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Six years was a long time to learn the shape of someone’s silence.
Yejun knew every version of Bonggu’s quiet—the thoughtful one where his brows knitted together as he stirred soup, the petulant one where he shut cabinet doors just a little too hard, the tired one that crept in after long days and longer nights. He had learned when to fill it with jokes, when to leave it alone, when to reach out and touch Bonggu’s wrist just to say, I’m here.
Tonight, though, the silence felt foreign. Heavy. It pressed against the walls of their apartment until the air itself seemed to vibrate.
“I’m just saying you don’t listen anymore.” Bonggu said, voice trembling despite how hard he tried to keep it steady. He stood by the door, shoes already on, jacket half-zipped. As if he’d been preparing for this moment long before the argument even started.
Yejun scoffed, arms crossed tight over his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“Then what is?” Bonggu snapped, finally looking at him. His eyes were bright, glassy. Hurt. “Because it feels like I’m talking to a wall.”
The words landed hard. Yejun felt them hit something raw in his chest, but pride rose faster, louder. A defense mechanism sharpened by years of always being the one to bend first. He was tired.
“You’re overreacting.” he said instead.
Bonggu laughed, a small, broken sound. “Right. I always am.”
He reached for the door handle.
“Bonggu-” Yejun started, but the name caught in his throat, tangled with everything he refused to say. I’m scared. I don’t know how to fix this. Don’t leave.
Bonggu paused, just for a second. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he was hoping.
When nothing else came, he nodded to himself, as if confirming something he’d already known. “I just need air.” he said quietly. “I’ll be back.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Yejun stood there long after Bonggu’s footsteps faded down the hall, staring at the space he’d left behind. The apartment felt wrong without him, too neat, too empty, too still. Six years of shared routines echoed in the silence: Bonggu’s slippers by the couch, the mug he always used even though the handle was chipped, the faint scent of his shampoo lingering in the air.
Yejun sank onto the couch and scrubbed a hand down his face. You should go after him, a voice urged. You should apologize.
Another voice—older, louder, crueler—answered back. He started it. You’re not wrong.
So Yejun stayed where he was.
The minutes dragged. Ten. Twenty. He checked his phone more times than he cared to admit, thumb hovering uselessly over Bonggu’s contact. When it finally rang, the sound startled him.
“Bonggu?” he answered immediately.
The sound of the road crackled through the speaker. Bonggu’s breathing was uneven, like he’d been crying or shouting or both. “Hey.” he said softly.
Yejun closed his eyes. Relief washed over him, chased closely by guilt. “Where are you?”
“Driving.” Bonggu replied. “I just… I wanted to call.”
Yejun said nothing.
Bonggu continued anyway, words spilling out in a rush, like he was afraid they’d disappear if he stopped. “I’m sorry. For yelling. For saying things I didn’t mean. I just- this is hard, hyung. Loving you is hard sometimes, and I hate that it feels like we’re always fighting lately.”
Yejun’s fingers curled into the couch cushion. Every instinct screamed at him to speak, to meet Bonggu halfway, to say I’m sorry, too. But the apology stuck behind his teeth, tangled up with stubbornness and fear.
“So yeah.” Bonggu went on, voice cracking. “I just wanted you to know that. That I’m trying. I always am.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
“…Hyung?” Bonggu prompted.
Yejun swallowed. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His pride stood tall and immovable, even as something in his chest splintered.
On the other end of the line, Bonggu exhaled shakily. “I guess you’re still mad.”
The words weren’t accusatory. Just tired.
“I love you.” Bonggu said suddenly. There was a finality to it that made Yejun’s heart stutter. “Okay? I really do.”
Then, softer, barely more than a breath: “Goodbye.”
The call ended.
Yejun stared at his phone, the empty screen reflecting his own stunned expression. His heart began to race, panic blooming sharp and sudden.
“Wait- Bonggu-” he whispered to no one.
He called back immediately. Straight to voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
A third time. Nothing.
He stood, pacing the length of the living room, phone clutched tight in his hand. He just needs time, Yejun told himself, forcing calm into his thoughts. You always do this. You panic. He’ll cool off.
So he waited.
Some excruciating minutes later, his phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar.
“Hello?” Yejun answered, irritation edging into his voice.
“Is this Nam Yejun?” a man asked.
“Yes.” Yejun replied, unease curling low in his stomach. “Who is this?”
“This is Officer Kim from the metropolitan police.” the voice said, professional and distant. “I’m calling regarding a traffic accident involving a vehicle registered under the name Chae Bonggu.”
The world tilted.
“What?” Yejun breathed.
“There was a collision on the highway approximately thirty minutes ago.” the officer continued. “The vehicle was found abandoned at the scene. We identified the owner through the registration, but at this time, we have not located Mr. Chae.”
Yejun’s knees buckled. He sank onto the couch, phone pressed hard against his ear as if letting go would make this real. “What do you mean you haven’t located him?”
“The car was severely damaged.” the officer said carefully. “However, there was no body at the site. We are currently conducting a search.”
“No.” Yejun whispered. “No, that’s- he called me. He was fine. He said-”
His voice broke, the memory of Bonggu’s final words crashing over him like a wave.
I love you. Okay? I really do. Goodbye.
“Sir,” the officer said, gentler now, “we’ll need you to come down to the station.”
The call ended.
Yejun sat in the darkened apartment, the weight of the silence crushing him. His phone slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly onto the floor.
Six years. Six years of shared mornings and tangled sheets, of petty arguments and whispered apologies, of I love you’s said so often he’d taken them for granted. And the last thing Bonggu had said to him, had given him, was an unreturned confession.
“I’m sorry.” Yejun choked, tears finally spilling over. He pressed his palms to his face, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said it back. I should’ve chased you. I should’ve-”
The apartment didn’t answer.
Yejun grabbed his phone again, fingers trembling as he dialed Bonggu’s number once more, as if sheer desperation might make the impossible happen.
Ring. Ring.
Voicemail.
“I love you.” Yejun whispered into the empty line, voice breaking completely. “Please. Come back. I’ll say it every day if you just- if you’re just still out there.”
The call ended.
And for the first time in six years, Yejun was truly alone, with nothing but an unspoken goodbye echoing endlessly in his chest.