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As Keria stirred awake, he felt a hand draped around his waist and a familiar weight resting against his shoulder. Peyz lay asleep in his arms, breathing slow and even, his face relaxed in a way that softened the room around them.
And then it came—the slow, sinking reminder of everything that had happened the night before.
Heat crept up his neck, settling deep into his cheeks. The memories returned in fragments: the tremor in his hands, the way his voice refused to stay steady, the moment he finally let himself break in front of them. He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassment twisting painfully in his chest. He couldn’t believe he had unraveled like that, could not believe he had allowed himself to be seen so raw and so undone.
He had always prided himself on control. On holding things together when it mattered. On being the one who smiled first, reassured first, carried the weight quietly so others wouldn’t have to. And yet, last night, all of that had slipped through his fingers. The grief, the confusion, the longing he had buried so carefully had spilled out anyway.
Keria stayed still, afraid that even the smallest movement might wake Peyz and force him to face everything too soon. For a moment, he simply listened to the quiet of the room—the steady rhythm of breathing, the faint hum of the air conditioner, the fragile calm that existed only because morning hadn’t fully arrived yet. He felt the warmth beside him and let it anchor him, both in the stillness and in the colder reality waiting beyond it.
He exhaled slowly, carefully, allowing himself to linger in that warmth just a little longer, even as the ache in his chest refused to fully fade. It wasn’t something he could breathe away. It lived too deep for that.
A soft voice broke the silence.
“How are you doing?”
Keria jolted, body tensing on instinct before he realized the voice hadn’t come from beside him. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his gaze.
Only then did he truly take in the room.
His teammates were scattered around it, Doran on the other side of the bed, hair rumpled, limbs loose in exhaustion; Oner sprawled across the sofa, still asleep in the aftermath of a night that had taken more out of them than anyone had admitted. The sight tugged at something deep in his chest. Comfort, yes, but guilt too, settling there together, inseparable.
They had stayed. All of them had.
And then his eyes landed across from him.
Faker sat quietly, a book resting in his hands. The pages were open, but his attention was fixed on Keria, meeting him with that same calm, steady gaze. One that is always gentle and unpressuring, as if he had all the time in the world to wait. As if Keria didn’t need to rush, didn’t need to explain himself, didn’t need to be anything other than what he was in that moment.
Keria swallowed, fingers tightening in the blanket. The embarrassment from the night before flared again, sharp and insistent, before he finally answered, his voice soft and uncertain.
“I’m… okay.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Faker’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. “You should drink some water.”
Nothing more needed to be said. Keria understood immediately. Of course he did.
He had cried too much the night before. All the tears he had not bothered to hide, tears that had soaked into borrowed sleeves and quiet apologies whispered into the dark. Tears that had come from a place he hadn’t known how to reach any other way.
A soft rustle interrupted the moment.
Keria turned his head just enough to see Doran shifting upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes as if waking slowly to the reality of the day. The warmth beside him shifted slightly as Peyz stirred but didn’t wake, and Keria instinctively stayed still, careful not to disturb him. He pressed his lips together, grounding himself in the present, with the quiet care, the unspoken understanding, the way no one asked him to explain what had already been seen.
“Good morning, hyung,” he greeted softly.
“Mmm. Morning, Keria-ssi. Good morning, Faker-hyung,” Doran replied, his voice thick and sleepy, still rough from just waking up.
Faker rose without a word, moving with the same unhurried calm he always carried. He returned moments later and pressed a bottle of water gently into Keria’s hand. Their fingers brushed briefly—warm, steady, and something about that simple contact eased the tightness in his chest.
“Slowly,” Faker murmured.
Keria nodded, unscrewing the cap with care. He took a small sip, then another, the coolness easing his throat and reminding him just how dry it was. He exhaled, shoulders relaxing despite himself, as if his body was finally being allowed to catch up.
The room remained hushed, broken only by breathing until a soft shuffle came from the corner.
Oner stirred. He shifted once, then twice, brows knitting as the faint sounds finally pulled him from sleep. Ever sensitive, even at rest. He blinked blearily, pushing himself up on one elbow, hair a mess, eyes still heavy.
“…Morning,” he muttered.
Doran glanced over first. “You’re awake already?”
Oner hummed, rubbing his face as he walked towards Doran. “You guys are loud,” he said, though there was no real complaint, only familiarity, worn and comfortable.
He scoffed when Doran reached out, but didn’t pull away as gentle fingers smoothed down the hair sticking up at his temple. Instead, he leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for just a second longer than necessary.
It was subtle. Easy. The kind of affection born from habit, from comfort, from knowing.
Keria watched quietly.
Warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight, fond and sincere. But beneath it, a colder ache followed close behind. Because he knew that kind of closeness. Knew the ease of shared mornings, the way affection didn’t need to be loud to be real. Knew how it felt to be understood without having to ask.
He and Gumayusi had been like that too.
The thought lingered, sharp but fleeting, before Keria tucked it away again, the way he had learned to do with so many things.
Oner’s gaze shifted, landing on him. He didn’t say anything. He just looked, eyes steady, open, unguarded. No pity. No curiosity. Just understanding, spoken without words.
It’s okay.
I understand.
Keria held his gaze a moment longer than he meant to, throat tightening, before giving a small nod.
Enough to say thank you.
Enough to say he heard it.
Keria looked away first, gaze drifting back to the warmth beside him. Peyz was still fast asleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, expression peaceful and unguarded. A fond smile curved Keria’s lips as he carefully tucked a stray strand of hair away from the younger’s eyes. The gesture was instinctive, affectionate and done without thought. He lingered a second longer, as if committing the moment to memory, as if afraid that once the day truly began, it might slip away.
“You should wake him,” Faker said softly. “We’ll grab breakfast.”
Keria nodded, shifting just enough to lean closer.
“Suhwan-ah,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Wake up.”
Peyz stirred, brows furrowing as a sleepy sound escaped him. He tightened his arm around Keria for a brief moment before loosening it again, shifting closer instead, seeking warmth even in half-sleep.
Keria froze.. and then relaxed.
A quiet laugh escaped him, soft and fond, surprising even himself.
“Suhwan-ah,” Faker said calmly, “auntie called earlier. Your yuzu soda americano is back on the menu.”
The reaction was immediate.
Peyz shot upright, eyes wide, hair sticking up everywhere. “What?”
The room froze for half a second, then erupted in laughter.
“You should’ve said that first, hyung,” Peyz grumbled as he scrambled out of bed, already fixing his pajama top and hair like he was late for an important meeting.
Doran laughed so hard he turned away. “Look at him, fully operational in two seconds.”
Oner shook his head, amused. “Motivation really is everything.”
Keria watched with a smile he didn’t bother to hide as Peyz tugged on a hoodie, still half-asleep but moving with purpose, the room filling with warmth and noise and something close to normal.
“Well?” Peyz demanded. “Are we going or what?”
“Someone’s enthusiastic,” Oner teased.
“You don’t understand,” Peyz insisted seriously. “It’s been so long since I tasted that drink.”
That earned another round of laughter.
Faker closed his book and stood. “Alright,” he said fondly. “Go wash up. We’ll meet in thirty.”
“Twenty,” Peyz corrected instantly.
Doran groaned. “It’s barely morning.”
Peyz was already herding them toward the door. “Come on. If we miss breakfast, that’s on you.”
Keria rose more slowly, slipping his feet into his slippers, lingering just a moment behind. He watched his teammates shuffle out together, shoulders bumping, voices overlapping, laughter soft and genuine, and something in his chest loosened. The ache didn’t disappear, not completely, but it softened at the edges, eased by the comfort of knowing he was still surrounded by family.
Yet deep within him remained a quiet, unyielding ache, a longing for the one presence that could never be replaced.
No matter how much warmth surrounded him, he still longed for Gumayusi.
Gumayusi woke before his alarm.
The room was dim, curtains barely letting in the pale light of early morning. For a moment, he stayed still, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar quiet.
No soft breathing beside him. No warmth pressed against his shoulder. Just the low hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of a building slowly waking up.
And then it settled in– that same, familiar ache he had gone to sleep.
He turned onto his side, arm stretching out on instinct before stopping midway. He realized there was nothing there to reach anymore. It wasn’t new, but it still caught, sharp, and unwelcome, lodging itself somewhere in his chest.
Gumayusi exhaled slowly and let his arm fall back against the mattress.
He had always been good at moving forward. At adapting, adjusting, doing what needed to be done without looking back too long. But mornings were harder. Mornings left too much room for memory and too much space for the quiet to fill itself with what used to be there.
Keria used to wake before him.
Not always, but often enough that Gumayusi had grown used to it—the rustle of sheets, the soft sigh, the way Keria would sit at the edge of the bed for a moment as if gathering himself before the day. Sometimes Gumayusi would pretend to still be asleep, just to feel the familiar weight when Keria leaned back against him, warm and steady.
Back then, those mornings had felt ordinary. Now, they felt impossibly distant.
The memory haunted him. Yet his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with The memories lingered longer than he expected. And yet, his thoughts drifted to his conversation with Sanghyeok-hyung, and slowly, his heart settled into something close to reassurance.
Even if Keria was no longer at his side and even if he could no longer stand beside him, he knew Keria had never been alone.
And neither had he.
Gumayusi sat up slowly, rubbing at his face, grounding himself in the present. Today was just another day. Another practice. Another meal. Another step forward. He told himself that until it almost sounded believable.
By the time he reached the cafeteria, the day had fully begun.
The room was alive with noise, cutlery clinking, chairs scraping against the floor, low conversations overlapping in a steady hum. It should have been grounding. Usually, it was.
But his appetite never really followed him in.
He poked at his food absently, gaze unfocused, mind drifting somewhere quieter. Somewhere warmer.
A light tap against his back pulled him out of it.
“You’re spacing out,” Zeka muttered around a mouthful of his sandwich, glancing up at him. “It’s weird seeing you not even halfway through your meal. You good?”
Gumayusi blinked, disoriented for a second before the noise of the cafeteria filtered back in properly. He let out a slow breath, shoulders relaxing as he forced himself to settle.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Just… thinking.”
Zeka hummed, leaning back in his chair. “Must be some thinking. You usually inhale your food.”
A faint smile tugged at Gumayusi’s lips, brief and fleeting. He didn’t answer, eyes dropping back to his tray. The food looked the same as always. He just didn’t feel like eating.
Footsteps approached, followed by the scrape of chairs.
Zeus arrived first, tray balanced carefully, with Kanavi and Delight following close behind. They took their seats, the table filling out, the space growing warmer with presence even as something unspoken lingered between them.
“Morning,” Delight greeted easily.
Kanavi studied Gumayusi for a moment. “You look like you barely slept.”
“Something like that,” Gumayusi replied.
Zeus unwrapped his food before lifting his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was calm, gentle—measured in a way that carried no pressure.
“…Have you thought about what you want to do, hyung?”
Gumayusi’s fingers stilled.
He stared at his tray, thumb tracing the edge absently, as if the answer might be hiding there. The question wasn’t new. It had been following him for days. Weeks. But hearing it out loud still made it heavier.
“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want to rush into the wrong thing.”
Zeus nodded, accepting it without hesitation. “That makes sense.”
“You know,” Kanavi said, undoing the cap of his drink, “you don’t really have to decide everything all at once. Sometimes, some things take time.”
“And whatever you choose,” Delight added softly, “it does not erase what came before.”
Gumayusi hadn’t been expecting that.
Not the certainty in their voices, or the way none of them looked at him like he was doing something wrong. He’d braced himself for advice, for concern wrapped in caution—for someone to tell him what the right thing was. Instead, all he was met with was understanding.
The knot in his chest tightened, then loosened, something fragile shifting beneath his ribs.
He lowered his gaze, fingers curling briefly against the edge of his tray. For the longest time, he had been afraid of choosing himself. Because he thought that by choosing his heart would mean disappointing someone. That it would cost him something he wasn’t ready to lose.
But none of them looked disappointed.
Nor the people he had left behind.
Zeka leaned back in his chair, studying him with an expression that was all honesty. “Missing someone doesn’t mean you’re stuck,” he said quietly. “It just means it mattered.”
Gumayusi swallowed.
“…I keep thinking I should’ve handled things better,” he admitted, voice low. “That maybe if I had said something sooner—”
Zeus shook his head gently. “You did what you could with what you had,” he said. “That’s enough.”
Kanavi nodded. “You’re allowed to take your time figuring it out,” he added. “No one’s rushing you.”
Delight met Gumayusi’s eyes, his smile small but sincere. “What matters is that you’re okay in the end.”
“And trust in him,” Zeus added softly, his voice steady and sincere. “Trust Keria-hyung—and the bond you built together. I know this, and I can say it with certainty—what you shared isn’t something mere distance can break.”
The words settled slowly, heavier than advice, warmer than reassurance.
Gumayusi didn’t look up right away. His fingers tightened briefly around his cup, the warmth seeping into his palms as if anchoring him to the present. He had spent so long convincing himself that distance meant loss, that time apart would slowly erode everything they once were.
But hearing it spoken aloud—said with such quiet confidence—made something inside him falter.
“You don’t have to have everything figured out today,” Zeus continued, gentler still. “Just don’t doubt what was real.”
Kanavi nodded. “Some connections don’t disappear just because circumstances change,” he said. “They wait.”
“And when they matter this much,” Delight added, “they find their way back—one way or another.”
Gumayusi finally lifted his head, eyes soft but unreadable. He swallowed, throat tight, and let himself breathe.
“…I want to believe that,” he admitted quietly.
Zeka’s voice came easily, warm with certainty. “Then believe it. You’re not wrong for holding onto something that mattered.”
Gumayusi let out a careful breath, shoulders easing as he finally allowed himself to sit with the thought—without pushing it away, without questioning whether he was allowed to want what he wanted.
“…Thank you,” he said softly. “All of you.”
No one answered right away. They didn’t need to.
The familiar noise of the cafeteria filled the space again—cutlery clinking, voices overlapping, the ordinary rhythm of a morning moving forward. But the silence between them felt different now.
Not empty.
Not heavy.
Steady.
And for the first time in a long while, Gumayusi let himself believe that choosing what his heart had been asking for all along didn’t have to mean losing everything else.
It had been over three days since the KeSPA Cup ended, yet neither Gumayusi nor Keria had taken the step to reach out.
The silence between them stretched on, unspoken, unresolved. And it was painfully evident to the people around them. Their teammates noticed it in the small, telling moments: the way Gumayusi would pause mid-conversation, eyes unfocused as if listening for something that never came; the way Keria would sit in his dorm room long after practice ended, phone resting untouched in his hand.
In their respective dorms, both of them would stare into nothingness, lost in thoughts they couldn’t bring themselves to voice. The absence was loud. Heavy. It settled into the air and lingered there, unmistakable.
No one said anything—not because they didn’t notice, but because they understood. Some silences needed time. Some distances needed patience.
And yet, for everyone watching from the outside, it was devastating all the same knowing that two people who had once been so in sync were now standing still, waiting for the other to move first.
–
“Hyung… do you think we should do something?” Peyz asked Oner one night, his voice barely above a whisper.
He had seen it then, Keria sitting alone, tears slipping down his face without a sound. No shaking breaths. No broken sobs. Just silence. The kind that made the sight itself heavier than any cry ever could. Keria didn’t wipe them away right away; he simply let them fall, eyes unfocused, as if even the act of crying demanded more strength than he had left.
Oner followed Peyz’s gaze, his expression softening as understanding settled in. He didn’t need to ask what Peyz meant.
After a moment, Oner shook his head slowly.
“Not yet,” he said quietly.
Watching Keria like that, so still, so quiet and it made Peyz’s chest tighten painfully. It wasn’t jealousy, nor was it pity, but worry: the kind that settled deep and persistent, born from caring too much to look away.
He had joined T1 not long ago, stepping into the space left behind by the person Keria was missing, but Peyz understood it more than anyone.
He didn’t blame anyone. He wasn’t hurt by the fact that Keria still missed his former ADC. If anything, he understood it. He had watched them too, seen the way they moved in sync, the quiet ease between them, the kind of connection that didn’t need to be named to be felt. Some bonds weren’t erased just because something big had changed.
And it wasn’t as if Keria treated him any differently. If anything, it was the opposite.
Keria was patient with him, attentive in ways that went beyond the game, always checking in on him, indulging his antics without complaint, celebrating small victories with the same sincerity as the big ones. Peyz had never once felt like a replacement. He felt accepted, even now, even as Keria carried something heavier than himself.
That was why seeing Keria like this hurt—not out of insecurity, but out of care.
Oner spoke again, voice low, careful. “They need to find their way to each other on their own,” he said. “If we step in now, we might just get in the way.”
Peyz looked at him, uncertain.
“Some things,” Oner continued, “aren’t meant to be fixed by others. They have to be chosen. By them.”
Peyz swallowed, gaze drifting back to Keria. He understood then, though not fully, but enough.
The longing Keria carried wasn’t something anyone else could resolve, nor something Peyz was meant to compete with. It was simply proof of a bond that had once existed deeply and of a heart still learning how to let go without losing what mattered.
“And I trust them,” Oner added, his voice sincere and unwavering. “I’ve been with them for the last five years. I’ve seen what they’re like together—the way they understand each other without having to ask, the way they always find their way back.”
He paused, gaze steady, thoughtful.
“Their bond isn’t fragile,” he continued. “If anything, it’s the opposite. To think something as trivial as distance could break it would be an insult to everything they’ve built.”
Peyz listened, the tightness in his chest easing just a little as the words settled in.
Oner exhaled softly, almost fond.
“They will come around sooner or later,” he said with quiet certainty. “They always will.”
—
Keria sat in silence inside his room, hands hovering over his phone—close, but never quite touching.
The screen stayed dark, accusing in its stillness. Every minute he didn’t move, the weight in his chest grew heavier, pressing in until it felt hard to breathe. Silence, he realized, wasn’t protecting him anymore. It was only letting the turmoil fester—emotions knotting tighter, sadness and longing eating away at him in quiet, relentless waves.
He heaved a breath, long and unsteady.
The truth settled in then, clear and unavoidable: the longer he stayed silent, the more it hurt.
So with what little courage and strength he had left, Keria reached forward. His fingers trembled as he picked up his phone, as if the simple act carried more weight than it should have. He stared at the empty text field for a long moment, heart pounding, before finally typing.
hi
He hesitated for just a second longer before he had the guts to pressed send.
The word sent appeared on his screen.
And almost instantly, another notification followed.
Keria froze, breath catching as he read the name at the top of the screen. A soft laugh slipped past his lips before he could stop it, warmth blooming gently in his chest.
“We really think alike, huh?” Keria murmured to himself, the words barely a whisper—accompanied by a small, fond smile he didn’t try to hide.
—
Minhyeongie: wow…
Minhyeongie: our timing is scary 😭ㅋㅋ
Keria: right…?
Keria: guess we really do think alike
Gumayusi couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips—small, unguarded, something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Their exchange was silly, almost trivial, but it was enough to ease the tightness in his chest.
Keria’s typing… bubble appeared on the screen.
Gumayusi paused, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He decided to wait, letting Keria speak first, content for once to simply sit there and watch the words slowly come back to life.
Minseokie <3: do you…
Minseokie <3: wanna go first?
Gumayusi: which do you prefer?
Minseokie <3: ??????
Minseokie <3: i asked you first and now you’re asking me back??
Gumayusi: i just want you to be comfortable
Minseokie <3: ………
Minseokie <3: wow
Minseokie <3: i really hate you
Gumayusi: you do?
Minseokie <3: yeah
Minseokie <3: i hate you for knowing i could never actually hate you
–
Keria couldn’t help the smile that bloomed across his face—slow, helpless, fond. It was ridiculous, really. After days of silence, of careful distance and unspoken fear, this was how they found each other again: bickering over who should speak first.
His chest felt warm in a way that made his breath hitch.
He leaned back against his pillows, phone resting loosely in his hands, eyes tracing the familiar pattern of messages like they were something precious. The teasing. The deflection. The quiet care hidden beneath every word. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
Because just as much as Keria knew Gumayusi. Knew how he avoided pushing, how he always offered choice instead of demand and Gumayusi knew him too. Knew his hesitation. Knew that asking him to go first wasn’t pressure, but a question that needed safety wrapped around it.
That was what made it unfair.
His heart fluttered, traitorous and soft, as he stared at the screen. He had spent days convincing himself that distance might dull things, that silence might make the ache manageable. But here Gumayusi was, still gentle, still careful, still exactly the same person who had once learned all his quiet tells without ever needing to be taught.
Keria let out a quiet laugh, breathy and warm, pressing the back of his hand to his lips as if to contain it.
“…You’re impossible,” he murmured to the empty room, fondness threading every syllable.
And yet relief followed close behind. Because beneath the teasing and the jokes and the familiar back-and-forth was something steadier. Something that hadn’t cracked under distance or time or fear.
They were still here.
Still choosing to be careful with each other. Still circling the truth instead of running from it. Still finding their way back—not with grand confessions, but with silly messages and softened hearts.
Keria glanced down at his phone again, fingers hovering over the keyboard this time, courage settling quietly in his chest.
Maybe going first didn’t feel so frightening anymore.
Not when Gumayusi was still right there—waiting, steady as ever.
So Keria heaved a sigh as he finally typed down the things he’s been wanting to tell Gumayusi all this time
—
Minseokie <3: Honestly… I don’t really know how to start this.
Minseokie <3: I’ve typed this out and deleted it so many times already, it’s kind of embarrassing. But I think if I don’t say it now, I’ll just keep carrying it around in a way that hurts more than it should.
Minseokie <3: I just want to be honest with you—without making it feel like something you need to fix.
Minseokie <3: The separation hurts. A lot more than I expected.
Minseokie <3: Some days it catches me in the quiet, and other days it just sits there, heavy—like I’m missing something I used to reach for without thinking.
Minseokie <3: But I want you to know this first: those feelings are mine. You don’t have to carry them for me, and you don’t have to dwell on them. I don’t regret the choices we made, and I don’t want you looking back with guilt or hesitation.
Minseokie <3: I just… needed you to know how much it all mattered to me.
Minseokie <3: When you asked me to join T1 five years ago, that was genuinely the happiest moment of my life. I don’t think I ever said that properly. Back then, I couldn’t even believe it—someone like you had wanted me on the same team. I remember trying to act calm, but my heart was racing the whole time. I kept thinking, Is this really happening? Did he really choose me?
Minseokie <3: Those five years weren’t easy. At all. Sometimes they were honestly hell—pressure, expectations, losses that felt too big to deal with. But somehow, it was always bearable because you were there.
Minseokie <3: Even when we lost and everything felt heavy and loud, I could pull myself together because you were beside me. And when we won… it always felt more real, more worth celebrating, because I got to celebrate it with you. Standing next to you made both the highs and the lows feel survivable.
Minseokie <3: I want you to know this clearly: those years are something I’ll always be grateful for. No matter where we end up or what paths we walk, that time doesn’t lose its meaning for me. It doesn’t fade or disappear.
Minseokie <3: Thank you—for choosing me back then. For trusting me. For being patient with me when I struggled. For being my partner in every way that mattered on the Rift. You were the best partner I could’ve asked for, and I really mean that.
Minseokie <3: So please don’t doubt yourself. And don’t think distance erases what we built—it doesn’t. And you don’t need to carry my emotions for me. I just wanted you to know that what we had was real, and it was precious to me.
Minseokie <3: Thank you for being the best ADC in the world. Thank you for keeping your promise to me.
Minseokie <3: Thank you for being together.
Minseokie <3: I love you. Really.
—
The message sent, and Keria went perfectly still.
Not because he wanted to take it back—but because everything inside him had gone suddenly, frighteningly quiet. Like he had finally loosened his grip on something he had been holding together by sheer will alone, and was waiting to see if it would fall… or be caught.
His gaze stayed fixed on the screen. The timestamp. The soft glow of the display. The faint reflection of his own eyes, glassy and unfocused, barely registering back at him. His fingers rested against the edge of the phone, numb, as if they had already done all they were capable of doing.
For a moment, doubt crept close enough to sting.
Was it too much? Had he said more than he should have? Had he waited until it was already too late?
The questions rose—then drifted away, leaving only the truth beneath them.
Keria closed his eyes and drew in a slow, careful breath, anchoring himself to the present. He hadn’t written to pull the past back into place. He hadn’t written to shape the future into something certain. He had written because the truth had grown too heavy to carry alone—and because it deserved to exist, even if it was met only with silence.
The phone remained quiet.
He set it beside him on the bed—not gently, not carelessly, but with a finality that felt like surrender. Then he leaned back against the headboard, gaze lifting to the ceiling where the light blurred softly into nothing.
The ache was still there—deep, familiar, woven into him by years of habit and memory. But it no longer felt sharp. It felt named. A wound acknowledged, even if not yet healed.
Whatever came next, he had said it.
And for the first time in days, that felt like enough.
—
Gumayusi didn’t read it all at once.
He started—and then stopped halfway through, breath catching so sharply it startled him. He set his phone down on the table like it had suddenly grown heavier, like it demanded more from him than he was ready to give in one sitting.
He stared at it, unmoving.
Not because it hurt, but because it mattered.
When he picked it up again, he slowed. Read each line carefully. Let every word land where it wanted to, instead of skimming past the parts that pressed too close. He wasn’t rushing this. He couldn’t.
The part about joining T1 five years ago made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
He remembered that day clearly. The hesitation before he asked, the way his heart had thudded too loud in his ears, how he’d replayed the conversation afterward, wondering if he’d sounded foolish for wanting someone so badly on his side. He hadn’t known. Had never imagined that moment had been the happiest of Keria’s life.
The realization settled in quietly, devastating in its gentleness.
I chose him.
And he chose me back.
By the time he reached the end, Gumayusi leaned back in his chair, phone pressed lightly against his chest, eyes closing on instinct. He stayed there for a moment, breathing through the weight of it all—through the gratitude, the warmth, the ache that came not from loss, but from having been part of something that mattered so deeply.
For so long, he had feared that choosing distance meant choosing erasure. That stepping away had fractured something delicate beyond repair.
But Keria hadn’t written from a place of blame.
He had written with care. With clarity. With a gratitude so steady it reached across the space between them and wrapped itself around Gumayusi’s heart.
It didn’t undo the ache.
It gave it meaning.
Gumayusi opened his eyes, breathing the evening out as something inside him settled—not into certainty, but into something solid enough to stand on.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to type.
—
Minhyeongie: I read your message slowly.
Minhyeongie: Not because it was hard to understand— but because I didn’t want to miss anything.
Minhyeongie: I wanted to let every word sink in properly. Thank you for telling me how you felt. Really.
Minhyeongie: It never felt like you were asking for something, or putting weight on me.
Minhyeongie: It felt like you were just… honoring what we shared.
Minhyeongie: And I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until I did.
Minhyeongie: When you said that joining T1 was the happiest moment of your life, I had to stop for a bit.
Minhyeongie: I remember that time so clearly.
Minhyeongie: Back then, it didn’t feel like something big or life-changing.
Minhyeongie: I just knew I trusted you.
Minhyeongie: And that if I was going to face everything ahead, I wanted to do it with you beside me.
Minhyeongie: Knowing now how much that moment meant to you…that’s something I carry with pride. Not sadness.
Minhyeongie: Those five years weren’t easy. We both know that. But when I look back, what stays with me isn’t the pressure or the losses.
Minhyeongie: It’s you.
Minhyeongie: The way you stayed steady when things got loud.
Minhyeongie: The way you understood me without me needing to explain myself.
Minhyeongie: The way standing next to you made even the hardest moments feel possible.
Minhyeongie: You said you could endure because I was there— but it really went both ways.
Minhyeongie: Having you as my partner made me braver.
Minhyeongie: Stronger.
Minhyeongie: More grounded.
Minhyeongie: Every win felt brighter because I got to share it with you.
Minhyeongie: And every loss felt survivable because I wasn’t facing it alone.
Minhyeongie: I don’t think of our time together as something that ended.
Minhyeongie: I think of it as something complete.
Minhyeongie: Whole.
Minhyeongie: Something that shaped who I am— not just as a player, but as a person.
Minhyeongie: And that doesn’t disappear just because circumstances change.
Minhyeongie: Or because paths go in different directions.
Minhyeongie: When I think of us, I don’t feel regret. I feel gratitude.
Minhyeongie: For every match.
Minhyeongie: Every late night.
Minhyeongie: Every moment we stood side by side and trusted each other completely.
Minhyeongie: Thank you for being my partner. Thank you for choosing me back then.
Minhyeongie: Thank you for being the best support I could ever have.
Minhyeongie: And thank you for trusting me enough to say all of this now.
Minhyeongie: What we shared was real.
Minhyeongie: And it will always matter to me.
Minhyeongie: I love you, Minseok-ah.
Minhyeongie: Always.
—
Gumayusi stays still, eyes fixed on the last message longer than necessary.
Always.
The word doesn’t echo. It doesn’t demand. It simply rests there—steady, unafraid, like something that has already proven it can endure.
His chest feels full in a way that no longer aches. Not hollow. Not fractured. Just… settled. As if something important has been returned to its rightful place—not to be clutched too tightly, but trusted to remain, even when unseen.
He glances at the clock, then back at the screen. Time hasn’t moved much, but something inside him has. His thumbs hover briefly—not from uncertainty, but from care. From the desire to answer in a way that feels true.
Something warm.
Something unmistakably them.
—
Minhyeongie: hey
Minhyeongie: i’m really glad you said all of that
Minhyeongie: it doesn’t feel like we’re saying goodbye
Minhyeongie: it feels like… we finally said what we should have a long time ago
Minhyeongie: so thank you
Minhyeongie: for not letting it stay unspoken
Minhyeongie: also
Minhyeongie: don’t get the wrong idea
Minhyeongie: next time we meet on stage
Minhyeongie: i’m not holding back
—
The moment the message appears, something soft loosens in Keria’s chest.
A smile curves onto his lips—slow at first, then real. The weight he’s been carrying doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, easing into something warmer. Lighter. Like relief earned, not borrowed.
He exhales, a quiet breath of laughter escaping before he can stop it, and types back without overthinking it.
—
Keria : i was hoping you’d say that
Keria : it wouldn’t be you if you did
Keria : but don’t worry
Keria : i won’t go easy on you either
Keria : next time we’re on opposite sides
Keria : i’ll make sure you remember me
Keria : no mercy
Keria : only respect
Keria : promise
—
Gumayusi lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as something bright settles in his chest.
Not longing.
Not sadness.
Anticipation.
—
Minhyeongie: good
Minhyeongie: i wouldn’t want it any other way
Minhyeongie: see you on stage, minseok-ah
Minhyeongie: until then
Minhyeongie: take care of yourself
Keria stares at the message for a moment longer than he needs to. His fingers linger over the keyboard—then move, light and sure.
—
Keria : you too
Keria : see you soon
He sets his phone down beside him, the room quiet once more. But this time, the silence doesn’t press in on him. It doesn’t ache.
It feels… earned.
They didn’t try to undo what had changed. They didn’t reach back to reshape the paths they had already chosen.
Instead, they chose honesty over silence.
They chose to honor the bond that had carried them through victories and losses, through long nights that demanded more than they thought they could give and shaped them into who they had become.
And maybe that was enough.
Because maybe, somewhere down the line, when time has dulled its sharpest edges and distance has done its quiet, patient work, their lights will find each other again. Their rhythm will slip back into sync, their paths bending, gently and inevitably, toward the same horizon.
Until then, they move forward on separate roads that is no longer weighed down by what was left unsaid. Knowing now that not all goodbyes are endings.
That some distances are not absences at all, but promises, stretched thin by time, held carefully, and waiting to be kept.