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The town was already breathing too loudly when Ricky arrived.
Sound hit first—layers upon layers of it. Music blasted from towering speakers that someone had mounted near the main square, the bass so deep it seemed to vibrate through bone rather than air. Voices overlapped in chaotic harmony: laughter, shouting, the sharp squeal of someone calling a name that dissolved before it could land. Every sound was magnified by the buildings that ringed the square, bouncing back and forth until there was no clear direction to any of it, only noise pressing in from all sides.
Lights came next. Neon signs flickered above storefronts, reds bleeding into blues, blues cutting into white strobes that flashed in rhythm with the music. Fairy lights were strung overhead like constellations pulled too close to the ground, trembling faintly whenever the wind picked up. Someone had brought glow sticks—green, pink, electric blue—and waved them above their head, leaving streaks of colour that burned briefly into Ricky’s vision before disappearing.
The air smelled like winter layered with people. Cold metal and asphalt beneath it all, overpowered by perfume, sweat, fried food from a nearby stall, the faint sweetness of spilled alcohol. Every breath felt thick, as though he had to push it through his chest manually.
Ricky stood slightly behind his friends, Matthew and Zhang Hao, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched despite himself. He’d dressed warmly—thick scarf, gloves, boots that pinched his toes just a little—but it didn’t stop the chill that curled beneath his skin. Or maybe that wasn’t the cold. Maybe it was everything else.
“Ricky! Did you hear that?” Matthew shouted.
He smiled automatically, nodded even though he hadn’t caught a word of it. His friends were excited in the way people got when they were swept up by an event bigger than themselves. Their faces were flushed, eyes bright, voices louder than usual. They leaned into each other when they laughed, bodies loose and unguarded, as if the crowd wasn’t something to survive but something to dissolve into.
Ricky tried to mirror them. He really did. He told himself he’d been fine before—campus events, packed lecture halls, even concerts if he stood far enough at the back. This was just another crowd. Just another night. Just a countdown.
But the square kept filling.
People poured in from every street, every alley, swelling the space until movement became a negotiation rather than a choice. Shoulders brushed his. Someone stepped on his foot and didn’t notice. A stranger’s elbow pressed briefly into his ribs before vanishing. The physical closeness made his skin prickle, nerves firing too fast, too loud.
He focused on small things. The way his breath fogged in the cold. The pattern of cracks in the pavement beneath his boots. The countdown clock mounted high above the stage—still reading 00:17:42, mercifully distant from midnight.
“Let’s move closer!” Hao said, already tugging Matthew forward.
The group shifted. Ricky followed, half a step behind, then another. The press of bodies tightened. Someone bumped into his shoulder hard enough that he stumbled, heart jumping violently into his throat.
“I’m okay,” he said reflexively, though no one had asked.
They moved again. The music grew louder. Lights strobed faster.
Then someone laughed right by his ear—sharp and sudden—and something inside him cracked.
He stopped.
It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t announce it. He simply stopped moving, feet rooted to the ground as the crowd flowed around him like water around a stone. For a heartbeat, maybe two, he expected someone to notice. To turn back. To call his name.
No one did.
A body slid into the space his friends had occupied, sealing the gap. Another followed. The faces in front of him were unfamiliar, all turned toward the stage, all intent on something that wasn’t him.
Ricky’s chest tightened.
He turned in a slow circle, panic blooming quietly at first, like ink spreading through water. His friends were gone. Not far, he told himself. They couldn’t be far. But every direction looked the same—coats and hats and faces blurred together, indistinguishable in the flashing light.
He pulled his phone from his pocket with fingers that already felt clumsy.
No signal.
The screen glowed uselessly in his palm as the noise pressed closer, heavier now, as if the crowd had decided to breathe in unison just to steal the air from his lungs. His heart began to race, each beat too loud, too fast, thudding against his ribs until it hurt.
Okay. Okay. Just breathe.
He tried. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He counted silently. One, two, three—
The bass dropped, sudden and violent, and the sound punched straight through him.
His breath hitched. The edges of his vision blurred, lights smearing into colour without shape. His hands started to shake, the phone slipping dangerously close to the edge of his grip.
He pressed his back against nothing—there was no wall, no edge, no escape. Just people on all sides, bodies too close, voices too loud, the weight of the night pressing down until it felt impossible that he’d ever breathe properly again.
It was happening.
Not now. Please, not now.
He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. Without sight, the sounds grew monstrous, expanding to fill every corner of his head. His chest felt too tight, lungs refusing to draw in enough air no matter how hard he tried. Panic surged, sharp and immediate, stripping thought down to raw sensation.
I need out.
He opened his eyes again, frantic now, scanning faces that slid past without seeing him. He was too tall, too still, too visibly not okay—and yet invisible all the same.
Then, through the blur and the strobing light, he saw someone he knew.
Gyuvin stood a few metres away, angled toward a small group of people, his head tipped back in laughter. The light caught the edge of his face, outlining his jaw, his smile bright and unguarded. He wore a dark jacket with a lighter scarf looped loosely around his neck, ends shifting whenever he moved. He looked warm. Comfortable. Like he belonged exactly where he was.
The sight of him hit Ricky with a force that stole what little breath he had left.
Kim Gyuvin.
From campus. From hallways and courtyards and shared buildings. From passing moments where Ricky had noticed the way Gyuvin seemed to exist effortlessly among people, always mid-conversation, always smiling at someone. From a hundred almost-glances that Ricky had never dared turn into more.
Seeing him now made something in Ricky’s chest twist painfully.
Relief surged first—something familiar, something real. Then fear, sharp and immediate, because Gyuvin was still surrounded by people, still part of the noise. Calm and panic collided inside Ricky at once, a dizzying contradiction that made his knees feel weak.
He couldn’t go to him. He knew that. His body wouldn’t move, wouldn’t obey the command even as his mind screamed for help. The distance between them might as well have been a wall.
His breathing stuttered, vision narrowing further.
Gyuvin turned.
At first, it seemed like a coincidence. His laughter faded, smile slipping as his gaze drifted away from his friends. Then his eyes caught on Ricky—and stopped.
Their gazes met. For a fraction of a second, neither of them moved.
Ricky’s heart lurched violently, a painful, hopeful jolt. He was painfully aware of how he must look—too pale, eyes too wide, chest heaving visibly beneath his coat. He tried to look away, shame flooding in alongside the panic, but he couldn’t tear his gaze free.
Gyuvin frowned. Not deeply. Just enough. His expression shifted with quick, instinctive concern, smile disappearing as he took in Ricky’s rigid posture, the way his hands trembled, the unmistakable signs of someone drowning while standing upright.
Gyuvin said something to the people around him—Ricky didn’t hear what—and then he was moving.
The crowd resisted at first, bodies pressing back, but Gyuvin pushed through with purpose, one hand raised apologetically as he murmured quick excuses. Each step brought him closer, his face sharpening into focus through the haze of panic.
Ricky’s breath hitched again.
By the time Gyuvin reached him, the countdown clock above the stage ticked down another minute.
Gyuvin stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Ricky could see the flecks of light reflected in his eyes.
“Hey,” Gyuvin said.
His voice cut through the noise—not loud, but steady. Grounded.
Ricky swallowed, mouth dry. He tried to speak. Nothing came out.
Gyuvin didn’t push. He glanced around once, quick and assessing, then looked back at Ricky, softer now.
“You’re not okay,” he said, not as a question.
Ricky shook his head, a small, helpless motion.
“That’s alright,” Gyuvin said immediately. “You don’t have to talk. Can you look at me?”
Ricky was already doing that. He nodded weakly.
“Good,” Gyuvin said. “You’re doing great. Just stay with me, okay?”
He reached out slowly, giving Ricky time to pull away if he wanted to.
Ricky didn’t.
Gyuvin’s hand closed gently but firmly around Ricky’s wrist, warm even through the fabric of his glove. The contact was solid, undeniable. Real.
“Let’s get you somewhere quieter,” Gyuvin said. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time since the panic had taken hold, Ricky believed him.
Gyuvin didn’t let go.
That was the first thing Ricky noticed as they began to move. Not the way the crowd surged and resisted, not the way his legs felt unsteady beneath him, not even the way his breath still came in short, uneven pulls. It was the hand around his wrist—steady, warm, undeniably there. Gyuvin didn’t drag him, didn’t tug sharply or rush him forward. He moved just half a step ahead, close enough that Ricky could see the back of his scarf, the line of his shoulders shifting as he navigated the bodies in front of them.
“Okay,” Gyuvin said, pitching his voice low, close to Ricky’s ear so it didn’t have to fight the music. “We’re just going to walk. Slow is fine.”
Ricky nodded again, because nodding was easier than speaking, easier than trusting his voice not to break apart under the weight of everything pressing on him. His fingers curled reflexively around Gyuvin’s sleeve, clutching fabric like a lifeline. He hated himself for it—hated the desperation, the way he must look—but Gyuvin didn’t comment. If he noticed at all, he only adjusted his grip, anchoring Ricky more securely.
They took one step. Then another.
The crowd didn’t part cleanly. It never did. Bodies brushed past, shoulders bumped, someone swore when Gyuvin stepped on their foot. But Gyuvin absorbed it all, murmuring apologies, angling his body to shield Ricky where he could. Each movement was deliberate, economical, as if he’d done this before. As if he knew exactly how to carve a path through chaos.
“Breathe with me,” Gyuvin said softly. “In—”
Ricky tried. He really did. His lungs still felt too small, his chest too tight, but having something to follow—someone else’s rhythm instead of his own spiraling thoughts—helped.
“And out,” Gyuvin finished.
They repeated it. Again. Again.
With every step away from the square, the sound shifted. The bass dulled, losing its bone-deep vibration. The lights grew less violent, fairy lights giving way to streetlamps that cast a softer, steadier glow. The crowd thinned gradually, bodies loosening their grip on the space between them.
Ricky’s vision stopped tunneling. The world regained its edges.
His breathing slowed, not enough to be normal, but enough that it no longer felt like he was suffocating. The tight coil of panic in his chest loosened incrementally, retreating from a roar to a tremor.
“You’re doing really well,” Gyuvin said, as if he could sense the shift. “Almost there.”
“Where…?” Ricky managed, voice hoarse and small.
Gyuvin glanced back at him, offering a quick, reassuring smile that warmed something deep and fragile inside Ricky. “There’s a record store up ahead. I think it’s still open. It’s quiet.”
A record store.
The idea settled over Ricky like a blanket. Small. Enclosed. Predictable. The kind of place where sound was intentional rather than overwhelming. Where silence was allowed to exist.
“Yes,” he breathed, relief bleeding into the word.
They turned down a side street, the noise of the square dropping away abruptly, as though someone had closed a door behind them. The street was narrower, lined with older buildings whose windows glowed faintly from within. The air here smelled cleaner—cold stone and dust, a hint of something woody drifting from somewhere unseen.
And there it was.
The record store sat tucked between a café and a closed bookstore, its front window fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A hand-painted sign hung above the door, letters curling unevenly, lights strung lazily along the frame. Inside, shelves rose in neat rows, dark wood worn smooth with age. A soft amber light spilled onto the pavement, pooling around their feet.
Gyuvin slowed, easing Ricky to a stop in front of the door.
“We’re here,” he said gently. “You’re safe.”
Ricky stared at the window, at the faint reflection of himself layered over rows of vinyl and posters faded by time. He looked pale. Shaken. But upright. Breathing.
Gyuvin pushed the door open.
A bell chimed softly as they stepped inside, the sound small and almost intimate. The door swung shut behind them, sealing out the night in one decisive motion.
Silence rushed in.
Not complete silence—there was music playing somewhere deeper in the store, a record crackling faintly as a slow melody drifted through the air—but compared to the square, it felt like stepping underwater. The noise dulled instantly, replaced by a gentle hum that soothed rather than assaulted.
Ricky’s knees nearly gave out.
Gyuvin caught him without hesitation, one arm coming up around his back to steady him. The contact was close now, undeniably intimate, Gyuvin’s warmth radiating through layers of winter clothing. For a moment, Ricky simply leaned into it, too exhausted to pretend he didn’t need the support.
“It’s okay,” Gyuvin murmured. “Take your time.”
The store smelled like old paper and vinyl, dust warmed by soft light, something faintly sweet—maybe incense, or the lingering memory of it. The air was still, undisturbed by rushing bodies or sudden movement. Everything felt deliberate, anchored.
Ricky’s breathing finally evened out.
He became aware, belatedly, of how close they were. Embarrassment flared, sharp and hot, cutting through the remnants of panic. He pulled back slightly, straightening, hands dropping to his sides.
“I— I’m sorry,” he said, words tumbling out now that his voice had returned. “I didn’t mean to— I don’t usually— I mean, I do, but—”
Gyuvin shook his head immediately, expression earnest. “Hey. No. You don’t need to apologize.”
Ricky pressed his lips together, fighting the familiar urge to shrink in on himself, to make his presence smaller. He glanced around, taking in the space as a distraction. The store was empty aside from them. No cashier in sight. Just rows of records organized meticulously by genre, handwritten labels tucked into the shelves. Posters covered the walls—bands Ricky recognized and others he didn’t, colours muted with age.
Gyuvin followed his gaze, then looked back at him. “You wanna sit?”
There was a small bench near the listening station at the back, cushioned and worn. Ricky nodded gratefully and made his way over, movements slow but steadier now. He sat, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers lacing together tightly.
Gyuvin hovered for a second, as if unsure, then settled on the floor nearby, leaning back against the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him. Close, but not intrusive.
They sat like that for a while. The record played on, something soft and melancholy, the singer’s voice low and textured, every note stretched just enough to ache. The sound filled the space gently, settling into the corners rather than bouncing off them.
Ricky focused on it. On the rise and fall of the melody. On the way his chest moved more easily now, breathing no longer something he had to fight for.
Eventually, he spoke.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Gyuvin glanced up at him. “You’re welcome.”
“No, I mean…” Ricky trailed off, struggling to articulate the weight of it. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve just— I don’t know. Walked past.”
Gyuvin considered that for a moment, then shrugged lightly. “I noticed you.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything else that night.
Ricky swallowed, heat creeping into his face. He stared at his hands, suddenly acutely aware of every awkward thing he might say next.
“I know you,” he admitted, voice barely above the music.
Gyuvin’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”
“From campus,” Ricky clarified quickly. “We—we don’t talk. I mean, we’ve never talked. But I’ve seen you. A lot.”
A smile tugged at Gyuvin’s mouth, softer this time. “Yeah. I know who you are.”
Ricky’s head snapped up, shock flaring through him. “You do?”
“Of course,” Gyuvin said. “You’re always in the library late. Corner table by the windows. You wear headphones but never actually play music.”
Ricky stared at him, stunned. “I—I just— sometimes it helps,” he muttered.
Gyuvin laughed quietly, not unkindly. “I figured.”
Something loosened in Ricky’s chest then, something he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding tight for years. The idea that he hadn’t been invisible after all—that someone like Gyuvin, someone so effortlessly surrounded by people, had noticed him too.
The record crackled softly as the song came to an end.
Gyuvin stood, stretching slightly. “Do you want to look around?” he asked. “No pressure.”
Ricky hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
They moved through the aisles together, slow and unhurried. Ricky traced his fingers lightly along the spines of records, reading titles, soaking in the quiet familiarity of it all. He talked more easily here, words flowing without the usual friction, telling Gyuvin about albums he loved, about how certain songs felt like places he could return to when everything else became too much.
Gyuvin listened. Really listened. He asked questions, picked up records Ricky pointed out, admitted freely when he didn’t know something. There was no performative confidence here, no need to impress—just curiosity, genuine and warm.
Time stretched. Outside, fireworks began to crackle faintly in the distance, muffled by walls and glass. Colours flashed briefly through the front window, painting the shelves in fleeting reds and golds before fading away.
Midnight passed quietly, almost unnoticed. And inside the record store, two people who had walked past each other a hundred times on campus stood side by side, suspended in a moment that felt like it existed outside of time altogether.
The record store seemed to exist on its own axis of time.
Minutes passed without weight, stretching thin and translucent, measured not by clocks or countdowns but by the gentle rhythm of the music and the soft shuffle of their footsteps against the wooden floor. Outside, the new year arrived in bursts of colour and sound, fireworks blooming unseen above rooftops, their echoes muted into distant thumps that felt almost imagined. Inside, the world remained hushed, amber-lit, patient.
Ricky moved slowly along the shelves, fingertips grazing spines as if afraid that touching anything too firmly might break the spell. Each record felt like a small, contained universe—square and solid, predictable in shape even if the sound inside it could be vast. The familiarity settled him further, grounding him in a way that breathing exercises never quite managed.
“This one,” he said quietly, stopping in front of a section labeled Alternative/Indie. He pulled out a sleeve, the cover worn at the corners, colours slightly faded. “This album got me through my first year.”
Gyuvin leaned closer, shoulder brushing Ricky’s sleeve, close enough that Ricky could feel his warmth again. Not overwhelming this time. Just there.
“What was first year like?” Gyuvin asked.
Ricky hesitated. The honest answer rose to his tongue automatically—lonely, terrifying, quiet in all the wrong ways—but he wasn’t sure how much of himself he was allowed to offer. How much Gyuvin expected. Or wanted.
“Hard,” he said finally. “I didn’t know anyone. Still don’t, really.”
Gyuvin hummed softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Yeah. I guess I had the opposite problem.”
Ricky glanced at him. “Too many people?”
“Too many expectations,” Gyuvin corrected. He smiled faintly, but there was something tired beneath it. “Everyone thinks I’m… easy. To talk to. To know.”
Ricky absorbed that, surprised by how much it resonated. He nodded slowly. “People think I’m difficult. Or cold. Or… not worth the effort.”
Gyuvin turned fully toward him then, expression serious. “I don’t think that.”
The words landed gently but firmly, like a hand placed over a racing heart. Ricky felt them settle somewhere deep, somewhere fragile. He looked away again, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of being seen so clearly.
They drifted toward the listening station at the back of the store. Gyuvin selected a record at random—something instrumental, slow and expansive—and set it gently onto the turntable. When the needle dropped, the sound that emerged was warm and textured, filling the space with a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the shelves themselves. They sat side by side on the bench this time, close enough that their coats brushed. Ricky could smell Gyuvin faintly now—clean laundry, winter air, something subtly citrusy underneath. It was grounding in its own way, a reminder that this was real, that he wasn’t still trapped in the echoing chaos of the square.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Ricky watched the record spin, hypnotized by the slow rotation, the way the label blurred into a circle of colour. His body felt heavy in the best possible way, exhaustion finally catching up now that the adrenaline had drained away. He let his shoulders relax, his head tipping back slightly against the shelf behind them.
“Do you get panic attacks often?” Gyuvin asked eventually, voice low.
Ricky flinched internally, instinctively bracing for judgment, for awkward pity. But Gyuvin’s tone held neither. Just curiosity. Concern.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Crowds are… unpredictable. I try to avoid them.”
Gyuvin nodded. “You did really well out there. Even before I noticed.”
Ricky let out a small, incredulous laugh. “I was standing still and trying not to pass out.”
“And you didn’t,” Gyuvin said simply. “That counts.”
Something about the way he said it—matter-of-fact, sincere—made Ricky’s throat tighten. He swallowed, blinking rapidly.
“Why did you help me?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
Gyuvin considered it. The record crackled softly between notes.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I saw you, and I knew you needed someone. That was kind of it.”
Ricky nodded, accepting the answer even if it didn’t fully explain the way his chest felt warm and hollow all at once.
They talked then—really talked, the way people only seemed to do when the world was quiet enough to allow honesty. About classes they hated, professors who droned on endlessly. About favorite places on campus to hide when things got overwhelming. About music that felt like breathing and music that felt like drowning.
Ricky found himself laughing more than he expected to, the sound unfamiliar in his own ears but not unpleasant. Gyuvin laughed too, easy and bright, but quieter than before, as if he were matching Ricky’s volume without thinking about it.
At some point, the store owner emerged from a back room, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a kind smile. He glanced at the clock, then at them.
“Five more minutes,” he said mildly. “Then I’m closing up.”
Gyuvin thanked him, standing to return the record to its sleeve. The simple act felt heavy, like a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence neither of them was ready to finish. Outside, the fireworks had slowed, bursts more sporadic now. The street beyond the window looked different—littered with confetti and spent casings, the aftermath of celebration settling into quiet disarray. The night felt older somehow, less expectant.
They stepped outside together when the store closed, the cold air biting sharper after the warmth inside. Ricky tugged his scarf higher, breath fogging instantly as he exhaled. The street was nearly empty now, the crowd dispersed, leaving behind a strange, echoing calm.
For a moment, they just stood there, facing each other under the streetlamp’s pale glow. Ricky’s phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He pulled it out, seeing a flood of messages from Hao—apologies, jokes, concern layered together in rapid succession. Relief washed through him, followed closely by something like regret.
“They found you?” Gyuvin asked.
“Yeah,” Ricky said softly. “They’re a few streets over.”
Gyuvin nodded, understanding flickering across his face. The moment stretched, delicate and uncertain, like glass balanced on its edge.
“I should go,” Ricky said, though his feet didn’t move.
Gyuvin smiled, small and genuine. “Yeah.”
They lingered another heartbeat, neither quite ready to break the connection. The night pressed in gently now, cool and quiet, holding the promise of something that didn’t need to be named to be real.
“I’m glad I saw you tonight,” Gyuvin said.
Ricky met his gaze, heart steady and full in a way that felt new. “Me too.”
“Oh and, Ricky?”
Ricky looked up, his eyes met Gyuvin’s and somehow everything around them moved two times slower.
“Hm?”
“Happy new year.” Gyuvin said as he was smiling.
The corner of Ricky’s lips softened and he smiled too. “Happy new year, Gyuvin.”
They parted then, each stepping back into their separate directions. Ricky walked towards the glow of distant streetlights and waiting voices, the echo of music and warmth lingering in his chest. Gyuvin turned the other way, hands tucked into his pockets, the quiet night stretching out before him.
Neither looked back.
But the space between them felt different now—no longer empty, but alive with the memory of a night where chaos had given way to calm, and two lives had brushed close enough to change the shape of things, if only a little.