With a flick of his hand, he motioned for the maids to clean the spill.

“Tomorrow morning, you will write a letter of apology to your husband. And in two months, when he visits – if he agrees to take you back – you will return with him back to Gangwon-do.” His voice was calm, each word deliberate; to an outsider, it might have even passed for kindness. “Understood?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes down as the maids’ cloths whispered against the floor beside her. Her father turned towards the door. Before leaving, he paused, his long shadow spilling over her across the floorboards, and cast her one final look.

“Do not bring dishonor to this family again.”

And with that, he was gone.

:: :: ::

The next morning, after the letter was sent, Gunhae asked her servant to take her to the market to look at flowers. The market was sprawled under an old Buddhist temple she remembered from her childhood, from the years before marriage had sent her east. She had always found it beautiful, its tiled roof arching above the stalls like the bones of a great whale, suspended mid-flight, and there was comfort in knowing that after all the years she’d been away, it had remained unchanged.

Among the crowded stalls, one had caught her eye since her return to Gyeongseong: a modest table that mainly sold offerings for passing monks with a handful of decorative flowers on the side. She bowed as she approached and pointed at a bundle of pink azaleas that were delicately composed in the Japanese style, flashing a practiced smile to the shopkeeper. As the woman began to wrap her flowers, Gunhae’s gaze drifted to her hands, absentmindedly watching the rise and fall of her slender wrists, pale fingers moving deftly around the angles of each stem, and her mind began to wander.

How had life gotten to this point? She and her husband had married when she was still small enough to fit beneath his arm, though in the years that followed, she had outgrown both the arm and the comfort it once promised. Now, nearly a decade later, he knew her every insecurity by heart – her height, her voice, loud and unwomanly – and wielded them like weapons whenever he was displeased. As she looked at the shopkeeper before her, small and graceful, with lashes soft like brushstrokes against her smooth, high cheekbones, Gunhae felt a familiar sting of comparison. The thought came unbidden: she's the kind of woman he wished he had instead.

Suddenly, as if summoned by her painful thoughts, a tickle started in her throat. It was a faint scratch at first, but deepened the more she tried to suppress it. Panic flared in her chest, and when it grew unbearable, she shot her hand out of its sleeve, fumbling for her handkerchief; though by then, it was too late. The cough tore through her, a harsh and grating sound that reverberated through her body with each hack. Around her, the hum of the market faltered, heads turning toward the noise. The flower-seller’s eyes met hers, startled, as Gunhae stumbled quickly away back towards the market’s entrance, her breath ragged, waving hastily at her servant to settle the payment.

:: :: ::

It was late afternoon when she returned to the estate. The sun had gone pale behind a gauze of clouds, washing the courtyard in a dull, grayish light. She took a cup of tea in silence, feeling the liquid warm her throat, before stepping out the back into the garden with her new flowers cradled in her arms.

Her mother was sitting on a stone bench in the middle of the garden, her posture upright and hair pinned away from her face. The layers of her hanbok draped neatly around her without a single crease in the fabric. She was facing away, eyes closed, with a small, serene curve in her lips. For a moment, Gunhae stood still and watched, something tender rising in her chest.

Quietly, she took a seat on the bench, placing the azaleas down beside her, and slid a palm over her mother’s hand, which was resting on her lap. The world was silent, save for the sound of the wind as it threaded through the trees and blossoms around the garden, branches creaking above them. Gunhae studied her mother’s face, slowly tracing each new line that had formed around her eyes since the last time she had seen her. 

When her mother finally opened her eyes, they were clear and bright, almost childlike. Their eyes met, and they regarded each other for a moment without speaking, until the smile suddenly dropped from her face.

“Gunhae-yah, why is your hair tied up like that? Tell the maid to braid it. When your fiancé comes for dinner, he’ll get the wrong idea,” she said, her brow furrowed.

Gunhae hesitated for a moment. She knew her mother had begun to grow confused from time to time, but hadn’t yet seen it in person. She recalled the advice her aunt had once written to her in a letter: just agree.

“For your father’s sake, we can’t allow this deal to go poorly,” her mother was saying.

Gunhae smiled faintly. “I know, I will,” she replied. “But first, look what I brought.”

She lifted the flowers into her lap. In the colorless light, their vivid, pink hues glowed like embers.

“We can plant them out here, if you’d like. Or keep them somewhere inside.”

The concern softened away from her mother's face again. “Oh, how beautiful,” she whispered, taking the bundle from her and turning it in her hands. As she did, Gunhae noticed a single purple flower, a hibiscus, tucked in the back between the stems. She reached for it and, pulling it out, found that a small slip of paper had been tied around it with a frayed string. Carefully, she unravelled it, revealing a short scrawl of letters.

For your health, it said, simply.

Gunhae blinked. Images from earlier that morning flashed before her – the flower-seller, her quiet gaze as she had burst out coughing, her lithe fingers paused around the azaleas – and felt warmth rise in her cheeks. Without thinking, she slipped both the note and flower into her sleeve.

Her mother, oblivious, was still admiring the flowers, eyes crinkled with joy.

“How beautiful!” she said again, and let out a delighted laugh that pierced through the grays of the garden like sunlight.

:: :: ::

When Gunhae returned to the market a few days later under the pretense of buying fabrics for a new robe, she spotted the flower-seller in her usual place, speaking with two customers. The woman was dressed in a plain white hanbok, the sash cinched neatly at the curve of her waist, and Gunhae felt her heart race a little at the sight. It was strange – just a week ago, this woman had been just another part of the scenery, blended into the colors of the market.

From a few paces behind, Gunhae could feel her servant’s inquisitive gaze boring holes into the back of her head, so she quickly continued on her way, stepping toward a stall that sold sheets of dyed fabrics. She feigned interest in a piece of whitish-blue silk, running her fingers over its cool, glossy surface, and exchanged a few pleasantries with the merchant. When the time came to pay, she waved her servant toward the stall and, while the girl was distracted counting coins, slipped quietly towards the flower stall.

The shopkeeper was still speaking to the same two men, her voice projecting far with a tone that was both polite and assertive. It wasn’t the kind of voice Gunhae expected from someone with such delicate features. As she approached, the woman noticed her and smiled, offering a brief bow, before returning her attention to her customers.

Gunhae stood close by, glancing around the stall. The table was fairly empty today; only a few stray blooms remained, wilting quietly in shallow bowls. Near the corner closest to her was a splash of red – around four or five flowers huddled together, resembling peonies. She bent closer, expecting a sweet scent, but there was nothing. Only the faintest trace of morning dew.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

Gunhae straightened. The two men had gone, and the woman was watching her with a warm smile. She nodded toward the flowers.

“Camellias can be so vibrant, but they don’t smell like anything at all.”

Gunhae took another look at the blossoms, each one a flurry of petals whirling out from its heart. “People only buy them for their appearance, then?”

“Sometimes people buy them for their meaning,”

“Their meaning?”

With warm, brown eyes that caught the light of the sunset, the woman met her gaze. “It means, I love you,” she said softly. “If you want, you can have them.”

A flush rose to Gunhae’s cheeks. She wasn’t sure why – she was never the type to be shy – but something about the moment unsteadied her. She bowed her head slightly as she accepted the flowers, ignoring the thrum in her chest when their fingers brushed.

“Do all flowers have meanings? Like the one you snuck into my bouquet the other day.”

“Ah, well, I–” The woman blinked, caught off guard. “I hope you didn’t mind. It’s meant to wish good health–”

“No, no,” Gunhae hurriedly stopped her, though she found it difficult to meet the other woman’s eyes. It felt as if with one look, she might see straight through her. “I found it… rather cute.”

The other smiled, a look of relief passing openly through her bright features. A hint of pink colored her cheeks. “I’m glad,” she replied. 

For a moment neither of them spoke; the air between them felt oddly charged, muffling the noises of the market around them. Out of the corner of her eye, Gunhae saw her servant approaching from the other stall with a bundle of fabric in her arms and gave a small bow with her head towards the woman.

“I must go, but thank you for these,” she said, briefly lifting the red camellias in her hand, and hurriedly turned to meet her servant.

:: :: ::

The woman’s name was Wooyeon, Gunhae learned over the next few days as she found herself inventing one reason or another to return to the market. Wooyeon fascinated her – the way she continuously slipped free of every assumption Gunhae tried to place upon her. She had the innocent look of a young woman, yet she was five years Gunhae’s senior; she lived in a women’s house on temple grounds, yet claimed no faith. Most curious of all: despite her age and beauty, she was unmarried.

These incongruities between appearance and truth drew Gunhae in with a captivation she had not felt in years. They awakened something long dormant, a spark of charm that made the world feel exciting again. So when, one afternoon, Wooyeon suddenly invited her to share a bottle of makgeolli gifted by another shopkeeper, Gunhae, despite knowing full well her family would disapprove, heard herself agree.

As she stood before the simple, white clay house with a black paneled roof, half veiled by the sweeping branches of an old oak tree, the air threaded with the sharp scent of rain and pine, she felt a tremor of nerves slip through her. Her servant, who had accompanied her excursion, glanced around the quiet grounds with wide eyes.

“Go home and tell them I’ve gone straight to bed with a fever,” Gunhae murmured, pressing a few heavy coins into the girl’s palm. She waited, watching her hurry back along the path they had come from until her figure vanished behind the temple gates. Only then did Gunhae turn toward the house again. Unease stirred in her chest, but something warmer and more reckless urged her forward. She lifted her hand and knocked.

A moment passed. Then, from inside, came Wooyeon’s voice.

“Come in!”

As she slid the wooden door open, a breath of steam and warm air met her, fragrant with savory oils and peppers and something vaguely sweet. Inside, the house was straightforward: two narrow rooms divided by a wooden beam, the floors polished and dotted with a scatter of red and blue cushions. A relaxed, golden light came from a low lamp set near the hearth, where a thin column of smoke was curling upward to dissolve into the rafters. A few clay jars lined the wall, neatly arranged beside a trickle of earthen bowls under the window, flowers of every color peeking out from them.

Wooyeon was kneeling before a low table, setting down a small stone pot with a towel. Her hair was tied loosely at her nape, a few strands falling to frame her face. The instant their eyes met, the concentration on her face melted into a beaming smile.

“Please, sit!” she said, her eyes twinkling in the glow of the lamp. “You’re just in time.”

Gunhae stepped out of her shoes and hesitatingly crossed the threshold. Her gaze was still caught on the table, startled. The spread was far more elaborate than she’d expected: a pot of doenjang stew, its surface crowded with pieces of clear radish, tofu, and a tumble of wild greens; small plates of salted fish, kimchi, and seasoned vegetables beside it; and two bowls of freshly steamed rice. And in the center of it all, a single camellia leaned over the rim of a porcelain cup, its petals orange in the low light.

Gunhae was still staring after Wooyeon darted into the adjoining room, returning with a white jug tucked under her arm and two faded porcelain bowls. It had dawned on her, with perturbing clarity, how much this must have cost Wooyeon. She wasn’t foolish; she knew the woman did not come from wealth. And yet she had prepared all of this for her.

When Wooyeon realized she was still standing there, unmoving, she tilted her head in a small puzzled angle. Heat flared up Gunhae’s neck.

“I… I didn’t bring anything,” she blurted, the words sounding silly even to her own ears.

At that, Wooyeon’s smile slowly returned. She settled gracefully beside the table.

“Good,” she said lightly. “We have more than enough.” With a flick of her wrist she worked the stopper from the jug and began to pour makgeolli into the bowls, the milky liquor swirling in soft spirals. Then, she glanced up at Gunhae through her lashes, a teasing wink. “Come on, sit. I’ve been waiting to try this. He swore it’s his best batch yet.”

The mood grew jovial as they ate and drank, the air of the room loosening around them. The awkwardness from earlier dissolved into something pleasant and easy, and laughter, real laughter, kept bubbling out from Gunhae’s throat before she could catch it. It startled her every time, the sound of it, like a long-forgtten version of herself was now rising out of her with every sip.

The food was simple but delicious. The stew was rich, the rice perfectly soft. And yet, each time she lifted her spoon, a strange sense of unworthiness pricked at her for being treated so kindly by such an attractive woman. Perhaps it was the liquor loosening her tongue, but as they finished their meal, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“It’s truly a shame you aren’t married.”

Wooyeon faltered, chopsticks pausing mid-air.

Gunhae hurried to explain, laughing nervously through the warmth in her cheeks. “I only mean – you’re a great cook, and your home is tidy, and you’re… you’re so small and lovely…” She shook her head. “You’re the perfect woman for any husband–”

Wooyeon laughed then, a light and melodious sound, rescuing her from her rambling. She set her chopsticks down, brushing long, silky strands of dark hair behind her ear, and looked her in the eyes. “No, I don’t think so.”

But the seriousness in Wooyeon’s expression only made Gunhae flush deeper. She pressed her warm face into her cup, taking another sip to steady herself.

“I was never a good wife,” she heard herself say, surprising even herself. “For one, I was never a good cook because, my whole life, I’ve had this irrational fear of fires. I can’t explain it. Thankfully we had maids, but still, he never let me forget it.”

The lamp between them made a light crackling sound, and for a second, the room flickered.

“Things just kept getting worse every year. There was a lot about me that disappointed him, especially my cough. He owns a mine, you see, and we lived close enough that there was always dust on everything, in our clothes, our water. That’s where it came from. As I grew older, it became louder and more frequent, until the sound of it would wake him up at night. That, on top of everything – my cooking, my height, how I couldn't give him children – only made things worse. And then, one day, as he was hitting me, something in me snapped. I hit him back, right across the face, hard enough to draw blood. I don’t even remember deciding to do it. I only remember how scared I felt right afterward. That night, I caught the last train, and by the morning I was here, in my parents’ house.”

For a long moment she stared at her hands, and faintly registered how her nails were in need of a trim. “The truth is,” she continued, “I envy you. I wish I never married. I was never the kind of woman anyone would want for a wife.”

She had never spoken these words aloud and instantly felt embarrassment at doing so. There was something about Wooyeon, perhaps the openness in her eyes, that loosened the knots inside her and allowed her to confess things she had never even admitted to herself. Still, saying it left her feeling stripped bare. She kept her eyes fixed on her hands, bracing for whatever judgment might come.

Instead, after a moment of stillness, Wooyeon’s hand slid gently over hers – slim, pale, calloused fingers settling atop Gunhae’s broad, smooth knuckles. Startled, Gunhae looked up and felt a squeeze deep within her chest. Meeting Wooyeon’s eyes, words weren’t needed for her to know that she had been understood. Completely and unflinchingly.

“He’s an idiot,” Wooyeon said quietly. She fell silent again for a short moment before continuing. “When I first saw you in the market, do you know what my first thought was? I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

Wooyeon reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from Gunhae’s cheek, the movement sending goosebumps up her arms. 

“And the more I saw you, the more I realized your beauty is only a small part of who you are,” she went on. In the warm glow, the tenderness in her eyes was clear. “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Wooyeon’s words drifted gently through the air between them, touching Gunhae in her soul. She didn’t know what to do with the warmth they stirred in her; it felt too dizzying, too close. She lowered her gaze, only then realizing Wooyeon’s other hand was still resting over hers. The awareness of this brought a staggering rush of blood to her head, and she shot her eyes away from where their hands were joined and toward anything else instead. The frayed edges of the pillow under her knee. Warped lines across the wood of the table. The camellia on top, sitting in its cup. Its small storm of petals. It means, I love you.

“You don’t believe me?” Wooyeon asked.

The question drew Gunhae’s eyes back to her, commanding her attention again. What followed seemed to happen both slowly and quickly at once: Wooyeon lifted Gunhae’s hand, nuzzling her cheek lightly against it before turning and pressing her lips against the skin there. She did this all without breaking their gaze, observing her with a half-lidded expression that held none of its usual, airy cheer, and the intensity of it sent heat pulsing through her body. Whatever face Gunhae was wearing must have exposed her completely, because Wooyeon seemed to take it as her cue to lean in, closing the distance until there was merely an inch between them, and hovered there, her breath light, testing.

At that moment, something inside Gunhae burst open. She leaned in without thinking, meeting the kiss fully, to which Wooyeon responded almost immediately. She sighed into her, and then their mouths were slotting together, a slow, warm drag of lips against lips, the friction more intoxicating than the makgeolli. When Wooyeon’s lithe fingers slid up her thigh, a whimper rose out of her throat, and, trembling, she felt her own hands trace up the curve of the other woman’s waist.

But then, Wooyeon drew back. Their lips parted with a soft, wet pop that seemed to echo in the small room. For a moment they only stared at each other, breathing unsteadily, Wooyeon watching her as if waiting for something.

And then, the enormity of what she had done – what she wanted – hit Gunhae all at once. She lurched to her feet, nearly stumbling backwards in the process, the haze of the moment seeming to evaporate instantly. She stared down at Wooyeon, who remained still, her gaze fixed on the empty cushion beside her. Without another word, Gunhae turned towards the door, and left.

:: :: ::

The cough was getting worse.

Gunhae sat propped up against the bed frame, her throat still burning from the last fit. Across the room, her aunt wordlessly signaled at the maid, who subsequently hurried over with a small towel. Gunhae pressed it to her mouth, waited for the tremor in her lungs to settle, and quietly folded the cloth over so the dark red stains faced inward. After she set it aside, her aunt began to speak again.

“Well,” she said, smoothing the crease of the letter she had just read aloud, “I’m glad he’s accepted your apology. Perhaps things will improve now.”

She rose, dusting off her skirts, but hesitated to leave.

“One more thing.” Her tone sharpened. “Recently, I heard an interesting rumor. Something about you keeping company with… questionable people. Like those loose, low-class types of women that can't secure husbands and spend their lives leeching off the temple.”

The blood in Gunhae’s veins turned to ice. Her gaze flicked to the servant standing behind her aunt, the same girl she had paid to keep silent, who now avoided her eyes entirely.

“If that were true,” her aunt went on, one dark brow lifting, “I can only imagine what it would add to the disgrace you’ve already brought upon our family name. But thankfully, it’s not, isn't it?”

Gunhae’s heart slammed against her ribs, but she managed a steady shake of her head.

Her aunt smiled. “Good.” 

She turned away before pausing yet again. With a small flick of her wrist, she gestured toward the line of vases on the windowsill.

“And have that cleared away,” she told the maid, wrinkling her nose as she left. “All those dead flowers.”

Gunhae sank deeper into the mattress, her heartbeat still racing. A dozen things had risen to her tongue when her aunt spoke – foremost, the urge to defend Wooyeon from those ugly names. But how could she, when she barely understood Wooyeon herself? Ever since that night, she had avoided the market at all costs, too ashamed to face her. Whatever had come over her that night was admittedly something the alcohol alone couldn’t excuse, and this truth unsettled her the most.

And yet, she had never felt so alive. She couldn’t shake the memory of their kiss, and beyond everything, she missed her. Devastatingly so.

Her gaze drifted toward the folded letter on the bedside table. Inside were clean lines of black ink, announcing her husband’s willingness to take her back. She pictured the future laid out for her: life in Gangwon-do at his side, weathering his sour moods, breathing in that dark, dusty air, day after day.

For a moment she stared at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down on her ribs, a question echoing through her. What kind of life do I want to live?

Her mind drifted to Wooyeon again. She had hardly known the woman for even a season, but in those past few weeks together, she had felt lighter, freer, and happier than she had been in a very long time.

Lying there with her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird, she began to understand something with startling clarity: she had spent her entire life chasing honor for her family, and it meant nothing to her. The money her husband brought them, the approval from her father and aunts – none of it held any weight compared to the thrill that a single smile from Wooyeon could stir in her. 

Feeling the pull of a desire that belonged to her alone, the answer suddenly felt clear. If tomorrow is never promised, a voice in her head said. Isn’t that all the more reason to hold someone today?

:: :: ::

The next morning, she tied a scarf around her head and crept out from the back of the estate before the sun had left the horizon, telling no one. She wove through the waking streets, navigating by fragmented memory until she found herself standing before a familiar oak tree, its large branches swaying gently in the breeze with a simple, white house sitting quietly beneath it.

She stood for some time beneath the stone eaves, listening to the birds chattering nearby as she gathered the courage to knock, when, as if on cue, the door slid open. Wooyeon stepped out, an empty basket tucked under her arm. In the early light, the contrast of her pale skin against her dark features gave her the delicate appearance of a paper doll, and Gunhae felt her heart skip a beat. Wooyeon crouched over to slip on her shoes, and upon lifting her head, she froze, looking surprised at the sight of Gunhae standing there.

Finally, Gunhae opened her mouth. “We need to talk.”

Wooyeon straightened, the emotion in her face quickly shuttering off. “I need to gather some things before the market opens,” she said, adjusting her grip on the basket before looking off into the distance. “But you’re welcome to come along, and say whatever it is you want to say.”

The walk into the woods was silent, marked only by the trickle of a faraway stream and the creaks and sighs of the trees awakening around them. When Wooyeon stopped to pick at a strip of olive-colored plants, Gunhae cleared her throat.

“First, I wanted to thank you for the meal the other night. It was very delicious.” She felt colder than usual as she spoke, almost queasy. “But the reason I came today is… There are some things I wanted to clarify.”

“Ask away,” Wooyeon replied, her gaze fixed upon her work.

“Well…” Gunhae swallowed. Everything felt easier if Wooyeon would just meet her eyes, but she didn’t. “For one, I… I’m curious. Why did you invite me over in the first place?”

“Because I enjoyed your company.” There was a curt edge in her voice that Gunhae had never heard before. “Is that wrong?”

“No, no, but – well… Do you often invite women over for a drink?” Gunhae winced. Everything she wanted to say was coming out wrong.

Wooyeon stood. She dropped the plants into her basket, lifted it to her hip, and glanced at Gunhae with a small furrow in her brow. 

“No,” she said. “Not often.” She turned and stepped deeper into the woods.

Gunhae followed, her pulse racing. She disliked the uncertainty of the situation, couldn’t bear witnessing the tension in Wooyeon’s shoulders, but nonetheless, she felt the need to press forward until every truth was laid bare between them. The things Gunhae’s aunt had said pricked at the back of her mind.

“Why did you never marry?” she blurted after a stretch of silence, her breath a little short as she hurried to keep up with the other woman’s quickening pace. 

Wooyeon stopped abruptly. She was looking down at something in the underbrush and lowered herself into a crouch.

“Who said I never did?” Wooyeon’s back replied. Gunhae blinked. “I was married once, to a man. A long time ago. I was unhappy then, just like you say you are now.”

Listening to her speak, a part of Gunhae’s mind vaguely registered that they had stopped in a clearing in the woods, a small pocket between the trees that was fully submersed in the glow of sunrise. The field was thick with tall grasses and wildflowers – a sea of crimsons, pinks, oranges, and lilacs dotting the green earth. Wooyeon was bowed beside a patch of baby’s breath, her fingers brushing a stem.

“During those days, I wanted to give up. Really, from the bottom of my heart, I didn’t want to keep going. But I did anyway, spending every day like an empty vessel for him, this man I didn’t love. Cooking and cleaning and washing clothes and having sex, endlessly repeating the same motions.” At last she looked up, meeting Gunhae eye to eye. “But then one day I woke up, and I was twenty-nine years old. And as I stepped outside of that tiny, cramped house, I suddenly noticed how sweet the flowers in the grass smelled. How warm the sun felt on my face. It was like I was reminded, after so long, that life could be beautiful, and that there was still much more left of it that I want to experience.” 

She lowered her head again, snapping the stems between her fingers in one effortless motion. “So, I walked. I just kept walking until I came here, and I never turned back again.”

In the quiet that followed, it felt to Gunhae as though the universe had placed a mirror before her; in its reflection, she could see both of their faces blurred into one. The stark light of the meadow revealed sleepless shadows beneath Wooyeon’s eyes, her unbrushed hair, the defensive lines in her posture, and it became clear to Gunhae that the other woman was afraid. She was putting on a brave face, the same way Gunhae was – and for what? Here, in the woods, with no one around, they faced each other simply as two people, each at the mercy of the other. What use was there in keeping their guard up?

Gunhae moved closer and, with the carefulness of approaching a frightened animal, gently folded her hands over Wooyeon’s, the gesture speaking for her: I understand.

“Can I ask you one last question?” she said, waiting until their eyes locked. “Why did you kiss me back?”

Wooyeon held her gaze. “Is it not obvious? Because I’ve fallen for you.”

Gunhae’s heart pounded at those words, a surge of exhilaration blooming through her chest, tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Can I ask you something now?” Wooyeon said, her brow easing. Gunhae nodded as Wooyeon set the basket down and turned her palm so that their fingers naturally slotted together. Very softly, she asked, “Will you kiss me again?”

And in that quiet meadow, with little birds stirring in the branches around them and the spring breeze sifting through her hair, Gunhae finally let herself reach for the life she wanted, and leaned in.

:: :: ::

“How did you end up selling flowers?”

It was a sunny afternoon, and the two of them were lounging by a creek, half-eaten apple cores left forgotten in the grass beside them. Gunhae had her skirts rolled up, feet submerged in the cool running water, while Wooyeon lay with her head in Gunhae’s lap.

Wooyeon smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting above them. “Originally, it belonged to this aunt who organized the women’s house near the temple. It was right after I had run away from home, so I only helped out in exchange for a place to sleep.” One of her hands was resting up near her ear, and Gunhae reached down to trace the ridges of her nails with a finger. “When she moved away, she left the shop to me, and now, two years later, I’ve come to love the work. Studying flowers teaches you things.”

“Like what?” Gunhae asked, turning slightly to see her face.

“Well,” Wooyeon paused to rub at her eye. “For a long time I wondered why people paid so much for them. I mean, their beauty doesn’t last long, and once they’re plucked, they wilt very quickly. But now I see that that is what makes them so precious. They might bloom and die the next day, or bloom in the most drab, desolate place with no one to admire it, but they’ll still drop their seeds, hoping their next life grows in better soil.” She winked up at Gunhae. “It’s comforting to think of it like that, at least. Everything blooms, dies, and is reborn.”

Gunhae tipped her head back, picturing it. She loved the way Wooyeon sounded when she talked like this. “Maybe if we had been born as flowers, we could be reborn somewhere nice and far away from here. Like Italy.”

Wooyeon laughed. “I wouldn’t mind that. Two flowers on the Amalfi Coast.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind being two flowers anywhere, really.”

“Anywhere? Even somewhere freezing cold, like Canada?”

“Sure. I’ve always wanted to see the Niagara Falls.”

“Even in the middle of a volcano?”

“Anywhere,” Wooyeon said, looking up at her. “I wouldn’t mind being reborn into any life as long as you’re there, too.”

They lay together in the grass, Gunhae’s hand now drifting lazily through the hair in her lap. Wooyeon’s body fit so neatly against her own, it made her soul ache.

After a moment, Wooyeon’s eyes fluttered open. “You know,” she said, a shift in her tone. “We don’t have to wait for another life to live somewhere far from here.”

“What, are we going to elope?” Gunhae laughed.

Wooyeon pushed herself upright. “If one of us dressed as a man, we could pretend we’re newlyweds going on a holiday and catch a ship. A ticket wouldn't be too expensive for Shanghai, maybe even Japan. When we get there, we’d change our names, adopt a cat, and begin a new life.”

Gunhae stared at her, realizing that Wooyeon meant every word. 

“A cat?”

Wooyeon dropped back into her lap and shrugged. “I’ve always wanted one.”

The sun slipped lower through the trees, its colors glittering across the water. They sat quietly in the hush of the creek, though Gunhae’s nerves were thrumming with a new, buoyant euphoria. She reached again for Wooyeon’s small hands, tracing the familiar lines there, just as she had done countless times before.

:: :: ::

One morning, nearly two months after meeting Wooyeon, as Gunhae was slipping out of bed, she heard a cluster of voices floating in from the courtyard. It was still far too early for visitors, so out of curiosity she stepped to the window, and upon peering out, all the air in her lungs left her at once. Speaking with her father, his back to her, was her husband.

She had known he would come eventually but not without warning, and not now when her heart was finally learning to beat differently. Panic surged through her so quickly her hands shook as she darted across the room to stuff a bundle with clothes. Within seconds, she had covered herself with a cloak, her belongings tucked under her arm, and slipped out through the back door.

Servants were hurrying in the opposite direction towards their unannounced guest, carrying trays of snacks and firewood, and she hid behind pillars as they passed. Cutting through the trees, she spotted her mother seated on the bench within the hedges of the garden, sitting just as she always had, as though time had never touched her. Gunhae slowed. From the side, her mother’s expression was serene, almost absent, and the image of a small bird suddenly leapt to her mind – one that was kept in a lacquered cage, every day obediently singing the same tune. Gunhae inhaled sharply and said her silent goodbye. I won’t live like that. Not anymore.

By the time she reached Wooyeon’s house, her lungs were burning. She pounded on the door until Wooyeon yanked it open, eyes wide.

“What–…? Gunhae?”

Looking at the woman before her, her courage faltered for a heartbeat. She realized what she was about to ask – how selfish and reckless it was. And yet ever since she had begun choosing her own happiness, she hadn’t been able to stop.

She swallowed. “Did you mean what you said about eloping?”

For a long moment, Wooyeon stared at her.

Then, she grabbed Gunhae’s hand.

:: :: ::

Night fell like a curtain, chasing them as they ran. For three days, they had been moving from place to place, never staying in the same spot twice. Gunhae knew her father and husband were enraged, enough so that they had paid the police to track her down. Notices of two women traveling together had sent watchmen combing the roads behind them.

But now they were close. The harbor lights shimmered faintly ahead, just beyond the dark line of warehouses. Gunhae squeezed Wooyeon’s hand as they hurried down the narrow path. She opened her mouth to say something – she wasn’t sure what, perhaps something hopeful – but instead of her voice, a small, familiar tickle rose in the back of her throat.

Alarm rose up her spine, but she focused on stifling it, trying to steady her breath and swallowing hard. However, despite her efforts, the tickle sharpened, and she let out a cough. Then another.

“Gunhae?” Wooyeon whispered, slowing.

She tried to wave her off, but the next cough tore out of her, violent enough that it pushed her forward a step. More and more followed, until she was doubled over, clutching at her mouth as the coughs kept coming, wracking her entire frame.

“I’m fine– just–!” The harbor wavered in front of her, the lights blurring before the world began to pitch sideways. All of a sudden, an excruciating pain shot through her chest and, unable to bear it, her knees buckled beneath her.

She felt Wooyeon catch her, but her slim arms felt impossibly heavy around her, her body unbearably hot. Or was she cold? Gunhae closed her eyes. Everything was slipping, tilting in strange directions.

The pain and the coughs grew harsher, stealing the breath she needed to even stay conscious. Wooyeon’s voice was somewhere above her, frantic, but distant, as though she were shouting across a river. Whatever she was saying was hard to decipher, its cadence interrupted by sobs. 

Sobs? Why was she crying? Gunhae frowned. The night sky had brightened suddenly. Why was the sun out? Why was it so blinding? She should ask the servant to close the curtains soon.

“–please–don’t–” The sound of words came through distorted, unevenly, drowned out by a high-pitched ringing that seemed to grow every second. “We–....Ita…ly…–an…Ca...na–”

Out of nowhere, a cacophony of sound burst out into the air. It was a grand, multi-dimensional sound as if every instrument in the world played at once – as if thousands of people had suddenly flooded into the street. The windows around them shattered open as the glass ruptured into millions of diamonds, each one reflecting its own prism of infinite light. And then, the sky itself split open and sent the crystal pieces flying into a whirl of wind and color, a long, resounding roll of thunder cracking clean through the universe. 

When the dust finally settled, she opened her eyes.

Before her rose a cliffside town painted in sunny pastels, houses stacked on top of each other against the rock. Terraces were crowded with lemon trees, laundry fluttering from their balconies, the breeze tasting of salt. All of it overlooking an endless, teal ocean. 

But as she blinked, the colors saturated, sharpening themselves into deep scarlets and golds and jades. The cliffs started to shift, rotating and reorganizing into narrow, winding streets. Rows of stalls unfurled beneath hanging lanterns, piling high with heaps of red camellias. They seemed to swell, growing so full they looked ready to burst – until they did. Each flower ruptured, one over another, and from them, molten lava came splattering out, sprays of volcanic ash raining down with it. Just as quickly, water followed, rushing in sheets down the street, swallowing the lanternlight into its depths. The rush grew louder, and in the next breath, she stood before three enormous walls of water plunging from a great height, white mist blooming upward like smoke. The ground trembled beneath her feet as torrents crashed in a ceaseless, roaring curtain around her.

Though she could no longer feel her body, the sensation of a tight, warm embrace remained, steady through the warping sceneries. She wasn’t sure whether any sound left her mouth, but she shaped the words in her mind: I’m sorry. The physical pain had already begun to vanish, but now, a different anguish overtook her as she tried to summon the image of her lover’s almond-shaped eyes. If only I hadn’t been so selfish, she thought, her voice fading, and then the world–

began to tremble–

     and spin–

         and tilt–

             and sway–

                 and–

                     and–

–fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

Two sets of footprints in the snow. Frantic, with no clear direction.

The tundra was completely still, though wind howled without cease, drowning out the creaks and sighs of the ageless ice. Silent flurries of white dropped onto a smooth, unblemished hill where a small spear was peeking out from underneath the snow, bent severely at the head.

Somewhere up ahead was another set of footprints; these ones much larger than the others, oddly shaped.

And at the vertex of all footprints, marring the vast, pure white: a blotch of red, disappearing quickly beneath the falling snow.

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall
fall–

The sharp smack of wood against wood jolted him awake.

Gunwook blinked heavily, peeling himself up from the crook of his arms as the room came into focus piece by piece. First: the sunlight piercing his eyes through a dusty window. Second: an unpleasantly sticky sensation against his cheek (which he was now beginning to recognize as drool). Third: a snicker from somewhere nearby that, irritatingly, sounded like Gyubin. And fourth. Well.

The ruler that was waiting patiently on the corner of his desk slid away and neatly tucked itself beneath the arm of the person standing before him.

“Sleep well, Park Gunwook?” his teacher asked coolly.

Ignoring the snort that escaped from the back of the room (that was definitely Junhyeon this time), Gunwook sat up in his seat, wiping the drool away with the back of his hand.

“Ah, yes sir, I mean, no–” He fell silent at the look on his teacher’s face.

The ruler swung out again, this time pointing towards the back of the room. 

“Arms up until the end of class,” the teacher said, proceeding to return to the front of the classroom. He began to scribble on the board with a stick of chalk, and without looking back, added, “Kim Gyubin, Geum Junhyeon – feel free to join him.”

A combination of groans, whistles, and laughter rose as the two targets dragged themselves to the back where Gunwook was already waiting with hands behind his head. He stuck out his tongue at them, receiving two vulgar faces in return.

For the next hour, to distract himself from the dull burn that was settling in his arms, he tried to chase after fragments of the dream he’d been pulled from. Images of cities he’d never seen before flashed in his head, all of them in an endless state of bursting and collapsing and reforming – and even more puzzling, the hazy presence of a woman's arms wrapped around him. Each time he attempted to focus on any of these details, they slipped away, dissolving under his eyelids like smoke.

:: :: ::

After school, the usual pack ambled down the dirt path home together – Junhyeon, Gyubin, Gyubin’s older brother Hanbin, and two of Hanbin’s classmates, Jiwoong and Woohyun. The group kicked a half-deflated soccer ball between them as they walked, each of its thuds raising little puffs of dust. Junhyeon was currently walking backwards while gesturing with his arms, mid-story.

“His mouth was seriously wide open, like this, and there was a trail of drool coming out right here–”

“But the worst part,” Gyubin shoved Junhyeon, who was walking into him, “was right when the teacher noticed him, he suddenly started snoring! Loudly! Seriously, even all the girls were laughing, and then when he woke up he had that look on his face, you know the one? Ah wait, Junhyeon does the impression well – do it!”

Gunwook took the ball from Hanbin and aimed it toward Gyubin’s crotch.

“Don’t wanna hear it from two babos that got the same punishment as me,” he shot back as Gyubin keeled over with a squeak.

They walked on, continuing to trade stories and nonsensical jokes the way they always had. The road beneath their feet was the same one they’d all known since childhood, worn smooth by the shuffle of canvas shoes and summer pickup games. Change happened so slowly in their town, it was easy to believe nothing ever shifted at all. Yet the signs were there: empty cartons of Lucky Strikes and gum wrappers left in the grass by American soldiers; drooping branches of trees that had once loomed over a congested street, before one by one the crowd had vanished for Seoul or beyond, chasing opportunities that seemed to exist everywhere but here. 

Gunwook bounced the ball on his knee before passing it to Junhyeon, who was now badgering Hanbin about a girl he apparently liked. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glanced at the two figures walking slightly ahead, his gaze stalling on the shorter of the two, and felt a familiar ache tighten in his chest. Woohyun was deep in conversation with Jiwoong, their words sifting faintly through the racket.

Eventually, the group splintered off toward their houses along the path, until only Gunwook and Woohyun remained. They walked up the hill in an easy silence, listening to the cicadas cry from the fields, their shoulders bumping into each other every now and then.

As they were approaching the line of their houses, Woohyun interrupted the silence with a sudden laugh. He didn’t respond to the questioning look Gunwook sent him and simply reached out to ruffle his hair. Though Gunwook had outgrown him in the past year by over ten centimeters, he still ducked his head obligingly, letting the hand linger. 

“I was picturing you standing in the back of class with both your arms up,” the older boy explained. He slid his palm to the base of his neck, kneading lightly, and Gunwook bent lower to accommodate the wandering hand, praying its owner wouldn’t notice the heat crawling up his skin.

“I didn’t think you heard that,” he muttered, “since you seemed so busy talking with Jiwoong-hyung.”

Woohyun raised a brow. The grin grew on his face as he knocked their shoulders together. “I always listen when it’s about you.”

As they walked, Woohyun told Gunwook about his conversation with Jiwoong. Now that they were in their final year of school, Jiwoong had set his sights on moving to Seoul. He was hopeful, applying to the top engineering schools in the city, though the pressure of his dreams loomed heavily over him.

“This town is going to be empty by the time I graduate,” Gunwook responded gloomily, kicking a small rock into the grass. “Taerae-hyung last year. Now, Jiwoong-hyung. And you.”

He snuck a look at the older boy beside him, who was watching the horizon. The sun was beginning to dip below the earth, forming a burnt halo that traced the blurry line of treetops in the distance. Above them, the rest of the sky bruised into a deep blue.

“You’ll be fine,” was all he said, almost absentmindedly, his eyes still fixed on the horizon.

When they slowed at the fork between their homes, Gunwook chewed on his lip for a moment before speaking. “Do you wanna come over again tonight?”

He watched as the smile formed on Woohyun’s face, light and uncomplicated. The sunset washed his features in a soft terracotta glow. “I probably shouldn’t,” he said, reaching up to pinch his cheek. “Not until you stop drooling on your desk in class.”

Gunwook laughed and swatted his hand away, trying to scowl. After they said their goodbyes, he watched as Woohyun trailed up the small path toward his front door, turning to give him a final wave before disappearing inside. Only when light appeared in the windows did he turn toward his own home, swallowing down the pangs of disappointment that were pressing against his throat.

:: :: ::

For as long as Gunwook could remember, he had been in love with Woohyun. 

They had grown up with only a dirt road separating them, their lives woven together through every joy and every hardship of childhood, through changing seasons and long years shadowed by war. And during it all, he had always felt a certain affection towards him, one that was different from what he felt for other boys – something giddier and more dizzying, yet also more painful. More than anything, it frightened him. He knew such feelings were unnatural in the eyes of others and had understood early on the need to keep them buried beneath the mask of harmless friendship.

But a few months prior, when Woohyun’s family announced they would be leaving for America in the following year, a new kind of fear began to take root. The thought of Woohyun gone, an ocean between them, worsened his usual ache, as he began to wonder what would haunt him more – silence or rejection. Even so, the thought of speaking was terrifying. The risk of confessing to another man aside, the other issue was this: Woohyun was impossible to read. 

One minute, he’d be laughing at something Gunwook said, a little too loud, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Or he’d rest a hand on his thigh when they were sitting together, softly rubbing the skin there until Gunwook felt absolutely certain that Woohyun must know what he was doing. But then in the next minute, he’d turn around and drape an arm around someone else, laughing and whispering with them like Gunwook wasn’t there, talking about girls in the same, careless way other boys their age did.

It drove him crazy, this constant tug of hope and doubt. And what made it all the more unbearable was the invisible hourglass that loomed over him, counting down the days before Woohyun left, grains of anxiety spilling into each passing second.

So, on the nights after they’d stayed up listening to the radio together, Gunwook would lie awake, eyes tracing constellations through the open window Woohyun had just snuck out from, wondering: what are the odds of two people falling for each other? Of you liking me, just as I like you. How do you read the signs?

:: :: ::

After Chuseok dinner, all the neighborhood kids had collapsed in languid heaps around the floor of Junhyeon’s house. Listening to the muffled laughter of their parents drinking in the room next door, Gunwook nearly began to doze off when suddenly, Gyubin began to count down from ten. At first no one moved, only exchanging lazy glances.

“What are you doing?” Yujin, one of the youngest girls, giggled beside him, hiding her smile behind the back of her hand. Gyubin sat up and continued to count.

“Three… two… one… bang!” He dropped his hands onto her head, shaking it around. “You’re it!”

After a moment of stillness, the comatose air that had been looming over the room evaporated as the room burst in a flurry of movement. Yujin shouted in protest, but Gyubin was already darting out the door, yelling over his shoulder, “Better start counting!”

From his place at the low table in the corner, Jiwoong looked up from his exam notes, smiling faintly as the others scrambled to their feet and bolted outside to claim their hiding spots. Gunwook rose at his own pace, laughing and offering a shrug at Yujin who had her lips stuck out in an exasperated pout. Even so, she obediently closed her eyes and began to count from thirty, which Gunwook took as a sign to head out into the crisp, autumn night.

The chill in the air was sharp, the night sky clear and ringing with shouts and pounding footsteps that were scattering in every direction. Gunwook hurried toward the back field, where an old American army Jeep sat abandoned, little wildflowers growing up through its cracked frame. He dropped flat onto his stomach and started to crawl, wriggling between the massive tires, when the top of his head collided with something warm. He nearly yelped, scrambling back, but a hand caught the collar of his shirt and pulled him all the way back under the vehicle.

“Shh, shhh!” A hot palm pressed quickly over his mouth. 

Gunwook froze, wide-eyed, as his vision adjusted to the dark. The face inches from his own, the arm wrapped around his back, the body pressed close against his. It all belonged to Woohyun.

Carefully, the older boy peeled his fingers off his mouth and grinned, that wide, boyish smile of his, eyes curving into crescents, and whispered, “Stay still.”

Gunwook nodded, attempting to return his playful smile, though his body betrayed him. His nerves thrummed everywhere their bodies touched. He was suddenly aware of everything – the smell of the rust and the earth cradling them, the tickle of cold grass against his neck, the taste of jeon lingering on his tongue. But most of all, the warmth radiating from the boy in front of him. The smell of his soap. Something achingly familiar and almost unbearable in its closeness.

In the distance, a scream rang out, trailed by a series of shouts.

“That was definitely Hanbin getting caught,” Woohyun snickered under his breath. As he spoke, a soft pat of warm air escaped from his lips to land straight onto Gunwook’s, instantly sending a rush of blood to the lower half of his body. And in that moment, time stopped.

Woohyun’s smile faded slowly as their gazes locked, stuck together like compass and magnet, the humor of the moment dissolving into something heavier. There was a look in his eyes that Gunwook had never seen before – that left him feeling exposed, peering into him the way a lighthouse gazes into the night sea, glimpsing all the things usually left hidden in the dark. Each breath that brushed his lips felt like the tide drawing him closer, deeper, carrying him away from the shore.

And then, for an impossible moment, Woohyun’s eyes dropped down to his lips. Gunwook felt his throat go dry, an overwhelming wave of desire crashing into him. Could it be…? Carefully, he shifted his knee where their legs were tangled to press against the inside of Woohyun’s thigh. He felt Woohyun’s breath hitch at the movement and watched, enthralled, as Woohyun dragged his eyes back up from his lips before fluttering shut. Gunwook’s pulse erupted everywhere, his heart slamming against his ribs, as everything in the world seemed to say at once, kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. All it would take was the smallest tilt forward…

Right then, Yujin’s voice rang out, closer than either of them expected. 

“Someone’s under there!” 

They froze.

Another shadow moved across the field. A beat of silence, then the sound of footsteps crunching closer. “I hear you breathing!” Hanbin’s voice sang from above the car.

Fingers clasped around Gunwook’s wrist. Woohyun’s eyes met his, mischief completely replacing whatever had been there just moments before, and mouthed: Run. Before Gunwook could think, Woohyun yanked them out from under the rusted Jeep, tugging him into a sprint across the grass as Yujin and Hanbin cried out, scrambling to follow. When their pursuers’ footsteps were pounding at their heels, Woohyun suddenly let go of his arm and swerved sharply in the other direction, shouting theatrically after him, “Save yourself!”

Gunwook heard the collision behind him, heard the sounds of their laughter echoing out into the night, and kept running. He ran though no one was chasing him, past the field, past the houses along the hill, until his lungs stung with the taste of metal against the cold, autumn air. At last, he stopped, doubling over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. The night was frigid against his body, yet his face burned, the ghost of Woohyun’s warmth lingering on his skin.

:: :: ::

As winter crept in, Gunwook found himself spending nearly every evening after school helping out at the family pawn shop, per his mother’s wishes. The work wasn’t difficult and he did it willingly, but in the back of his mind, a voice nagged at him, reminding him of the time he was losing with one specific person. Just a few months left, the hourglass read.

He sat behind the counter, chin in hand, and watched his breath fog up the glass display case as his mind drifted back to that night beneath the Jeep. The way their bodies had pressed together in the dark, Woohyun’s breath warm against his cheek. The way his eyes had fallen to his lips. The memory of it haunted him, but what sent him spiraling was, in the few times they’d seen each other since, Woohyun had carried on the same as always. Unbothered, all smiles and jokes, as if that moment – the electricity in the air between them – had never happened. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest as the same hopeless thoughts circled around his head. Was it just me? Didn’t you feel it, too?

By the time his shift ended, the ache had grown unbearable. He missed Woohyun, and as he trudged through the snow, he found himself rehearsing excuses he could use to see him again. I need help with homework. I wanna borrow a scarf. I’m bored. The radio’s broken. Can you come over and take a look?

As he opened the front door, the first thing that hit him was the warm aroma of barley tea. Then, the sound of a familiar voice. Blinking, he stepped past the divider that covered the small foyer, and there, as if the universe had been listening to his wishes, sat Woohyun, cross-legged by the table on the floor, chatting happily with his mother.

Noticing him, his mother began to click her teeth at his shoes, scolding him for the snow he was tracking inside, though Gunwook barely heard her words. His eyes were on Woohyun, watching as the older boy turned to meet his gaze, a grin breaking out onto his face. His heart, predictable as ever, started to race.

“I was just thinking of you, you know,” Gunwook told him after leaving his shoes by the door and shrugging off his coat. Woohyun trailed behind him into his room, two mugs of tea in hand.

“Aren’t you always thinking of me?”

“Pfft. You know it.”

The room soon began to fill with sound, Gunwook fiddling with the radio while Woohyun caught him up on everything he’d missed on afternoons he had to be at the pawn shop – Hanbin asked out Jang Ha-eun, the most beautiful girl in school, on a date, Taerae and his family had visited briefly from Cheonan (sneaking with him a concealed bottle of makgeolli), and Jiwoong had passed his first round of engineering exams. Though he had already heard all of this during class from Gyubin and Junhyeon, Gunwook said nothing, silently enjoying how the fuzzy music from the radio melded with the sound of Woohyun’s voice.

Eventually, as the conversation was slowing down, a familiar tune began to play. It was an American song, one they would always joke about whenever it came on, making up noises that sounded vaguely English and deepening their voices into raspy drawls for the man’s part. Tonight, they both fell quiet instead, letting the radio croon through the static.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you

As Gunwook listened, a sudden wave of sadness washed over him. It was a peculiar feeling, like a wound from a dull knife, agonizing and indistinct at once – a strange sort of dread that was born from both the awareness of his happiness in this moment and the knowledge that it would not last. The emotion welled up inside of him as a lone trumpet blared out a lovesick tune from the radio’s tinny speakers, and he pressed his shoulder closer against the boy beside him. Somewhere in the house, he heard his family erupt in laughter at something, the cheerful sound muffled by the walls of his room.

Just hold me tight

And tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

Beside him, Woohyun had his eyes closed, head leaning back against the wall, swaying faintly to the music. He was still wearing his knitted winter hat, and the flushed tips of his ears peaked out through his hair from beneath the fabric. A thought abruptly entered Gunwook’s head, whispering: Now. If you’re ever gonna say it, do it now.

He took a deep breath, his mind racing with all the ways he could phrase it, the one thing he'd always struggled to put into words. His eyes traced over Woohyun’s form, the pain in his chest growing stronger, as memories and confessions began to spill over one another. Don’t leave me.

A loose thread was hanging off the sleeve of his sweater, the one his grandmother had made for him using bright red wool. At first, he’d been too embarrassed to even try it on, but ever since she had passed a few years back, he wore it diligently every winter. Stay with me. His hands, dotted with sunspots. Teasing him about their size never seemed to faze him, though, for Gunwook, it was only ever an excuse to touch them. Fall for me. His broad shoulders, the solid lines that swept across his chest and collarbones. Summers of swimming, fishing, wrestling. Put your arms around me. The creases hugging his lips. How they seemed to grow deeper every year. Make fun of me. Laugh with me. Get mad at me. Cry to me. Tiny brown hairs straying from the line of his brows. Run away with me. The scar on his chin. Two kids, learning how to ride a bike amidst the rubble. Grow old with me.

An eye winks open. “What?”

The song was ending; the announcer’s voice buzzed in faintly. Gunwook held Woohyun’s expectant gaze, and the world slowed in its orbit. 

Ahead of him were two choices. To speak or to stay silent. To gamble with their friendship, selfishly, in the slight chance that his desires could be reciprocated – or to guard it.

In that fraction of a second before Gunwook made his decision, something strange happened. An old memory – one long forgotten – entered into his mind, clear and vivid, from when they were small children. Woohyun was crouched over a broken glass, wearing that powder blue jacket he never seemed to take off in those days, and had tears spilling down his cheeks. Gunwook from the present stood over him, stunned, and though he couldn’t recall the exact reason for those tears, he knew that he had been the cause. As he opened his mouth to apologize, a woman’s voice came out of him – not one he recognized, yet familiar somehow – echoing and distorting the melody that was fading in the distance, piercing him with deep, cosmic remorse: I’m sorry. If only I hadn’t been so selfish.

He blinked, and suddenly he was back, looking into Woohyun’s questioning eyes. Remnants of the vision still hummed beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure what he’d just seen, but in some way, it had given him the answer he needed.

“Nothing. Just, when you close your eyes like that, you look really stupid,” he said simply.

Woohyun stared at him for a moment, brows raised, before bursting out into laughter. Sitting up from his slouch, he shoved Gunwook in the ribs with an elbow. “I look stupid?” he scoffed, Gunwook shoving him right back. “You should see your face!” 

They pushed at each other, their voices rising over the new song that was starting up on the radio while, outside, the moon rolled sleepily across the sky. Beneath them, the world kept spinning.

:: :: ::

A nap before or after exams, Gunwook contemplated, plucking at the small, purple flowers that poked out between the cross of his ankles. Tilting his palm, he let the petals sift through the cracks of his fingers and drop onto his notebook, where the page was blank.

“‘–the only thing that remains of the palace today are two ash trees that sit across the Han River–”

The spring sun pressed heavily against his skin, making his eyelids droop. He hadn’t slept much the night before, since they’d stayed up celebrating Jiwoong’s acceptance into one of the best engineering schools in Seoul. He thinks back to the look on Jiwoong’s face when his father, who’d always wanted him to follow his footsteps into the military, had suddenly showed up to their gathering, pushing a comically large object that was concealed under a dusty tarp. He’d nodded at Jiwoong to open it, a rare beam of affection spreading on his face, stiff but proud, as he watched his son uncover an old Harley Davidson, its metal glinting in the golden light. Traded it from an American soldier for just ten packs of cigarettes, he’d said with his arms crossed, looking a bit embarrassed. It’s all yours now.

The scene that followed went like this: all the kids in the neighborhood chasing after the roar of the engine while Jiwoong took his new motorcycle down the dirt road for what he called a “test run” (though Gunwook knew what it really was – a victory lap). And as everyone ran through his clouds of dust, triumphant cheers and cries bursting into the darkening sky, Gunwook would catch a glimpse of Jiwoong’s smile in the rear-view mirror and think, So this is why people love to leave our town. Because this is how we say goodbye.

“–and when they bloom each spring, their leaves reach across the water until they touch–”

Later that night, Woohyun had climbed in through the window to listen to the radio again. They sat on the floor, side by side, neither speaking – both worn out from Jiwoong’s sendoff and their own days’ work (Gunwook from studying, Woohyun from packing). At some point, without warning, Woohyun let his head fall onto Gunwook’s shoulder and left it there for the rest of the night. The action would’ve easily sent him reeling on any other night, but in this moment, his heart remained strangely calm. He slipped an arm to drape around Woohyun’s neck, feeling the pulse there beat against his bicep, steadily, the way a clock honors each passing second.

“–symbolizing the legend of that brotherly bond between the prince and the archer, rising again to greet each other after the long winter apart…’ Dude, are you writing this down?” 

Gunwook looked up to see Gyubin sitting upright over their shared history book, the butt of his pencil hovering near his mouth. “I have to return this to the library at noon,” he reminded him.

Cheonye, a junior in their school and Gyubin’s new girlfriend, sat on his jacket nearly two feet away (still unused to public displays of affection). “How come only Seoul gets the cool legends? Meanwhile, all we’ve got are ones like, ‘the spirit of the toe goblin will haunt you if you cut your nails at night.’”

“Spirit… toe… goblin?” Gyubin blinked at her. “What?”

“What, you’ve never heard of it?”

Succumbing to a yawn, Gunwook leaned across Gyubin’s lap and snatched his pencil, hastily copying down the story he’d just missed. When he looked back up, Gyubin was still watching him, though this time with a softer expression.

“Woohyun-hyung’s gonna miss you too, you know,” he said quietly.

Instinctively, Gunwook froze for a moment but quickly recovered, shrugging off his surprise with some lighthearted response. He turned towards Cheonye, cheerful. “What was that about a toe goblin?”

:: :: ::

As evening approached, he went to Woohyun’s house to help the family pack the last of their belongings. He had never seen the place so bare. The walls that had once been coated with photos, postcards, and childhood drawings were stripped clean, and the room produced a faint echo when he spoke. What had once been a home was now reduced to six heavy trunks lined neatly by the door.

Later, after a sendoff with the other kids around the neighborhood, Gunwook and Woohyun returned to sit in their usual spot. They talked aimlessly about anything over the familiar hum of the radio, about classmates, old jokes, embarrassing stories – careful to avoid a mood that was too sentimental. Even so, every laugh felt fragile, suspended over the edge of something heavier, colder.

Gunwook walked him home before it got too late, and they stood in front of the fork between their houses. A light spring mist began to drift through the air as the last rays of sunlight sank under the horizon. Gunwook took in the sight of him – Woohyun, his almond-shaped eyes, the sharp diagonal lines of his chin, his plain white T-shirt – and committed it all to memory, feeling his heart in his throat.

They lingered, trading half-hearted remarks about the train schedule for the morning, when suddenly Woohyun cut through the idle conversation and surged forward to press them into a hug.

For a moment, Gunwook didn’t move, surprised at the abruptness of it. He felt his throat tighten, a sting forming behind his eyes, until finally the dam holding his tears broke loose, and he brought his arms up from his pockets to wrap around Woohyun’s back. Some part of him registered how they must have looked – two men, the taller one sobbing openly into the older’s shoulder – but he couldn’t bring himself to stop nor care, the weight of nearly two decades together refusing to let them go.

“I’m gonna miss you the most,” Woohyun said when they finally pulled apart. His own eyes were shining.

“Not as much as I’ll miss you, hyung.”

They regarded each other for a moment, and then, for no apparent reason, burst out laughing. The heavy mood in the air broke, leaving Gunwook lightheaded as he wiped at the corners of his eyes. Squinting through the drizzle, he smiled down at Woohyun – his neighbor, his best friend, the man of his dreams, the light of his life – the person who would never know these feelings he had kept harbored in the innermost bay of his heart – and his voice grew hoarse. “Once you figure out your address and everything, write to me, alright?”

Woohyun shot him an uncharacteristically shy smile, looking away. “Alright.”

And then, for the last time, Gunwook watched as Woohyun trailed back up the small path toward his house, turned to give a wave, and disappeared inside, just as he had done countless times before.

:: :: ::

When Gunwook woke up in the morning, everything hurt. He felt the hint of a cold coming on, his stomach ached, and a throbbing stiffness pinched the side of his neck from having passed out in a convoluted position, still wearing the clothes he’d come home in. Most sobering of all, he knew that by now, the house across the street was officially empty, its former inhabitants sitting on a train speeding toward the port, heading towards a new life. He dragged himself upright, running his hands over his face before shoving them into his jacket pockets, beginning to drag his feet towards the bathroom – when he froze.

His fingers brushed against something that hadn’t been there before. 

Slowly, he drew it out, finding himself staring down at a scrap of lined paper, folded neatly into thirds. His hands trembled slightly while unfolding it, and through swollen eyes, he began to read the tiny, smudged characters, scribbled in neat lines:

Gunwook,

Sorry for leaving you this note. I didn’t know how to say this out loud, but I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t, so I’m writing it instead. I’m in love with you. I think I have been for a really long time. I know this probably sounds stupid, and maybe you’ll laugh or be grossed out, but sometimes I thought maybe you loved me too.

If there’s really any truth to that, I’ll be waiting in the old Jeep tonight until the morning. And if you don’t come, that’s okay too. That won’t change anything about these past 18 years that I’m thankful to have shared with you.

Sincerely,

Your best friend
Woohyun

When he had finished reading the letter, and before he’d even realized it, his legs were already moving. He tore out the back door, his half-buttoned jacket flapping against his sides as he sprinted down the road, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He ran up the hill, across the fields, past the line of quiet houses still pillowed in the dawn’s early light. His lungs were burning, but he didn’t stop, not until the abandoned Jeep came into view, planted in the grass with the same wildflowers sticking out from its cracks.

Then, he slowed, chest heaving. 

The car was empty. The passenger door was still open, as if someone had been sitting there not long ago, and on the dashboard lay a folded blanket and an empty thermos, cold to the touch.

:: :: ::

Many years later, after a lifetime spent in that quiet town – marrying his first girlfriend, raising three healthy kids, settling into the cyclical routines of all the things that life asks of a man – he now laid on a bed that felt too wide for his thinning frame. Turning his weary head toward his youngest daughter, a grown woman sitting in the metal folding chair beside him, her hands cradling one of his, he drew in a slow breath and asked her, in a voice worn soft with years, Could you turn on the old radio for me?

As his eyes drifted shut, music hummed to life. He listened quietly to the clicks of shoes as his daughter stepped back into her seat beside him and to the stream of songs that played through – some he recognized, though most he did not. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, drifting in and out of sleep, when suddenly a painfully familiar melody began to seep through the speakers across the room. It was a song he had loved once, long, long ago, and although the sound was fuzzier than he remembered, as the first notes of brass unfurled, the past flickered inside of him like a slide projector, memories flashing through his mind. Crisp, white T-shirt under a blue school jacket. Brown, almond-shaped eyes. A wide, boyish grin. A tangled scrawl of writing, yet somehow methodical in its own way. Sometimes I thought maybe you loved me too. ​​The radio crackled, and a man’s gravelly voice floated through:

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss

Dream a little dream of me

He had lived a good, simple life, and now, nearing its end, he was grateful for even the smallest blessings it had given him. Yet buried deep within him was a single, unbearable regret, one that he’d carried silently over the years, sealed shut in the farthest corner of his mind out of fear that touching it would unravel the happy life that he’d built. But now, as the song drifted from the radio, he felt the lock on it begin to give.

Behind his eyelids, a field blurred into focus – the one that had been near Junhyeon’s old house before it became the lot for a department store – and amongst the overgrown weeds, a broken Jeep. Above, an endless bowl of stars. And there, in the passenger seat, a thick blanket pooled over his knees, sat the boy from his childhood, the boy that still lingered in his thoughts even after all these years – the one person in his life that he had loved with all his heart. In the cage of his memory, Woohyun was forever eighteen, untouched by time, gazing out of the cracked windows at the night sky, waiting and waiting and waiting.

Without warning, a sharp burst of pain bloomed through his chest, and Gunwook knew it was time. He made his way across the field of his mind until he stood before the open car door, catching a glimpse in the side mirror of a face he hadn’t seen since his youth – his wrinkles vanished, dark color in his hair. Woohyun turned toward him upon his approach, eyes flicking to the letter in Gunwook’s hand. 

Taking one last step forward, Gunwook braced a hand against the car seat and, leaning down, finally brought their lips together. He felt Woohyun laugh against him, reaching out to tug him closer by the lapels of his jacket. When they pulled away to breathe, Woohyun said something, though Gunwook couldn’t quite hear it now; a distant sound of beeping rose around them, swallowing the sound. The wind began to pick up, lifting grasses and wildflowers into the air, and as he narrowed his eyes against it, he could just make out the words: Maybe in another life.

Through the haze, his daughter’s voice reached him, startled, calling his name, but he wasn’t ready to face her yet. As the vision dissolved, the lights of the hospital sharpening into view, a rush of nurses and doctors around him, he let the tears that he had swallowed for half a lifetime slip past and fall, and fall, and fall, and–

–fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

Two fishermen, lost at sea.

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

A diplomat and an assassin sent to take his life.

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

Strangers on a train. 

One gets up, barely glancing at the other, and leaves.

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

A soldier hunched over around his comrade, holding him close, shielding his unmoving body from the debris with his own trembling frame.

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall

fall



fall

fall

fall–

The universe pauses.

Two orbs of light hover, suspended in the middle of all space and time. A deep voice, old as time itself, rolls like distant thunder.

These two haven’t had much luck, have they?

All around, lights shimmer as the voice echoes through the vast, infinite dark.

Perhaps in this one, you’ll figure it out.

One by one, everything begins to slip back into motion, particles sliding back along the curves of the endless torus, billions of lights twisting and spiraling in its arc. Voices from the cosmos trail behind the two orbs as they rise and fall, fall, fall, carrying them back toward the world below:

If you’re ever gonna say it–

–be brave, son.

Everything blooms–

dies–

–and is reborn.

Now–

tell it to me from the start–

will–

you–

The lights flicker on. 

Gunwook exhales. 

He sinks down onto the wood floor, stretching out his legs before practice. It’s early – there’s still some time left before the mentors arrive – but the cameras rolling make him stay on edge. Yuseop is saying something beside him, but Gunwook can barely focus; his mind churns through the multiple choreographies he needs to memorize as he stretches. 

Then, Yuseop’s voice fades. Gunwook feels a tap on his shoulder. He looks up, blinks.

A boy with dyed brown hair, wearing a pink G-group jersey that slouches past his waist, is standing over him. He has warm, almond-shaped eyes and a boyish grin that makes something flutter in Gunwook’s chest.

“I really liked your performance yesterday, so I wanted to introduce myself,” the boy says. His Korean is stilted, accented in a way that only makes it more endearing. He extends a hand. “Seok Matthew.”

For some reason, Gunwook feels his heart race. It’s a face so familiar, as if he had seen it countless times before. He takes the hand stretched before him and gives it a firm shake.

“Park Gunwook,” he replies, and smiles.