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It was just another regular evening, the kind where the city lights reflected into the windows of apartments and coffee shops. Also, the kind where it felt eerily quiet.
Dohoon sat in the back seat of the bus, hands buried in his jacket pockets, watching the clouds his breath was producing as he exhaled. There was a faint sound coming from the driver's radio, a song about love, questioning that love and about not knowing whether what you felt was real or just something you told yourself to believe.
The song made him think more, made him hurt more. Jihoon sat beside him, close enough that every time the bus changed lane or took a turn, their shoulders would touch. Something about this ride feels different though. Emotionally charged.
They used to talk more on journeys like this, inside jokes and quiet laughter usually filled the pair's personal bubble. But lately, the conversations were full of small talk and tired nods. It was like they wanted to tell them how much they still loved each other, but not having the words.
Dohoon stared at Jihoon’s reflection in the bus window; he could see the tiredness on his face. He could see how the late nights and worries about work had crept up on him at an alarming rate. He also noticed that he no longer looked at Dohoon the way he had when they first met, as if Dohoon were the only person who existed. Like he was the only person he could trust to open his heart to and the only person who could make him feel like he was floating on clouds.
The song on the radio reached a line that hit Dohoon a little harder tonight.
Tell myself I wouldn't cry when you're gone, but I know it's easier said than done.
The song spoke of the ache that comes with desperately holding onto something while it keeps slipping away. Dohoon swallowed the lump in his throat, which he didn't realise had formed. “Jihoon,” he spoke softly. Jihoons didn't answer straight away, he just kept staring at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing in his surroundings right now. He knew what Dohoon was about to say and was scared to face him, afraid he would break down.
“I think,” Dohoon continued when he realised he wouldn't get a reply from him calling his name. “I think I should stop walking you home after you finish work.” The words sounded small. But they hit like a suckerpunch, sounding like Dohoon was saying goodbye.
Jihoons let out a shaky breath. The kind of breath you take when you don't want to cry in public. His fingers tightened around the hand warmers in his pockets. His lips pressed together like he was biting back everything he wanted to say. Needed to say.
The song continued to play softly, becoming the soundtrack to this moment between them. The song asks about the meaning of love, if it only leaves pain in its wake. Jihoons finally whispered a response. “Did I do something wrong?” The question broke something inside of Dohoon. Because, no, Jihoon hadn't done anything wrong.
If anything, Jihoon was the one holding them together. He had stayed, he had cared, he had held onto something Dohoon wasn't even sure was there anymore, something he was afraid to speak out loud. One thing is that fear had a way of ruining something that didn't need to be worried about.
Dohoon didn't answer; he kept his eyes on the world passing by. He couldn't answer. So Jihoon nodded in response, slowly but unsure. He didn't understand, but if he opened his mouth to ask Dohoon, he would fall apart at the seams.
The bus reached their stop, and they silently left the bus looking like strangers that had yet to be acquainted. The song slowly slipped away from their ears as they stepped onto the snowy sidewalk. This was when Dohoon realised the most painful part of love wasn't losing it all at once. It was watching it slowly slip away, on nights like these, when it was just another ordinary night.
The apartment felt colder than the outside, not because the window was left open but because the remnants of happier memories lingered. Two mugs left on the kitchen counter, a usually shared blanket thrown over the couch, and photos around the home that show they looked truly happy.
They didn't turn on the lights, and they entered the door. The lights from outside cast a dim glow over the room, painting shadows across the floor. Jihoon slipped his shoes off first, thinking about what was to come. Dohoon followed a few seconds later, like everything between them had become distant.
Jihoon broke the silence first, his voice soft, fragile. “You really meant it, didn't you?” Dohoon stopped mid-step. He didn't need to ask what Jihoon meant. They both knew what was happening. He set his bag down on the counter, his hands visibly shaking.
“It'll be easier,” he said, forcing the words out. “For both of us.” Jihoons let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “Easier.” He repeated quietly. “For who Dohoon? Because it doesn't feel like it's getting easier, it feels like you're searching for a way out.” His words cracked slightly towards the end of the sentence.
Dohoon turned his back so Jihoon wouldn't see the pain in his expression. “I'm not searching for a way out, I'm just trying to give you some space.” Jihoon finally reached his breaking point. “But you never asked if I needed space.” His voice was still quiet and now trembling. “You never asked if I had a problem with this, you just decided it on your own.”
A charged silence fell between them. Heavy and painful, full of words they could never speak aloud. Dohoon's chest tightened. Jihoon was right; he always was. But Dohoon had been afraid of losing him for a long time enough for it to be as scary as seeing a spider next to your head. “If we keep going like this,” Dohoon started while turning to face Jihoon and looking directly in his eyes, even if it hurt. “We're going to hurt each other.”
Jihoon swallowed hard before responding. “We already are, Dohoon.” Something changed in the air then. Not anger, not tension, but acceptance that they were hurting each other with how they had been recently. Jihoon took a step closer, not enough to close the distance between them, similar to how they knew this chapter wouldn't be continuing for much longer. “I still love you,” he said softly, his voice full of sorrow. “I still want this.”
Dohoon searched Jihoon's eyes, his own eyes mirroring the redness he found. His voice was barely above a whisper when he replied. “I know.” It wasn't a promise to fix this. It wasn't hope that they could be okay. Jihoon knew this time, this was a goodbye. Not because they had fallen out of love. But because they loved each other. But for Jihoon, it wasn't enough.
“Then why does it feel like we've already broken up?” Dohoon didn't answer. He didn't have to; the truth was known, even if it wasn't spoken. The love between them wasn't the problem; it couldn't survive the weight of everything that had happened. Jihoon was the one to turn his back this time. He walked towards the bedroom with slow, quiet steps before stopping in the doorway. His voice was small and broken. “Let's just sleep and talk about this in the morning.”
Dohoon nodded. They lay in the same bed, in the same room, but it felt like they were a million miles apart. As they drifted off to sleep, they realised the saddest ending isn't one where there's no love there. But it's the one where two people still love each other, even though they know they aren't the best person for each other.
Morning arrived, but not with sunlight; the world was dull and grey, like a foreshadowing of what was to come. It makes the ache impossible to ignore.
The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the coffee machine. Dohoon stood at the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around the handles of two mismatched mugs. Ironic when he thinks about it deeper. Steam rose from the cups, his hand shaking lightly as he placed one in front of Jihoon. He murmured a small thanks.
Neither of them took the first sip, afraid of what would be said once they did, not wanting to close the book just yet. They sat facing each other but not looking at each other. There was no anger between them, no urge to shout and make a fuss. Just heartbreak that had been snowballing for much longer than they can remember. It hurts more when they remember how the space once felt so safe and secure.
Jihoon stared into his coffee, eyes full of sleep and glossed over from the tears threatening to spill. “Do you remember when we moved in? We thought we'd done something stupid and look back at ourselves and laugh, as if we made it through the hard parts.” His voice trembled as he spoke, feeling nostalgia and also a sense of misery that he had grown apart from the person he thought would come to know every version of him. The good, the bad and the ugly.
Dohoon swallowed hard, holding back tears. “I wish we could've gotten past the hardest part,” he whispered. There was still so much love in the room, and that's why it hurt more than anything either of them had ever been through. There was so much history painted onto the four walls, the late-night conversations, shared dinners, shared promises they never thought they'd break. The kind of memories that will stick with you even when the person who made them isn't around anymore.
Jihoon nodded, tears falling without sound. “I don't regret us, not a single moment,” he said. This was the sentence that made Dohoon's tears finally fall. “Me neither.” Silence fell between them again, still full of pain but harbouring acceptance for what was happening.
Jihoon finally spoke aloud the words neither wanted to say first. “I think this is where we stop walking together.” Dohoon closed his eyes, the tears falling freely. It felt like realising everything you had built had come crashing down. The future you imagined and planned out was no longer an option. He forced his eyes back open to meet Jihoon’s gaze. “You'll be okay,” he said, not because he was willing to let go but because he needed Jihoon to believe he would be.
Jihoon smiled, but it was sad. “You will too.” No more words were spoken, basking in the silence that held so much weight. Two souls that were meant to meet, but maybe met at the wrong time.
Eventually, Jihoon stood and lightly brushed Dohoon's fingertips before taking his empty mug to the sink. This was his final goodbye. He picked up his coat and paused at the door. He turned to face Dohoon one final time, eyes full of every moment they had ever shared. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For being a part of my story.”
Dohoon didn't trust his voice enough to speak in that moment, so he nodded instead. Jihoon walks out the door without sparing a glance back. In the empty kitchen, Dohoon stood with his mug, bought with Jihoon when they were happier.
Dohoon had realised that sometimes love doesn't vanish, but becomes a memory you carry with you in every version of the life you love without the one you loved.