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Dokja was cold.
It was a numbness that travelled up his legs and through his spine, settling at the pulsing vibration of the phone in his hands. The screen glowed faintly in the dark, the contact name starkly lit long after the call had ended.
The end dial rang loudly in the silent apartment.
I’m getting married.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice still echoed painfully in his ear. Beneath the awkward declaration, there had been so much honest joy, so much elation. She proposed. I said yes.
Dokja thought back to the sound he’d made in response. A laugh, startled and sincere. He remembered the way his mouth had shaped itself into a smile without any conscious effort, how easily the words had come.
I’ll be there.
Now, he sat crouched in the middle of his living room, phone abandoned by his feet. The apartment remained dark. He hadn’t turned on the lights when he came in from the grocery store, still on the phone with Yoo Joonghyuk. The bags rested on the counter where he’d dropped them, refrigerated contents slowly warming.
Outside, the hum of a city filtered in through the frosty glass. And below him, the streetlights glimmered like little fallen stars, an ephemeral beauty that would fade with the sunrise.
He reached for his phone again. The screen flared to life at his touch, bright enough to make him squint. The call log filled the screen.
He locked the screen. Watched it dim and go black.
Congratulations, he’d said. I’m so happy for you.
He’d meant it. He had.
The conversation settled somewhere deep in his chest, uncomfortably heavy. Yoo Joonghyuk deserved this. After everything—after lifetimes of dragging himself past the inevitable fate of regression—he deserved an end that did not require him to suffer.
Dokja pressed his knuckles against his sternum, the nubs of bone digging into his flesh.
It hurt.
It was a dull, aching pressure lodged deep in his chest, festering somewhere it didn’t belong.
Beside him, his phone vibrated, the screen blinked open. There was a single message.
Han Sooyung: 8:47 pm
I heard the news. You good?
He stared at it for a long moment. Thumb hovering over the lock screen.
The group chat was probably blowing up right now, congratulations piling up. He could picture it—Lee Gilyoung’s stunned disbelief, Yoo Sangah’s pleasure. All of these were appropriate responses to a friend’s engagement.
He should open it. Send his congrats.
He didn’t.
Instead, his eyes drifted to the counter. Pathetically, the grocery bags slumped over themselves, outlining the shape of half-stale convenience store kimbap. Instant food packages. A carton of milk he’d forget to drink until it curdled.
If they spoiled now, he’d never forgive himself. He hated the waste.
What a pain.
Staring at the plastic bags, Dokja was reminded of his life before the apocalypse.
Millions of people lived their small, ordinary lives. They went to work. They came home to their families and friends. They fell in love. Got married. Moved through the world with the casual certainty that they could face what tomorrow would bring.
They moved forward.
Dokja was hunched over in an empty apartment, sitting still.
He’d been sitting still since the moment the scenarios ended six years ago. It was difficult to shape a life without a story to follow. After all, during the scenarios, Dokja was useful. He’d been an essential player—The Reader, The Prophet, The Constellation. His companions recognized him for it, stuck by his side, and grew close to his heart.
Now that it was over, Dokja had been left alone.
It was difficult to convince himself otherwise after Yoo Joonghyuk had moved in with Lee Seolhwa. After Jung Heewon and Lee Hyungsung had moved to a quieter part of Seoul, outside the city together. After Han Sooyung had moved to Gangnam to complete her new novel and the kids had started school again.
For some reason, he’d deluded himself into thinking they’d still want to live in a big house together. All of them under one roof. Dokja would learn how Shin Yoosung tied her bangs up before bed. He would learn how often Lee Gilyoung would sneak into the kitchen for a midnight snack. He would see how Yoo Joonghyuk’s brow wrinkled when he didn’t get enough sleep.
Together, until the end of time.
The idea had been easy to maintain for the first few months. When they were all still meeting regularly, still deciding their futures after the apocalypse.
Dokja hadn’t realized that future didn’t involve him.
He told himself it was natural. For the nature of this story to be so cyclical—so perfect in its logic that he would end up exactly where he started: An office worker.
It was the same job he had before the scenarios. The same fluorescent lights that made his eyes ache. The same commute on the same subway line. The same oppressive bosses and long hours trapped in a grey cubicle.
Nothing had changed for him.
Dokja typed out a response. His fingers stuttered over the screen, typing and retyping a message he already knew wouldn’t satisfy her.
Kim Dokja: 8:50 pm
I’m happy for them.
He hit send. Set the phone down. Pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw the dizzying swirl of green and purple. He pressed harder, until the pressure became its own kind of answer to the ache in his chest.
It didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
He stood. The movement was stiff, joints protesting, and needles stabbed into his heels as blood flow returned.
He walked to the window.
The glass was cold against his forehead when he pressed against it. Below, Seoul glittered with a million lives that moved forward every day.
Cars traced the highways with purpose, the streaks of taillights rushing into a stream of red and white. The lights of convenience shops were beacons in the darkness, fluorescent and colourful and inviting. Pinpricks of light from apartment buildings framed different lives in time—families eating together, someone doing dishes at a sink, the blue glow of a television.
Yoo Joonghyuk was getting married.
The thought was numbing.
Yoo Joonghyuk deserved this. He deserved soft things. Deserved Lee Seolhwa’s bottomless kindness, her steady nature, her competence and beauty.
Dokja believed this with absolute certainty.
And still—
An ache spread from the knot in his throat, down to his lungs and taking root in the spaces between his ribs. It was insistent, growing sharper with every breath.
His phone lit up on the floor where he’d left it, screen glowing like a night light.
Yoo Joonghyuk: 9:16pm
Seolhwa wants everyone over for dinner this weekend. Can you make it?
Dokja stared blankly at the screen until the words lost their meaning. Until they seemed so foreign he forgot how to process them.
Can you make it?
To their apartment. The one he’d helped them move into eight months ago. The one with the stiff doorknob and the kitchen that got the best morning light. Where Lee Seolhwa had handed him a bowl of warm soup after they’d finished unpacking.
He imagined sitting at their table. Smiling. Congratulating them.
Kim Dokja: 9:18 pm
What day?
Yoo Joonghyuk: 9:19 pm
Saturday. 7pm.
The reflection in the glass stared back at him, pale and hollow, features lost in the dusky half-shadow. It was an expression so familiar to him—it was one he’d worn before the scenarios.
It was one Dokja had forgotten he could make.
He slid down the wall beside the window until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. The apartment was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat. Just a steady, relentless thump.
Kim Dokja: 9:25 pm
I’ll be there.
His arms came to wrap loosely around his legs, and he tilted his head to rest against the cool glass of the window. The cold burned through his skin, seeping into his bones. The city lights blurred, beautiful in their distance. Unreachable—even as his reflection faded against the backdrop.
Dokja closed his eyes.
I’m getting married, Yoo Joonghyuk had said. His voice was warm with joy. Happy in a way it had never been before.
In a way it had never been with him.
The cold of the window moved from his bones, settled into his limbs. But his chest—his chest was warm. Feverish, almost. Heat gathered where the ache had been, seeping outwards in hot, rhythmic waves.
A faint tickle climbed up his throat.
I’m happy for you, Dokja had said.
I’m happy for you.
I’m happy—
Dokja lurched forward, one hand bracketed against the floor as a cough forced itself out of him. It was dry and sharp. Then another. And another, wet and rattling, scraping against the tender walls of his throat.
Against the low, endless hum of the city, a single white petal drifted from his lips.
***
Saturday arrived too quickly.
Dokja splashed water onto his face, watching the beads of water trickle down his arms, soaking the rolled cuff of his sleeves. He popped open the top button of his collar, if only so he could breathe a little easier.
He looked like shit.
His face had taken on a ghostly pallor, accentuating the unnatural colours of his undereyes and bitten lips. Everything seemed too bright—from his dress shirt to the bathroom light to the reflective shine of his phone screen.
He thought of a petal, ruffled and paper-thin between his fingers. He thought of a disease borne from fairy tales, existing in the margins between reality and fiction.
Hanahaki.
Dokja was the world’s greatest idiot.
There was still half an hour before he had to leave. He could cancel. He could spout some excuse about being busy or sick. It wouldn’t even be a lie.
Opening up his phone, he stared at the latest message—a home address he’d memorized long ago—his fingers hovering over the screen.
Dokja could walk into a hospital right now. He could ask them to cut these flowers out before they took root too deeply, before they pierced through his lungs and stuffed his windpipe.
The doctors would do it. They would encourage it, even. And Dokja would return to a normal life.
But he wouldn’t remember Yoo Joonghyuk anymore.
He wouldn’t remember his name. Or why it had mattered to him. He wouldn’t remember an eternity alone, watching over the story that had once been his salvation.
He’d look at Yoo Joonghyuk and feel nothing.
The dull pressure in his chest returned, settling deep between his ribs and growing roots, slowly deteriorating the healthy tissue of his body.
Dokja should be scared.
He should.
Instead, he turned his phone off, flicking the lights closed and grabbing his suit jacket from the hook. Even if he arrived earlier, he could help with the preparations.
Dokja thought of a petal, crushed in his fist.
The front door clicked shut.
***
Lee Seolhwa opened the door with a smile.
Warm air spilled out into the hallway, carrying the scent of simmering broth and ground spices. There was the faint sound of humming coming from inside—a low, soft melody that couldn’t belong to anyone but Yoo Joonghyuk.
“You’re early,” she said, stepping to the side. “Come in.”
“Sorry,” Dokja replied automatically, slipping out of his shoes. “I can wait if—”
She waved it off, already turning back towards the dining table, a wet cloth abandoned on the surface. She must have been wiping it down when he knocked. “It’s fine. Joonghyuk’s in the kitchen.”
The apartment felt so…lived-in. It was so different from Dokja's own. There was a pair of shoes lined side by side, the hum of a running stove. There was so much noise—the shuffle of feet, the clutter of picture frames, the imprint of two people who shared a life together.
It felt warm.
Yoo Joonghyuk was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, knife moving with ease along the cutting board.
“You’re here,” he said, without looking up.
“I said I’d come.”
Yoo Joonghyuk glanced over his shoulder then, giving him a brief once over. “Don’t just stand there, then. Wash your hands.”
“Do you make all your guests work for their meals?” he retorted, but Dokja was already moving to the sink, running warm water and soap over his hands. When he turned back, Yoo Joonghyuk nudged a bowl of mushrooms towards him.
“Wash those. Then cut. If you make them too small, I’ll kill you.”
Despite himself, Dokja smiled. “I’m not completely incompetent, you know.”
They worked side by side in silence after that, listening to the rhythmic sounds of chopping and the lull of sizzling meat. Every so often, Yoo Joonghyuk would reach past him for seasoning, close enough that Dokja could almost feel the brush of their bodies, the heat of skin and steam filling the space between them. Yoo Joonghyuk had started humming to himself again, a broken tune distorted by a thousand years of time.
Dokja hated himself for cherishing those fleeting moments.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Yoo Joonghyuk, leaned over the stove to taste some of the bubbling sauce. He saw Lee Seolhwa, dusting off a windowsill. Even if he were gone, this scene would remain unchanged. Yoo Joonghyuk would still cook like this. Lee Seolhwa would take his place, washing and cutting mushrooms. The apartment would still smell warm and full.
Nothing would change.
Dokja knew, even before his eyes wandered towards the streaks of grey in Yoo Joonghyuk’s hair, that this was a selfish thought.
Dokja understood that, in his own way, Yoo Joonghyuk loved him. After all, Yoo Joonghyuk let him cook by his side. He had drifted through a hundred years in space to rescue him from eternity. He had regressed a thousand times for a chance to see him again.
A tickle in his throat. A hard swallow.
Dokja was so selfish.
There was a knock at the door, and the apartment filled quickly after that.
Jung Heewon came in first, nearly strangling him in a headlock and ruffling his hair with her knuckles. “Did you come early? What, did you miss us that much?”
Behind her, Lee Hyungsung grinned. “It smells amazing. Do you need any help?”
Dokja wheezed, tapping Jung Heewon’s arm desperately. “Help me get her off.” Beside him, Yoo Joonghyuk was completely unbothered. Bastard. How about he choke him instead—
“Ahjussi!” Shin Yoosung greeted joyfully, slipping inside the kitchen, followed closely by Lee Gilyoung and Lee Jihye. She darted forward, still wrapped in her coat, to hug him around the waist. “Are you helping cook?”
“Unfortunately,” Dokja replied dryly, rubbing his throat.
Lee Jihye squinted at him, her face twisting. “Eh? Have you gotten thinner, ahjussi?”
Dokja opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Have I?” He forced himself to swallow, smile. “I’ll be sure to eat a lot today, then. Yoo Joonghyuk’s food is pretty good.” He wouldn’t mind leeching off the bastard, while he still could.
“It is good,” Yoo Joonghyuk said. “And don’t hover,” he said, glaring at Lee Gilyoung, who had been reaching for a piece of pasta.
The front door swung open again as Han Sooyung barged in. She, too, leaned over the stove without permission, pinching a piece of steaming meat from the pan and eating it in one go. “Ah—shit—that’s hot.”
Yoo Joonghyuk smacked her hand with the back of his spatula. “Everyone, out.”
The apartment filled with voices, overlapping into one monotone hum. Chairs scraped against the floor, plates were passed from hand to hand. For a while, Dokja let himself move on instinct, handing utensils over, setting bowls down, filling a pitcher of water.
The world narrowed to simple tasks.
The food and people in front of him seemed to blur into splotches of colour, fading from view. He wanted to stay there, in a state of mind where time didn’t move forward so much as it pooled, surrounding him in a bubble where he could be alone with his thoughts.
Laughter rose and fell. Conversation drifted past him in increments, and Dokja could feel his mouth moving, responding to questions he didn’t remember.
Dokja took a bite of his food. Felt the tender shred of beef between his teeth, the richness of gravy drizzled over rice. Lee Seolhwa leaned in close to Yoo Joonghyuk, murmuring something into his ear. He didn’t catch the words, but he saw the way Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth twitched up into the faintest curve of a smile.
Dokja looked away.
He ate the rest of his meal quietly, and—almost absently—he noted that it was absolutely delicious. Yoo Joonghyuk’s cooking really was as perfect as always. It was warm and rich and slightly chewy, melting into a buttery paste in his mouth.
What he wouldn’t give to eat this every day.
“We’re thinking of having the wedding in three months,” Lee Seolhwa said, smiling into her glass. “If everything goes well.”
Three months.
He chewed carefully, swallowing past the faint scratch at the back of his throat. Something in his chest shifted, then settled.
Dokja wondered if he had that long.
He heard them briefly discuss details about the venue, the guest list, whether to have a traditional ceremony or something more modern. Dokja ate mechanically, forcing each bite through the growing obtrusion in his throat.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Han Sooyung watching him. When their eyes met, her face was neutral, save for the furrow in her brow.
Dokja lowered his gaze back to the table.
Kim Dokja did not have hanahaki because Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t love him.
He had it because Yoo Joonghyuk had chosen a future that moved forward—one that did not include him. And Dokja, for once, chose not to follow.
He would not disrupt that happiness.
Past Han Sooyung’s searching gaze and the warmth of the room, Dokja’s food was cold.
***
“Oi. Dokja.”
Han Sooyung walked out of Dokja’s bathroom, moving to where he was seated on the bed. He looked up, already dressed except for his tie, hanging loose around his neck.
She twisted, letting him see the back of her dress.
“Zip me.”
Leaning forward, he let his fingers find the zipper at the small of her back. The metal was slightly warm, sitting between fabric and skin. He tugged at it gently, working it around the cloth and inching it up the teeth.
“The zip’s a little stuck,” he informed her in a neutral tone. “Have you put on some weight, Sooyung-ah?”
She whipped around to smack the back of his head, undoing his progress.
Han Sooyung gave him one more—unnecessary—smack before turning around again, letting him work the zipper up. He watched the fabric close slowly over her spine, the gap narrowing until it disappeared completely.
Han Sooyung turned to face him, makeup accentuating the sharpness of her eyes. Her dress was rose-gold, with long, flowing sleeves framing her arms. The dress cinched around the waist, falling to her ankles in thick, delicate ripples of fabric.
Dokja had forgotten that even this witch could look beautiful.
Without a word, she reached out, grabbing his loose tie and pulling him closer. Her fingers worked quickly, looping the fabric into a formal knot like she'd done it a thousand times before.
Then, she squeezed his face, squinting.
“Dokja.”
“Hm?” It came out slightly muffled, cheeks being mercilessly pressed together.
“Did you not sleep last night?”
He shrugged, tugging her hands off. “What makes you say that?”
Dokja was really going to get smacked again.
Han Sooyung spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “Because of these—” she said, poking his eyebags, and nearly his eyes in the process. “And this,” she poked his hollowing cheeks, “And this,” she pressed the back of her hand against his neck. It was cool against the heat of his skin.
“You're warm. Are you sick?”
Dokja smiled. “I wouldn't come if I was sick. Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn't want me getting my germs all over his venue.”
Han Sooyung rolled her eyes. “He would want you to rest.”
He didn't say anything to that, watching the way her eyes moved across his face, dark and searching.
She walked back into the bathroom, coming back with a few makeup products in her hands.
“Ah, wait—I don't need—
“Face me. Close your eyes.”
He sighed before obliging. She should be more grateful for his good-natured personality.
Han Sooyung positioned herself in front of him, tilting his chin up with one hand.
“Sleep or no sleep, you still look like a corpse.”
She started applying the concealer beneath his eyes, smearing the small dots of application. “Or maybe you're just getting uglier,” she muttered under her breath.
Still, her touch was surprisingly gentle.
She blended it carefully, fingers moving in small circles beneath his eyes.
After a moment Han Sooyung stopped moving. But a hand was still cupped around his jaw, holding him still. Dokja opened his eyes, to see Han Sooyung’s searching expression, shadowed behind her bangs.
“Dokja.”
He looked at her for a moment longer, waiting for her to speak.
She was quiet for a long time. Her hands letting go of him and fisting in the fabric of her dress. When she finally spoke, her voice was so small.
“You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?”
The question hung between them, growing more strained with every second Dokja didn't respond.
Dokja thought about the petals he'd coughed up this morning, white petals stained by streaks of blood. The three of them, hidden at the bottom of his trash bin, tucked beneath crumpled, unused tissues. He thought about sleepless nights and the scratch of every breath as he inhaled. About a weakening body and an aching chest, getting worse by the day.
Even this house carried the smell of the sick. Although he had aired out the room beforehand, Dokja was sure Han Sooyung could smell it. The scent that persisted deep in these walls—of illness and age and death.
“Of course I would, Sooyung-ah.”
It felt like something inside him died when Han Sooyung's face crumpled. When her mouth parted in a betrayed expression as she sensed his lie.
She plastered on a smile, much like Dokja's own. It trembled at the edges.
Liar.
“Let's head to the venue,” he said, getting up and moving towards the door. “Yoo Joonghyuk would have our heads if we were late.”
For a moment, Han Sooyung didn't move, staring at the carpet, concealer still in hand.
Then, she followed. Dokja had already turned away, if only so he couldn't see her expression.
Dokja would always be a filthy liar.
***
The venue was tucked away near the outskirts of Seoul. A beautiful hall standing open in a courtyard, decorated with flowers and paper lanterns that waited for sunset.
Dokja and Han Sooyung arrived just as the last guests were filtering in. There weren’t many people, he noticed—just their old companions from the scenarios, and a handful of faces Dokja didn’t recognize. Colleagues from the hospital, probably. Lee Seolhwa’s people.
Han Sooyung moved toward where Jung Heewon was gesturing them over. Dokja followed, sliding into the long wooden bench, seating himself beside Yoo Sangah. She reached over to squeeze his hand, smiling.
“It’s good to see you.”
Dokja grinned, squeezing back.
The ceremony started a few moments later.
Lee Jihye and Shin Yoosung entered first, scattering white petals down the aisle. Lee Jihye walked with surprising solemnity, pride shining deep in her eyes. Shin Yoosung nearly bounced with each step, beaming at him when she caught his eye and giving him a little wave.
Then—Lee Seolhwa.
The doors opened wide, revealing an elegant dress that fell in clean lines to her ankles. Her hair was swept up in an intricate knot, framing her face. Her eyes were fixed forward, towards the altar where Yoo Joonghyuk waited.
He wore a three piece suit. Perfectly tailored across his shoulders, a small flower tucked into the front pocket.
It was much like the suit Dokja was wearing.
But his was white. And Dokja’s was black.
He suppressed a dry cough.
The officiant began speaking—something about commitment and love and a bond that lasted forever. Dokja heard it like it was coming from underwater, distant and muffled. It felt like he was sinking somewhere deep, letting his weight carry him to the bottom of a deep ocean. Letting the air expel from collapsing lungs as the sunlight drifted farther and farther away.
It felt like mercy.
Sunlight poured through the large window, stained glass haloing Lee Seolhwa and Yoo Joonghyuk in a wash of colour. The soft, diffused light danced across their clothing, across their faces, blooming across their clasped hands.
Angels, Dokja thought distantly. But they looked so happy.
He swallowed carefully, tasting copper at the back of his tongue. Ran it along his teeth to get rid of the excess blood.
Vows were exchanged. Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was steady and sure. Lee Seolhwa’s trembled slightly with emotion. Rings slipped onto fingers, gold bands catching the light. The two of them bowed to one another, deep and formal. Dokja could see the softness in Yoo Joonghyuk's expression, the way his eyes never left Lee Seolhwa's face.
They turned to face their guests. Everyone applauded. Cheered.
Dokja’s hands moved mechanically, clapping along with everyone else. The sound felt very, very far away.
***
The sky had darkened by the time they moved outside for the reception.
Long tables had been set in neat rows, lined with steaming dishes—meat and rice and soup, the richness of spice filling the air. The paper lanterns had been lit, glowing warm and soft against the deepening blue of evening.
Dokja sat with their group at a table near the edge, pushing food around his plate. Jung Heewon and Lee Hyungsung across from him, already deep in conversation. His kids had claimed the other end of the table, already eying the dessert spread with unabashed longing. Han Sooyung took the seat beside him, close enough that he could feel the fabric of her dress brush against his arm when she moved.
It was a small comfort.
As he forced down a small bite of rice, music started playing. It was something slow and gentle—long, melodious notes carried by wind and flitting carelessly between tables.
Lee Seolhwa and Yoo Joonghyuk moved to the center of the courtyard. Her hand in his, his other hand at her waist. They swayed together easily, moving like they’d done this a thousand times before.
Dokja wondered whether this rhythm was made just for the two of them. It was a beautiful melody, after all. He wondered whether it played in their living room and kitchen—dancing, just like this, easy kisses pressed into warm skin.
The lantern light caught on their clothes, making them glow against the darkness. They looked like ghosts, almost, floating around each other in an otherworldly elegance, surrounded by a tune Dokja was never meant to hear.
The song ended. Another began.
Lee Seolhwa immediately spun towards Yoo Sangah, grabbing her hand with delighted insistence and pulling her towards the dance floor. Yoo Sangah laughed, letting herself be tugged along, nearly stumbling in her heels.
Jung Heewon stood next, extending a hand to Lee Hyungsung with a dramatic flourish. “Come.”
“I don’t dance,” Lee Hyungsung protested weakly, tugging at his collar.
“You do now.” She grabbed his wrist and hauled him up despite his weak resistance, pushing him towards the growing crowd in the middle.
His kids seized the opportunity to descend upon the dessert table with striking coordination, returning mere moments later. They balanced three plates in their hands, piled absurdly high with sweets. Lee Jihye was grinning cheekily, exchanging a low-five with Lee Gilyoung and Shin Yoosung.
Dokja watched it all from his seat.
He watched his friends—his family—move and laugh and exist together. He watched the paper lanterns sway gently in the breeze. Watched Yoo Joonghyuk standing at the edge of the dance floor, hands in his pockets, looking content in a way Dokja had never quite seen before.
Then Yoo Joonghyuk turned. Caught his eye. Started walking over.
“Dokja,” he said when he reached the table. His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. There was a faint flush to his cheeks—from the cool wind and the toasts earlier, probably.
“Congratulations, sunfish.”
“You’ve already said that.” Yoo Joonghyuk extended his hand. “Dance with me.”
“What?” Dokja blinked. “But I don’t know how.”
Yoo Joonghyuk jutted a thumb behind him, at the commotion of stumbling feet and clumsy couples. “That didn’t stop them.” His hand was still extended, palm up. Waiting. “Come on.”
Yoo Joonghyuk was such an idiot, asking Dokja for something like this.
Dokja let himself take that waiting hand, clasping it lightly in his own. It was so warm. Calloused and familiar in the way only Yoo Joonghyuk could be. It made his chest ache.
They moved towards a quieter corner of the courtyard, just far enough to avoid the mass of people in the middle. Yoo Joonghyuk positioned Dokja’s hand on his shoulder, keeping the other held in his own.
They shuffled around a little awkwardly at first, finding a rhythm that was half made-up, half their own. Neither of them really knew what they were doing—Yoo Joonghyuk had never been graceful outside of combat, and Dokja had never done this at all.
Still, each small step felt…wonderful.
Yoo Joonghyuk spun him around at random times, Dokja dipped him in retaliation, nearly dropping him before hauling him back up. They both huffed breaths of laughter. It was nice, finding a synchronization that was as much unconscious as it was carefully controlled, refined by years of fighting side by side.
They moved together, the lantern lights casting a gentle glow over Yoo Joonghyuk’s features, softening them into something angelic. His eyes were bright, crinkling at the edges.
Dokja was a person who had dedicated every living day to Yoo Joonghyuk. Even before the scenarios. Even when Yoo Joonghyuk existed as nothing but a part of his imagination. When he lived off a story borne of obsession and desperation and the earnest wish to live another day.
Somehow, this felt similar. Ignoring reality. Living in a dreamlike state of mind where Yoo Joonghyuk came to save him over and over again.
That was how Dokja found happiness all those years ago. The existence of the name Yoo Joonghyuk had made the world around him less painful.
It was just that—for some reason, it hurt now.
The Yoo Joonghyuk of his childhood had grown so much. He was real. Solid and alive and here, dancing with Dokja under flickering starlight.
The song was ending. Dokja could feel it in the way the melody was resolving, in the way the other dancers were starting to pull apart.
He had maybe thirty seconds more of this.
His hand slid from Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading through hair that was softer than he’d expected. He pulled them together—slowly, carefully—until their foreheads touched.
“Would you promise me something?” Dokja whispered.
This was a face that Dokja had memorized for an eternity, and still—
He didn’t think Yoo Joonghyuk had ever looked at him like this. Confused yet utterly at ease. Like he held complete trust in Dokja, even here. Even now, when they were this close.
Even when Dokja held these sinful feelings in his heart.
“Anything,” Yoo Joonghyuk breathed, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Then, quietly—
“Promise me you’ll be happy.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath was warm against his face. His lips were warmer, as he pressed them softly against his forehead, tender and gentle. Dokja was going to cry.
“I promise.”
That was all Dokja needed.
He closed his eyes. The song ended. He stepped back, letting his hands fall away. Yoo Joonghyuk stayed there for a moment, a small, stupid smile on his lips.
A pause. A breath.
“Dokja. Will you promise me something?”
Dokja opened his mouth, unable to help the reflexive pooling of tears. The world blurred around him, colour streaking into itself and marring Yoo Joonghyuk’s face.
“I—”
But Lee Seolhwa called out—something about photos—and in Yoo Joonghyuk’s distraction, the moment passed.
By the time Yoo Joonghyuk looked his way again, Dokja was grinning.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t keep her waiting.”
Yoo Joonghyuk hesitated for a single second. Then nodded and left.
As soon as he turned, Dokja's smile faded. His hand curled against his chest, wrinkling the careful press of his suit.
Dokja watched Yoo Joonghyuk go. Watched him return to Lee Seolhwa’s side, watched her reprimand him for ditching his suit jacket with a playful smack to the arm. He watched her smile and take his hand, watched them pose together for photos while everyone else gathered around, laughing and chatting.
He turned and walked towards the exit.
No one stopped him. No one noticed. They were all focused on what was in front of them, on this moment that belonged to everyone except him.
Han Sooyung’s eyes tracked him as he passed. She was standing alone near the drinks, expression unreadable in the shadow of night.
Dokja didn’t stop walking.
The street outside was empty. Cold. The kind that cut through the thick layers of his suit and chilled him down to the bone.
He barely made it around the corner before he fell against a wall, knees scraping shamefully against the pavement. Still, he could faintly hear it—the dregs of song and laughter, crisp in the open air.
There, Dokja coughed petals until he cried.
***
Summer arrived with an oppressive heat.
He sat in the clinic’s waiting room, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned in slow, sluggish circles, doing nothing to cut through the humid air. Dokja’s suit jacket hung open, loose around his thin frame.
The office was small and slightly dusty. Sunlight streamed through an open window, catching on particles of dust suspended in the air. It was almost pleasant, in a drowsy sort of way—being caught in a moment that slowed until it sat near silence. Dokja let his eyes close, half-asleep in the warmth of the afternoon.
He loosened his tie, leaning back with a slow sigh.
If the nurse didn’t come soon, he was just going to leave. It wasn't like he was here by choice, anyways.
Go get checked, his boss had told him, voice stern. Or I’ll write you up for workplace disruption. I’ve already gotten enough complaints about your coughing.
Outside, cicadas droned lazily, the sun beating down on them mercilessly. He played with the popsicle in his hands, pressing the cold treat absently against his lips. Dokja had bought it from the vending machine in the corner, melon-flavoured and sweet—the cheap color staining his tongue. He sat with the stick between his teeth, feeling the bitter drag of wood against his tongue as the last bits of sugar melted away.
He gnawed on it for a minute more before pulling it from his mouth, crumpling the wrapper in his fist and tossing it into the trash bin beside him.
His fingers were sticky with residue. The humidity made everything cling—his shirt to his back, his pants to his legs, the lingering sweetness to his hands.
Honestly, it had gotten bad. His coworkers had every right to complain about the wet, rattling coughs splitting through the office.
Dokja knew he had been drawing dirty looks. He just wanted someone telling him first, before going straight to his boss.
How irritating.
Before he could dwell on it further, a voice called his name. The nurse stood in the doorway, clipboard tucked under her arm.
Dokja stood, ignoring the brief tilt of the room as blood rushed from his head, and followed her down a narrow hallway into an examination room.
The doctor came in a few minutes later. He was middle-aged, wearing a blue disposable mask that covered most of his face. Only his eyes were visible—dark and tired. Worn with the kind of exhaustion Dokja was growing intimately familiar with.
“Dokja-ssi,” the doctor started, glancing at his computer. “You’ve been experiencing a persistent cough? Difficulty breathing?” He sanitized his hands, sliding on a pair of gloves. “How long have you noticed these symptoms?”
“Four months,” Dokja said. “Maybe five.”
“I see.” The doctor pulled on a stethoscope and stepped closer. “I’m going to listen to your lungs. Can you untuck your shirt?”
The cold metal slipped beneath the fabric, pressing smoothly against his skin.
Dokja already knew what the doctor was going to find. He knew it in each pathetic, wheezing inhale. In the unshakable fatigue in his limbs. In the rawness of his throat, the sensitivity ringing in his ears. Every part of him hurt in a dull, persistent way he was learning to ignore.
The doctor moved the stethoscope. Listened. Moved it again.
Then he stepped back, the slightest furrow forming between his brow. He removed the stethoscope, studying Dokja with those tired eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t speak.
“Dokja-ssi,” He began, “Are you aware of the obstruction in your lungs?”
“Yes,” This much was an easy truth. “Hanahaki.”
The doctor nodded slowly. “I’m assuming you didn’t come in earlier for a reason.”
“I didn’t see the point.”
“The point,” the doctor said quietly, “Is that you’re dying.”
“I know.”
They held each other’s gaze. The doctor’s expression was unreadable above his mask.
“It’s difficult to determine the full extent without doing an X-ray,” he said finally. “But from what I can hear, you’re in the late stages of the disease.”
Dokja said nothing.
The doctor pulled out a prescription pad and began to scribble something down. “As a medical professional, I’m required to inform you of your options. Surgery is the most effective treatment—but I assume you’re aware of that.”
“I am.”
“There’s also medication.” He tore off the prescription, but didn’t hand it over yet. “It won’t cure the disease, but it can slow the progression. It loosens the flowers, prepares the body for surgery if you choose it later. It will help you breathe. Reduce the pain.”
He held out the prescription.
When Dokja didn’t immediately take it, the doctor straightened, giving him a questioning look.
Dokja looked to his feet, absently pressing his shoes together. “Will the medicine have the same side-effects as the surgery?” He took a single, aching breath. “Will it make me forget?”
The doctor said nothing, crossing the room and crouching to open a cabinet. He retrieved a small bottle of pills.
“Yes.” He pressed both the prescription and the bottle of medicine into Dokja’s hands. “It causes gradual memory loss. But it will buy you time.”
Dokja swallowed, fingers closing around the plastic.
“Thank you.”
The doctor nodded once.
That day, Dokja made it back to his apartment without remembering how.
He stood in the kitchen, the bottle cool and smooth in his palm. It was bright orange under the dim light, pills rattling softly when he shifted his grip.
He opened an empty cabinet beside the sink. Placed the bottle inside, displacing dust and watching it settle again, coating the plastic in a fine grey film.
He closed the door.
That day, he sat at the kitchen counter with a pen in his hand, staring down at a blank sheet of paper. And over a summer spent listening to the faint trill of cicadas filtering through the noise of the city, Dokja began to write.
First to his mother.
Then to Han Sooyung and his children.
To Jung Heewon, Lee Hyungsung, and Yoo Sangah. Then to Yoo Joonghyuk.
A letter for every doctor’s appointment he attended alone.
A letter for every person Dokja had ever wronged.
***
It happened on a rainy day.
The sun peeked from the clouds, streaming in soft beams through his bedroom window. Rain beaded down his glass, the steady thrum of drizzle doing little to hide the sound of retching.
Dokja knelt over the toilet, head hanging over the bowl. His hair was sweat-soaked and too-long, pricking his eyes. His body was trembling, thoughts hazy with fever, and with the last of his strength, his hands gripped the porcelain seat, white-knuckled and shaking.
A wet cough tore out of him. Then another, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His shoulders shuddered as he gagged, throat burning as petal after petal was forced up from deep inside his chest. They were coated in mucus and blood, floating lazily in clumps atop the pink water.
His body convulsed, reflexively trying to inhale past the petals clogging his airway. Panic flared hot behind his eyes. He hacked again, spitting the last bits of blood into the bowl, chest heaving.
A single string of saliva connected his lips to the water. He didn’t bother wiping it away.
He pressed his forehead against the side of the toilet bowl, feeling the coolness of porcelain along his skin. The world narrowed to the ragged sting in his throat and the ache in his ribs, everything else fading until he could hardly see it anymore.
For a long moment, he stayed there, lungs dragging in slow, measured breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Each one burned.
Eventually, he pushed himself upright, dragging a hand across his mouth to wipe the remains of spit and water from his mouth. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, black spots dancing across his vision. He observed them with a vague sense of derision.
He swallowed hard and staggered to his feet anyway.
Dokja took one step into the hallway. Then another. His bare feet left wet prints from the bathroom, but he barely noticed it, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. The sound of rain sounded so distant, muffled through the cotton in his ears.
The living room came into view, the couch nothing but a few steps away.
He didn’t make it.
His knees buckled without warming, body pitching forward as his strength gave out. Dokja collapsed onto the floor with a hollow sound, the force of his fall pushing the air from his lungs in one single, shuddering exhale.
Then, there was nothing at all.
***
“—ja.”
There was an insistent slap to his cheek. That hurt. Which bastard—
“Dokja!”
He pried his eyes as the ceiling above him swam into focus slowly. First, Dokja registered the relentless thump of rain, then the uncomfortable prickle in his limbs, asleep from the awkward position. Then, the face in front of him.
Han Sooyung.
“Thank God,” she muttered, a wave of relief crossing her expression.
She kept tapping his cheek until he mustered the strength to bat it away.
He squinted at her, trying to draw a clearer picture of her blurry face. “What…are you doing here?”
She smiled a little helplessly, holding up a paper bag. He hasn't noticed it until just now. The scent hit him late—filling the air with the warm, savoury richness of garlic and sesame oil.
“You invited me for dinner.”
He didn't remember doing that.
She hooked an arm across his shoulders and hauled him up. The world spun, his head falling back.
“Easy,” she muttered, propping him against the couch. “Don't move.”
He hadn't been planning on it, anyways.
“You weren’t answering my calls, so I let myself in.” Silently, he regretted ever giving Han Sooyung a spare key. “Anyways, I'm going to get you some water. Then, you're going to tell me why you were eating the dirt on your carpet.”
Dokja nodded numbly, watching her retreat into the kitchen. She set down the bag of take-out. Washing her hands and pulling out plates for them to eat on.
It was good to see her. Lately, she had been so busy. Her latest novel had taken off—a bestseller—and, over text, she had been complaining about the insistent reporters, the neverending interviews and promotional events.
This would be their first dinner in a long time. Dokja smiled secretly to himself.
Despite what Han Sooyung said, this life suited her. She deserved to be recognized for her talent, for the stories that breathed life into people and grew close to their hearts—Dokja knew this better than anyone.
She would do well.
She rummaged around for chopsticks and glasses, and Dokja listened to the rattle of dishes and the sound of cabinets opening and closing.
“Hey, Dokja, where do you keep your cups?”
She could find them herself. She was big enough.
He was content to let her work for it, staring up at the ceiling and letting his head fall back against the couch. The position eased some of the lingering ache there.
“Lazy bastard, just tell me where—”
Han Sooyung trailed off, frozen in place. And very quickly, the room was overcome by silence.
Dokja turned his head, and with a distant, slow-acting kind of horror, realized which cabinet Han Sooyung had opened.
It seemed like time had stopped, slowing into the single eternity it took for Han Sooyung to reach her hand inside the old cupboard, pulling out a bottle of medicine from inside. The accusatory orange of it burned itself into his mind.
“Wait, don’t—”
Her eyes had taken on a glazed quality to them. It looked like she reached inside again on autopilot, pulling out another bottle.
Then another.
And another.
And another, and another, and another, and another—
They slipped from her hands, crashing to the ground with a deafening clatter. One of the caps popped off the bottle, scattering pills all over the kitchen floor.
Dokja watched it all with wide eyes.
No, no, no, no—
With a terrifyingly blank expression, she picked the bottle from the floor, bringing it close to read the label.
Then, very, very slowly, she began to speak.
“Dokja.” She turned to look at him. “What is this?”
“You already know. It says on the bottle.”
She walked over to him, leaning down. Her shadow fell across his face. “Read this out for me,” she said, pushing one of the bottles towards him.
He felt his stomach sink, guilt taking over. “...Take after food, every twelve hours. To loosen the flowers from hanahaki.”
“How long, Dokja?
He looked down, pursing his lips. Then, in the quietest voice, he admitted, “Since the engagement.”
She groaned, running a hand down her face. There was an edge of hysteria lining her voice when she spoke again. “God…It’s Yoo Joonghyuk, isn’t it?”
Dokja stayed silent.
“You’re in love with him.”
He was. Regrettably. Irreparably.
The silence between them stretched thin. And with every ragged breath, with every drop of rain against the window, it grew closer to snapping.
“We could find some other way,” she said finally. Her voice had changed into something more pleading. “Together, we could figure something out—”
“What,” Dokja scoffed, interrupting. “You want to trick the hanahaki?” He looked up at her. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Then take the medicine.”
“No.”
“You don't get to decide you should die.” Her voice was rising. “You think you're doing Yoo Joonghyuk a favour? You think all this—” She waved a hand at him, at the medicine on the ground. “—is kindness?”
“I can't win, Han Sooyung!” His voice cracked. “I die, or I forget him. There are no other options.”
“You're delusional.” She tightened her hold over the bottle. Held it up. “You have an option right here.”
“That medicine doesn't reverse the effects of hahahaki. I still forget. It just delays—”
“Then delay it!” She was shouting now. “Delay it. Buy yourself time—”
“But nothing will change.” His voice was flat. “I’ll still die.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I asked the doctor. I’ve asked multiple doctors. They all tell me the same thing: Either I get the surgery, or die.”
“Then get the surgery.”
“And forget him?” He winced, looking at her. He shook his head. “I’ve already made my decision, Sooyung-ah.”
The slap came fast and hard.
“He was going to name his child after you!”
His head snapped to the side, pain blooming across his cheek. Without thinking, Dokja’s hand came to cup his face, cradling the throbbing skin.
His…what?
Han Sooyung’s chest was heaving, tears pricking her eyes. She had given up trying to keep her expression neutral, and Dokja could see the different emotions cycling through her face.
“They’re having a baby.” Her voice was shaking. “Lee Seolhwa. She’s pregnant. They were going to announce it the next time we met for dinner.”
The world tiled.
“And do you know what they want to name him? Dokja.” She grabbed his shoulders, like she wanted to shake him. “They want to name him Dokja. So you’re going to die. And that child is going to carry your name without ever knowing why. Because you decided that this was better.”
“That’s not—” His breath was starting to come in horrible, heaving gasps. He couldn’t get enough air. “That’s not what I wanted—”
“Isn’t it?” She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. Her nails dug harshly into the skin, even as her eyes shone, observing him.
She let go of his face. Stepped back. “I’m telling him.”
Panic flooded through him, cold and instant. He grabbed her wrist as she began to walk away. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.”
“He can’t know. He can’t—” His voice broke. “Yoo Joonghyuk is married. He’s having a child. You can’t do this to him.”
“I’m not doing anything. He deserves to know.”
“The truth will destroy him!”
“The truth—” she spat, spinning around, “—will give him a choice!”
“What choice?” Dokja was shouting now, his broken voice cracking over tears and desperation. “What choice is there? I’m dying either way. At least this way he doesn’t have to know. He doesn’t have to watch.”
“So you’re protecting him,” her voice was so bitter. “By lying to him. By letting him name his son after someone who has already decided to die.”
“If he knows,” Dokja’s grip tightened on her wrist. “Yoo Joonghyuk will hate himself for the rest of his life. He’ll think he should have known, should have done something, should have—” His voice broke completely. “Don’t tell him. Please. If it’s the last thing you ever do for me, don’t tell him.”
She looked down at his hand on her wrist. At his face, desperate and tear-stained.
“Let go,” she said quietly.
“Sooyung, please—”
“Let. Go.”
He did. His hand dropped to the floor.
She stepped back with a sneer. But her eyes were hard. Closed off.
“I’m not helping you do this.” She turned back to the door. “You don’t want to tell him? Fine. You don’t want to get the surgery? Fine.”
Her hand grabbed the handle.
“Figure out what your life is worth to yourself. If you don’t care enough to listen, there’s nothing I can do.”
She opened the door. Stopped. Looked back at him one last time.
“Dokja. You’re the most selfish person in the world.”
The door slammed shut behind her, rattling the entire house.
Dokja stared at the door in the hollow, empty silence that followed. He sat on the floor, surrounded by pill bottles and the ghost of her anger.
The most selfish person in the world.
He tried to suppress the cough. Couldn’t. It tore out of him, wet and violent, painting his vision red as it scraped against his throat.
The petals came layered and thick, folding into themselves and sticking to the back of his mouth when he tried to inhale. Without thinking, his hand went to his neck, pressing hard enough he could leave bruises—as if this pressure could help him breathe.
Dokja slipped his fingers into his mouth, reaching past his teeth, his tongue, clawing out the obstruction.
He found it.
Pulled.
Pain exploded through him as he tore it all out in one final, agonizing motion.
Dokja collapsed beside it, gasping. Choking on air that tasted stale, swallowing spit that tasted like copper.
There, beside his feet, was a full bloom.
It was just a clump of thin, soft petals, layered in a spiral. Perfectly white, except for the blood pooling in the yellow-green centre.
He stared at it.
Dokja didn’t know what kind of flower it was. It wasn’t like it mattered, anyways.
His eyes drifted to the take-out bag Han Sooyung had brought with her, his own irritation bubbling up deep inside. It burned with a simmering rage, and Dokja pressed his lips thin, hot tears drawing unbidden to the surface.
The smell of the food made his stomach turn.
With a scoff and a strange numbness crawling through him, he picked up the bag. Opened the trash. Dropped it in.
Dokja should have known better.
***
Lee Gilyoung had called him out on a good day.
The park was quiet, the air still carrying a warmth that would soon be lost to the crispness of autumn. Small flowers dotted the grass, springing up and painting the land in clusters of colour. Dokja thumbed at one by his side, the petals so soft he could barely feel them.
Lee Gilyoung sat beside him on the grass, legs stretched out, leaning back on his palms.
They’d been sitting in silence for a while. Just watching people pass by on the footpath, listening to children run along the playground in the distance.
“I resigned from my job,” Dokja said finally. The words came without permission, almost. Something to break this silence.
Lee Gilyoung turned his head. “What?”
“I resigned.” Dokja kept his eyes on the trees, watching them sway gently in the breeze. “I finally remembered how much I hate corporate work.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“And you’re just telling me now? I could have found you somewhere better.”
Dokja reached out a hand, lifting Lee Gilyoung’s cap to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t important.”
“Not—” Lee Gilyoung stopped himself, jaw working like he was biting back the words. He took a breath. Started again. “What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing.” Dokja plucked a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers. He shot a grin to his side, catching Lee Gilyoung’s gaze. “I just wanted more time to spend with you.”
Lee Gilyoung smiled sadly in return, adjusting his cap and pulling it lower over his eyes. He stared out across the park, his smile melting into an expression that was near unreadable. A breeze picked up, rustling the trees overhead, carrying the sound of the children by the swings—flying high and bright and carefree.
“Ahjussi.”
“Hm?”
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there.”
Dokja startled slightly, but when he looked over, Lee Gilyoung had gone back to picking at the grass, pulling up individual blades before and gathering them in his palm. He couldn’t see his eyes.
“What makes you say that?”
“You get this look.” Lee Gilyoung turned his face further away, letting the grass fall through his fingers in a slow cascade, losing them to the wind. “When things are about to change. I’ve seen it before.”
Lee Gilyoung really was so perceptive.
Even as Dokja’s forced down a dry swallow, throat tight, the lie came like second nature. “I’m fine, though.”
Lee Gilyoung’s hand stilled in the grass, shoulders tensing.
“You don’t have to lie to me, ahjussi. I can handle it.”
“Gilyoung-ah—”
“Please.” His voice wavered dangerously. “Just this once, tell me.”
Dokja looked away, towards the children on the swings. He watched them pat off dusty knees and lick the sticky residue of watermelon off their fingers. The silence carried their squeals of excitement, smiling with a careless innocence under the midday sun.
Lee Gilyoung’s shoulders rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, watching the same scene. And when he spoke again, his voice was achingly clear.
“I’ve never been able to save you, ahjussi.” he said, shuffling closer so that he could rest his head on Dokja’s shoulder. “Not once. Not during the scenarios. Not after. I’m always so—useless.”
He paused, fingers curling in the grass.
“I know that whatever decision you’ve made, I won’t be able to change it. But still, I had hoped—” his voice cracked cleanly down the middle, breaking into two, “—I wouldn’t have to see it again. That look.”
Maybe this horrible feeling in his heart was one Dokja deserved. Guilt. Pain. Desire. It all hardened into an irreparable ache, pounding against the cavity of his chest where the flowers continued to spread.
Lee Gilyoung turned to look at him. His eyes were too bright, wet at the corners. “Can I tell you something?” he asked quietly. “A story. Will you listen?”
Dokja’s throat was too constricted to speak. He nodded instead.
Lee Gilyoung moved slowly, laying down with his head in Dokja’s lap. He faced away, out towards the park, towards the empty swings and the flowers and the blue sky. His body was tense at first, then gradually relaxed when Dokja’s hand settled on his shoulder.
Then, Lee Gilyoung started talking.
He began to tell Dokja a story—one set long before the scenarios and before the end of everything. It was a story about being small and unseen, about nights spent alone in rooms too big and too quiet. It was about monochrome days that hid the colour of bruises on his skin and the cuts he traced with trembling fingers. About holding a hand over his mouth at night, stifling the sound of breath, waiting for footsteps that sometimes never came.
He spoke of hours that stretched endlessly, of learning to make himself invisible—so quiet and small he forgot he existed at all. He spoke of longing for someone to break past the walls he had built and take him somewhere safe.
Then, he told Dokja about a certain train ride, one that had changed everything. He told of sitting next to a man in an office suit—a man who seemed to have stepped down from some distant, impossible sky. A man who reached for him when he had stopped reaching for anyone. A man whose kindness was so unexpected, you’d think he’d never experienced it himself. A man who had taken him under his wings and, in those moments, become his entire world.
He told Dokja about learning to love for the first time. About the warmth of having someone to care for him, to guide him as he grew. About loving a father—a love both tentative and unshakable, a light that brightened his entire life.
And then, quietly, he told him about the ache of it, too—the fear of losing it, of watching it slip away.
His voice broke on the last word. He rolled over, pressing his face into Dokja’s stomach, tears soaking through the fabric, and whispered between choked sobs, “So please…don’t leave me.”
Dokja couldn’t speak. His vision was blurring, breath coming in uneven fragments.
Lee Gilyoung’s hand found his side, bunching the fabric in his fist. “Whatever’s wrong, whatever’s happening—you don’t have to tell me anything. Just, please…” he trailed off, muffling the rest against Dokja’s shirt. He could feel each soft sniffle transmitted through the fabric.
Dokja’s hand moved without conscious thought, removing his twisted cap and soothing down his back in slow movements.
For the first time, he wondered whether he should have taken the pills, all those months ago.
“I’m sorry,” Dokja finally managed. His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Gilyoung-ah”
Lee Gilyoung shuddered against his stomach, shaking uncontrollably. Dokja forced himself to listen to each trembling sob, each broken inhale, until he quieted with exhaustion. Until his breathing evened out. Asleep.
Carefully, Dokja adjusted their position, making sure Lee Gilyoung’s head wasn’t twisted awkwardly. The boy’s face was still tear-stained, pink and puffy and smoothed over with fitful sleep. So young still, despite his age.
The small flowers swayed mockingly in the breeze, the sky darkening from blue to something softer, evening approaching in bursts of violet that blended into gold-woven clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a bird was calling softly.
Thumbing over the soft tufts of his child's hair, Dokja tried to remember how to be happy.
***
“Han Sooyung.”
“Hm?”
She turned to him, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed. The monotonous, casual chatter of the restaurant faded away as they waited for their order.
At the table across the room, Shin Yoosung was braiding Lee Seolhwa’s hair. Crammed beside them was Lee Gilyoung, who was currently poking Yoo Joonghyuk’s side, frowning before flexing his own biceps. Yoo Joonghyuk looked on with an expression that was half-annoyed, half-amused, leaving the boy to his ministrations.
“Do you think I'm a fool for loving Yoo Joonghyuk?”
Han Sooyung was quiet for a long moment. She watched Yoo Joonghyuk, the way he looked perfectly content under the warm, yellow glow of the restaurant lights, the way his lips ticked up into a soft smile as Lee Gilyoung threw his head back and groaned.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Maybe.”
Dokja huffed a small, tired laugh.
“I think,” she said, a wistful expression on her face, “even if we were to repeat this life a thousand times, we’d still end up here.”
For a moment, the silence stretched between them, filled by the ambient noise of the restaurant, the clinking of the dishes and the chatter of customers layering over each other into a mesmerizing lull.
“Is this really what you want? Even if it costs you everything?”
Maybe it wasn’t.
Dokja watched Yoo Joonghyuk reach over to ruffle Lee Gilyoung’s hair, watched Lee Seolhwa thumb over the finished braid with awe. These small moments were so ordinary that it hurt—and this one would blur into a thousand others just like it, lost so easily to imperfect memory.
“Sometimes,” Dokja said softly, “I wish I had never loved him.”
Han Sooyung looked at her feet, her hair falling over her face in gentle waves.
Dokja leaned down, tentatively moving her hair back and placing his lips near the shell of her ear.
Even if Han Sooyung hated him for the rest of her life, would it be okay to ask her for this one thing?
Quietly, he made a request.
When he pulled back, her expression had gone very still. Her eyes were too bright.
Then, Han Sooyung lifted her gaze to meet his. Her mouth trembled at the corners before settling into something that might have been a smile—one as shaky and fragile and genuine as he had ever seen it.
“I don’t think I could ever forget you, Dokja.”
***
Dokja couldn’t remember how this numbness had spread so far.
He was propped against the living room wall, legs splayed out in front of him. The apartment was dim, the shallow hue of early morning painting the space in a wash of deep blue.
His hand lifted with enormous effort, clutching his shirt loosely. The fabric there was damp with sweat.
Was this it?
The thought didn’t scare him. Rather, it arrived with the strange clarity of a fact he’d known for months but had never quite believed until now. It settled in his chest, a static hum along the sluggish, struggling beat of his heart.
Dokja had died before. It was a choice he’d made so easily, a small price to pay in the grand scheme of the Star Stream and scenarios.
But…he didn’t think it had ever felt like this. This all-consuming numbness. This quiet, broken only by the soft, shallow rattle of his own breath. This slow, paralyzing fear of facing oblivion, of not knowing what came after.
Maybe death would feel like returning to that train—returning to an undefinable existence and an eternity of endlessly watching. At least then, he’d be able to protect them. At least then, death would feel familiar.
His phone lay heavily in hand. The screen was dark, so he clicked it open. The numbers and letters swam across his vision. He tapped the button that he hoped would connect him to her.
It rang once. Twice.
A click. A voice, sharp with playful annoyance. “This better be good. I’m in the middle of a—”
“Han Sooyung.”
The line was static with silence. Then, the distant sound of a chair scraping back. “Where are you.”
He smiled. In the background, there was someone yelling, a growing commotion. “Could you deliver the letters I told you about?” His breath was a paper-thin whistle, voice dry and weary. “They’re in a box. Under my bed.”
“Dokja. Where are you?” Her voice was tight. Through the speaker, the sound of a door, then quick, frantic footsteps. Running.
“Home,” he breathed.
“Just hold on, you hear me? I’m coming. Keep talking.” She sounded like she was trying to keep herself calm. But Dokja could hear the pure, undiluted terror under it. Curses filtered through, bitten-off and furious.
He let his head fall back against the wall. The ceiling was blurring at the edges, darkness seeping into the edges of his vision even as the sun started to rise above the horizon.
“When I was young,” he began, the words coming slow and distant, as if someone else were speaking them. “I wondered what I would feel when this day came. I thought…I would look back on my life, and realize it was all such a waste.”
“It’s not—” She gasped, the sound of traffic suddenly loud behind her. “It wasn’t.”
“At some point,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “I stopped thinking I would ever make it to the end.” The darkness at the edge of his vision pulsed, warm and inviting. “But then, I met you.”
There was a choked sound at the other end of the phone. He couldn’t tell whether it was a sob or a curse.
“And suddenly, Dokja whispered, a faint, real smile stretching his lips, “I had forgotten what it felt like to be lonely.”
His eyes drifted to the window. The first bits of sunlight had broken through, streaks of golden light cutting through the dusty air of his apartment. It was so warm where it fell across his legs. He could almost feel the plaster at his back morph into rough bark, the stale air becoming a breeze that played with his hair.
And when Dokja opened his eyes, he was in a field.
“I think,” he murmured, his voice fading into the light and silence, “if it hadn’t been Yoo Joonghyuk…it would have been you. And this whole story would just start again.”
“Don’t,” she begged, desperately. She was near tears. “Don’t say that. You can’t say that to me.”
A great willow tree was at his back, its leaves swaying gently in the wind. The grass poked into his exposed ankles. Sunlight draped endlessly over the ground, and the air smelled of rain and earth. An aimless, perfect dream.
“Dokja? Dokja, please, keep talking to me.”
But everyone was here. All of them. There was Jung Heewon, laughing at something Lee Hyungsung had said. Yoo Sangah picking wildflowers. Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung napping in the shade. His children, forever young here.
And there was Yoo Joonghyuk, sitting beside him in the grass. His face was painted with the shadow of willow leaves, looking at Dokja with an expression he had never seen in his life. An expression tainted by peace.
Dokja had hoped that the end of their story would be like this sunlit place.
‘You’re the most selfish person in the world.’
Would it be so selfish, he asked the sky, his hand lifting to hover near Yoo Joonghyuk’s cheek, to ask for this? Just this?
Yoo Joonghyuk had been his for dozens, hundreds, thousands of years. In the deep spaces between a story he loved more than anything. One he got to watch for an eternity. One that, miraculously, was given to him for a single regression.
Dokja had loved him for every one. Through his happiness, his grief, his pain.
The more time goes on, he thought, the sunlight catching Yoo Joonghyuk’s lashes and painting him in an otherworldly beauty. The more I start to feel like I'm unworthy of love.
The flowers would grow. This story would reach its natural conclusion.
A sharp click rang out from a world away. The sound of a lock turning. A door, creaking open with a hesitant, terrified slowness.
You came, Dokja thought, feeling his mouth twitch into a half-smile. The sunlit field, his companions, Yoo Joonghyuk’s warm shoulder against his—it all began to fade, blurring into the popcorn ceiling of his apartment.
Han Sooyung stood silhouetted against the harsh hallway light, one hand frozen on the cool metal of the doorknob. Her chest was heaving.
That…makes me so happy.
“...Dokja?”
***
Loving you has always been the strangest thing.
I never expected to meet my hero when the world ended that day. I never expected to meet you, the man who had become my reason to live after so many years alone.
I think, even now, your story was one that gave me hope. It kept me alive. You were the person I turned to when facing another day seemed impossible. To me, the name Yoo Joonghyuk was my salvation. It was the name of my father, my brother, and my closest friend.
It seems selfish now, to call you these things.
By the time you read this, it’ll probably be too late. But I don’t want you to blame yourself. I always knew I was going to die.
You have walked by my side for every phase of my life. That’s why, I know that even if you can’t see me anymore, I’ll always be by yours.
Thank you for giving me something that makes saying goodbye so hard.