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Martin’s life is full of noise. He’s surrounded by it, the loudness and the voices that never seem to stop following him wherever he goes. He’s sixteen, still young enough to think noise means life, still old enough to feel it settle into him.
Martin has always been loud himself, energetic in a way that makes rooms feel smaller and warmer. It’s what makes it easy for him to talk to people, to be liked without trying too hard.
At home, the noise changes shape. He comes in already talking, eager to tell his parents and his older sister every little story from his day. Words spill out of him as if he’s afraid they’ll disappear if he doesn’t say them fast enough.
He talks with his hands, his voice rising and falling, filling the house with his presence. Silence feels strange there, like something missing, like a sentence left unfinished.
With his friends, he’s the same. Maybe even louder. He jokes the most, laughs the hardest, leans into being silly because he loves the sound of his friends laughing back at him.
There’s comfort in that, in knowing he can turn an ordinary moment into something lighter. For Martin, noise has always meant connection. Proof that he’s not alone.
And yet, among all these sounds, all this loudness, there’s something he still wants. Peace.
Not the kind you find in empty rooms or late nights, but a quietness that exists even when the world refuses to shut up. A calm he searches for without really realizing he’s searching.
It drifts through him sometimes, brief and almost unnoticeable, like a breeze passing through an open window before he can close it.
Because peace, Martin eventually understands, isn’t a thing or a place.
Peace is a person. And that person is Juhoon.
Juhoon doesn’t erase the noise around him. The world stays loud. Voices still overlap, music still hums, his ears still ring. But when Juhoon is there, the noise feels different, softer. Martin’s chest loosens in a way he never has to think about. It happens naturally, like breathing.
Juhoon is his constant peace. The one person Martin looks forward to the most every time he goes home from school.
The quiet waiting at the end of a loud day. The calm that feels almost unreal, as if it’s always been meant just for him.
Martin met Juhoon when they were both twelve. Back then, Juhoon was still a new face in the neighborhood. That afternoon, Martin was alone, drifting through the park with no real destination in mind.
His friends were busy with their own small emergencies and obligations. Seonghyeon was sick, stuck at home with a fever. Keonho and James were out somewhere with their parents, probably at a mall or a restaurant Martin would hear about later.
It was a summer afternoon, warm in the lazy way only summers can be. The sun rested comfortably on his skin as he walked through the grass, the ground uneven beneath his shoes. He carried his guitar with both hands, careful not to bump it against anything, and hummed along to the song playing through his earphones.
The music felt like company, filling the quiet spaces where his friends usually were. Cicadas buzzed somewhere unseen, blending with the melody until it was hard to tell where one sound ended and another began.
His eyes wandered as he walked. From a distance, he watched a group of kids running across the open field, their laughter carried by the wind. Bright kites struggled and danced in the air above them, strings pulled tight as the kids ran faster, trying to keep them from falling.
Then his gaze landed on a tree. It stood a little apart from everything else, its shade darker and quieter, as if it belonged to a different part of the afternoon.
Martin headed toward it out of habit, already imagining himself sitting against the trunk, guitar resting on his knee, fingers finding familiar chords. It was what he always did when his friends weren’t around. His small ritual. His way of passing time.
But before he could sit, he noticed someone else was already there. Martin slowed, then peeked around the trunk, curiosity pulling him closer. A kid sat on the other side of the tree, legs tucked in, a book open in his hands. He looked around Martin’s age, maybe a little younger, smaller somehow.
His face was unfamiliar, which immediately caught Martin’s attention. Martin knew most of the kids in the neighborhood. Faces usually stuck with him.
The boy didn’t look up. He was absorbed in his book, the world around him seemingly paused. Martin hesitated for only a moment. He had always been like this, drawn toward new people, new stories.
Making friends came easily to him, like second nature. So he stepped closer, stopping at a polite distance, not wanting to startle him. “Hello,” Martin said, his voice soft but bright, shaped by habit and kindness.
He smiled before he could help it. “Are you new here?”
But the boy didn’t look up. He didn’t even shift. The pages didn’t pause, his fingers didn’t twitch, and for a moment Martin wondered if his voice had simply dissolved into the air before it reached him.
Maybe he spoke too softly. Maybe the music in his ears earlier had made him forget how quiet the park could be when no one was shouting back. The boy was so focused on the book, so deeply somewhere else, that it felt like Martin had spoken to the tree instead.
So he tried again, louder this time, his voice clearer. “Hello. I’m Martin,” he said, adjusting his grip on the guitar. “Are you new here? I haven’t seen you before.”
Still nothing. The boy didn’t raise his head. Didn’t glance up. Didn’t even acknowledge that someone else existed in the same patch of shade.
Martin felt something tighten in his chest, a small spark of irritation flickering to life. Being ignored was unfamiliar to him. He wasn’t used to knocking on doors that didn’t open.
“Hey,” Martin tried again, this time with a sharper edge he didn’t bother hiding. “I’m talking to you.”
No response. Not even a glance. The realization settled in slowly, heavier than he expected. Maybe the boy didn’t want to be friends. Maybe he was one of those people who chose quiet over connection, who shut others out without explanation.
Martin didn’t like forcing himself into places he wasn’t wanted. He never had. So instead of trying again, he frowned, clicking his tongue softly in frustration. He scoffed under his breath and turned away, the guitar swinging lightly at his side as he walked off.
He couldn’t believe it. The new boy, the unfamiliar face, was rude. All Martin wanted was to say hello. To make a friend.
That night, over dinner, he brought it up between spoonfuls of soup and the clinking of utensils. “I saw a new boy earlier at the park,” Martin said, already leaning forward, ready to complain.
Before his parents or his older sister could react, he rushed on, words tumbling out. “And he’s rude. He didn’t even say hi. He just ignored me completely.”
His mom laughed softly, not unkindly, as she passed him the bowl of soup. “Honey, maybe he’s just shy,” she said gently. “Sometimes it’s hard for people to talk to others. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Some people keep to themselves for reasons we don’t always see.”
Martin frowned, poking at his food as he listened. “But Mom,” he said, a little stubborn, a little hurt, “he didn’t have to ignore me. He could’ve at least smiled.”
A week later, a soft knock echoed through their house. Martin’s mom opened the door, and Martin, curious as ever, peeked out from behind her, only half hiding. Standing there was a woman with a child beside her.
No. Not just a child. Martin recognized him instantly. The boy from the park. The one under the tree. The one who never looked up.
A flicker of annoyance sparked in Martin’s chest. ‘Why was he here?’
He watched, surprised, as his mom smiled and welcomed them inside, her voice warm as if she’d known them longer than a few minutes. Without thinking, Martin turned and rushed upstairs, ignoring his mom calling after him.
He didn’t want to face that boy. Not now. Not after everything.
Even though, somewhere beneath his frustration, curiosity stirred quietly. A small part of him still wondered about the boy. About his book. About the silence that wrapped around him so tightly. Maybe, in another version of the day, Martin would’ve tried again. Maybe he would’ve wanted to be friends.
But pride has a way of speaking louder than curiosity. So he shut himself in his room and picked up his guitar, letting familiar chords fill the space instead. Music was easier. Music didn’t ignore you.
When Martin finally came downstairs an hour later, the house felt lighter. Too quiet. The woman and the boy were gone.
His mom spotted him right away. “Hey, honey,” she said gently. “Our visitors left us cookies.” She nodded toward the kitchen counter. “They’re our new neighbors. You should’ve met the kid. He’s the same age as you.”
Martin rolled his eyes as he walked over. “That kid,” he said, the irritation slipping back into his voice. “He’s the one who ignored me at the park. He’s the rude one I told you about. I can’t be neighbors with him, Mom.”
His mom hummed softly, not dismissive, not amused. Then she smiled and motioned for him to come closer. “Oh? Come here,” she said. “Let me tell you something.”
Martin stepped toward her, still tense, and was immediately pulled into a warm embrace. She held him for a moment before speaking again, her voice slower now, careful, like she was choosing her words one by one.
“Honey,” she said, “his name is Juhoon. And he didn’t ignore you because he wanted to. Sometimes people seem distant, not because they’re being unkind, but because the world reaches them differently.”
Martin’s frown softened, curiosity pushing its way through. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
His mom brushed a hand through his hair. “Juhoon can’t hear,” she explained gently. “He doesn’t hear voices the way we do. So when you spoke to him at the park, he didn’t know you were there. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you. He just didn’t know you were trying.”
“But how can he speak like us?” Martin asked, the questions spilling out one after another. “Can he even talk? And how does he communicate with his parents, or with other kids?”
As he spoke, his mind wandered back to the boy under the tree. The way he sat so still, the way the world seemed to move around him without ever touching him. Peaceful.
His mom listened patiently, not rushing him, not laughing at the way his curiosity tangled itself into worry. “There’s something called sign language,” she said gently. “People who can’t hear, or who don’t use their voice the same way others do, use it to communicate. It’s a language you speak with your hands, your face, even the way you move.”
She paused, making sure Martin was still listening. “Juhoon has many ways of talking to the people around him. Writing, gestures, expressions. Just because he communicates differently doesn’t mean he understands less, or feels less. He’s not really that different from you, honey. The world just sounds different to him.”
Martin nodded, his chest feeling warm and tight at the same time. Maybe Juhoon wasn’t rude. Maybe he was kind in ways Martin hadn’t known how to see yet.
The thought lingered, growing heavier and gentler all at once, and his curiosity bloomed into something brighter, something softer.
That night, Martin sat in front of his computer longer than usual. He told himself he was just curious. That he was only looking things up. But somewhere between clicking links and watching shaky videos, his hands started to move on their own, copying simple shapes in the air.
He practiced slowly, awkwardly, fingers stiff and unsure. And for the first time, Martin wondered if silence could be learned.
At fourteen, two years after their first meeting, Martin finally decided to approach Juhoon again.
Two years was a long time to watch someone from a distance. Long enough for curiosity to stop feeling like a question and start feeling like a constant presence.
Almost every afternoon after school, Martin would see him on the porch next door, sitting with a book resting against his knees. Sometimes, when Martin came home late from James’ house, Juhoon would still be there, quiet and unbothered, the day slowly folding around him.
Other times, he wasn’t reading at all, just playing with small toys, lining them up carefully, as if the world made more sense when it was arranged by his own hands.
And every time, Martin noticed. During those two years, Martin learned sign language in secret. Not perfectly. Not smoothly. Just enough to try. He watched videos late at night, rewound them again and again, fingers stiff as he copied the movements.
He read articles filled with words too complicated for him, scribbled notes he barely understood, practiced in front of his mirror until his hands ached. It was hard, learning without anyone to correct him, without knowing if he was doing it right.
He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe he just wanted to finally say hello the right way.
Or maybe it was something quieter, something he didn’t yet have a name for.
“Mom, Dad, I’m going out,” Martin called as he stood by the front door, tugging his shoes on. A pen and a folded piece of paper were clutched in his hand, just in case.
“Be careful,” his parents’ voices echoed back. He didn’t hesitate after that. He opened the door and stepped outside, the afternoon air warm against his skin.
His feet carried him slowly toward the house beside theirs. Each step felt heavier than the last. When he looked up, Juhoon was there, sitting on the porch, focused on something written on a piece of paper.
Martin’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. He suddenly became very aware of his hands, of how unsure they felt. Two years of learning, and still, he didn’t know if it would be enough. Still, he’d brought the pen and paper. Just in case.
Martin stepped onto the first stair of the porch, pausing there, eyes fixed on Juhoon as if he might disappear if Martin blinked too long. Slowly, he climbed the steps, one by one, until he stood close enough to feel the quiet that surrounded Juhoon, thick and gentle.
He took a breath and reached out, tapping Juhoon’s arm softly. Juhoon looked up immediately.
His face was calm, almost delicate, eyes wide and curious. His cheeks held a faint pink warmth, and his lips rested in a small, thoughtful pout. He surprisingly didn’t look startled.
Martin lifted his hand slowly and waved, watching Juhoon’s expression like it might guide him. Juhoon’s eyes followed the movement, studying it.
And then for the first time, Martin saw him smile. It wasn’t big or loud. It was soft, unfolding slowly, like sunlight slipping through clouds.
Juhoon lifted his hand and waved back.
Everything seemed to happen all at once. Before Martin could talk himself out of it, he was already moving his hands, forming the signs he’d practiced for so long in the safety of his room.
His fingers trembled slightly, his movements careful and unsure. He worried that he was doing it wrong, that the shapes didn’t make sense, that he’d mixed something up and turned his introduction into nonsense.
For a brief moment, he felt twelve again, standing under the tree, hoping not to be ignored. Then Juhoon smiled.
Not politely. Not out of confusion. A real smile, soft and warm. And just like that, Martin knew. It was okay. Somehow, despite the mistakes and the nerves, Juhoon understood.
Juhoon shifted a little and tapped the space beside him, a silent invitation. Martin didn’t hesitate this time. He sat down immediately, a wide grin stretching across his face, his heart racing in a way that felt strangely light.
Being that close felt unreal, like he’d crossed into a moment he’d been circling for years without realizing it.
They spent the time trying to talk. Martin relied on the sign language he knew, slow and careful, his hands sometimes betraying him. There were moments when Juhoon’s face twisted in gentle confusion, eyebrows knitting together, and Martin would pause, laugh quietly, and try again.
Other times, it was Martin who got lost, watching Juhoon’s hands move with a fluidity he couldn’t yet match, meanings slipping past him just out of reach.
When their hands failed them, the pen and paper came to the rescue. Words scratched onto pages, arrows drawn, sentences crossed out and rewritten. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.
At one point, Juhoon’s mom came out onto the porch, surprise written clearly across her face as she took in the scene. Martin explained as best as he could, switching between gestures, writing, and nervous smiles. She listened carefully, then smiled too, gratitude clear in her eyes, the kind that didn’t need translation.
Martin hadn’t expected it to feel like this. If his twelve-year-old self could see him now, sitting quietly beside the boy he once thought was rude, he would’ve stared in disbelief. Loud, restless Martin, willingly sitting still, content with silence and scribbled words.
For the first time, Martin realized that happiness didn’t always need sound. That beyond the laughter, the jokes, the noise he loved so much, there was something else waiting for him too.
That was why, at sixteen, Martin had decided that Juhoon was the peace he had been searching for all along.
After days like this, the kind that dragged their weight through classrooms and hallways and expectations, Martin never had to think about where to go. His feet already knew. They always carried him back to Juhoon, as if pulled by a gravity older than choice, older than reason.
By the time he reached Juhoon’s house, the sky was already slipping into that honey-colored hour, the air still warm from the day.
His guitar hung across his body, the strap digging faintly into his shoulder, a reminder of the performance earlier, of the noise and the lights and the way exhaustion settled deep in his bones afterward. His friends had gone home hours ago, scattered like sparks after a fire burned out.
He lifted his hand and knocked, once, then again, the sound echoing softly through the door as if the house itself recognized him.
Juhoon’s mom opened it almost immediately, her smile unfolding the second she saw him. She didn’t hesitate, just pulled him into a hug. It felt grounding, like being briefly stitched back into the world.
“Juhoon’s in his room,” she said, already stepping aside, already trusting that Martin belonged here. “Go on up.”
Martin nodded, smiling back, and made his way upstairs, each step familiar beneath his feet, like he’d walked this path a hundred times before in this life and maybe others too.
He opened Juhoon’s door slowly. The scent of the room washed over him instantly, old books, clean fabric, and that faint sweetness Martin could never quite name.
It loosened something in his chest. The world felt quieter in here, like the noise outside couldn’t cross the threshold.
Juhoon was sitting on his bed, legs tucked in, completely absorbed in a book. He was wearing a hoodie that hung too big on him, sleeves swallowing his hands, the hem brushing his thighs. Martin recognized it immediately. His hoodie.
He moved closer, and when he reached Juhoon, he tapped his arm lightly. Juhoon looked up, eyes brightening as if Martin’s presence had flipped a switch somewhere behind them. He lifted a hand and waved.
Martin waved back, then raised his hand, fingers shaping the words “I’m tired.”
Juhoon understood immediately. He always did. Without a word, he set the book aside and opened his arms, wide and patient, like he had all the time in the world.
And that was it. Martin let himself fall forward, let the exhaustion finally win. He melted into Juhoon’s embrace, forehead pressing against his shoulder, the guitar bumping gently at his side.
Martin’s heart wouldn’t calm down. It beat too fast, too loud, like it was trying to say something he wasn’t ready to hear yet.
He remembered feeling this way months ago, during New Year’s, when the night had been cold and bright and full of noise, and Juhoon had stood beside him like he always did.
That was when it started. That was when Martin noticed him fully, not just as Juhoon, not just as his friend, but as someone entirely different, someone he couldn’t stop seeing no matter how hard he tried.
After that, it was like his eyes had betrayed him. He began to notice things he had never paid attention to before, small details that felt insignificant until they weren’t.
The way Juhoon’s eyes curved into thin crescents whenever he smiled, almost disappearing. The way his lips, already soft, already naturally pouty, pushed forward slightly when he was focused, brows pulled together while his hands were busy with something else.
Even the way he stood, the way he leaned into Martin without thinking, like it was instinct, like it was where he belonged.
And then there was their height. Martin was tall, unfairly so. At sixteen, he already stood at 190 centimeters, always looking down at people his age, always slouching without realizing it.
But Juhoon fit him in a way no one else did. Not too small, not too fragile, just… right. The kind of right that made Martin aware of how close they were whenever they stood together, how Juhoon’s face was exactly where Martin’s gaze naturally fell.
Close enough to notice the warmth of him, close enough to feel something shift in his chest every time Juhoon looked up and smiled, unaware of the chaos he caused simply by existing.
Sometimes, Martin wondered if Juhoon noticed too. If he felt the way Martin’s hands lingered a second longer than necessary, or how Martin always slowed his steps to match Juhoon’s pace, always turned his body toward him when they sat together.
Juhoon couldn’t hear the way Martin’s breath caught or the way his heart stumbled, but maybe, just maybe, he felt it in other ways. In the quiet. In the closeness. In the space between them that felt less like distance and more like a promise neither of them had named yet.
Then Juhoon tapped him lightly, right on the arm, and Martin lifted his head almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for it.
“How are you?” Juhoon signed, his shoulders dropping a little afterward, a quiet sigh escaping him.
He adjusted himself and sat up properly, though not far. Not really. They were still close enough that their knees brushed, a small, absentminded bump neither of them pulled away from.
Martin lowered his voice out of habit and signed at the same time. “Our performance was tiring,” he said, fingers moving a little slower than usual. “But it was worth it.”
Juhoon nodded, understanding clear in his eyes, and then, nothing. The moment stretched. Martin didn’t rush to fill it. He just stayed there, looking at Juhoon, taking him in the way he’d been doing too much lately.
Juhoon’s gaze drifted elsewhere, unfocused, like his thoughts had slipped somewhere Martin couldn’t reach. Eventually, Juhoon looked back at him and smiled. It was small, barely there.
“I wish I could hear you.”
Something in Martin’s chest cracked open at that. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, just sharp and quiet, like a truth pressing too hard against his ribs.
Juhoon kept going, his hands calm even as his smile faltered, just a little. “You singing,” he added. “I think you have a good voice.”
Martin swallowed. He didn’t know what to say. The words stayed stuck somewhere between his throat and his hands, useless and heavy.
All he could do was look at Juhoon, at the way he smiled like that, gentle, sincere, and carrying a sadness he didn’t try to hide, and feel his heart ache in a way that felt unfair and tender all at once.
He just reached out and pulled Juhoon closer, slow and careful, like he was afraid the moment might slip away if he moved too fast. His arms came around Juhoon’s waist again, and soon enough he could feel Juhoon’s heartbeat pressed against his own chest.
For a second, their breaths didn’t quite line up, then they did, like their bodies figured it out before their minds could.
He felt it then, the tightness behind his eyes, the burn he tried to ignore. But he didn’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Juhoon, even if Juhoon wouldn’t notice it the way other people might.
Maybe later, he told himself. Maybe when he was alone in his room, when the lights were off and no one could see him falling apart. For now, he swallowed it down and stayed still.
He kept holding Juhoon, arms firm but gentle, loving the way Juhoon fit against him so naturally, like this was how it was always supposed to be.
He didn’t want to name it yet. Whatever this was. The thought alone scared him, the weight of it, the way it threatened to change everything. But the longer he stayed there, the more the fear softened, replaced by a quiet calm he couldn’t explain.
Because Martin knew, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it out loud, that this wasn’t just comfort anymore. This was something else entirely.
As the days passed, the feeling beneath Martin’s chest didn’t fade like he hoped it would. It grew instead. Until it became something he couldn’t push aside anymore. It sat heavy making his heart beat faster for no clear reason.
Sometimes he’d zone out in the middle of conversations, staring past his friends like he was looking for something just out of reach. They noticed, of course. They’d ask if he was okay, and Martin would smile too wide, nod too quickly, answer with enthusiasm. Fake enthusiasm.
Other nights were worse. He’d lie flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him answers, his heartbeat loud in his ears, louder than the drums Keonho played during practice.
Eventually, he’d give up on sleeping. He’d sit up, walk over to the window, and peek outside toward the house across from his. Toward Juhoon’s bedroom. Sometimes the light was on. Sometimes it wasn’t.
Martin didn’t even know if it was right to feel this way. He didn’t know what would happen if all of this finally spilled over, if his feelings broke loose and landed at Juhoon’s feet.
Would Juhoon notice? Would he understand? Would he pick it up gently and hold it like something fragile, or would he leave it there, not knowing what to do with it, leaving Martin to deal with the mess alone?
“You’re zoning out,” Seonghyeon said suddenly, pulling him back into the room. He was looking at Martin with a mix of confusion and concern. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” Martin replied too quickly, gripping his guitar tighter as he looked away. His fingers curled around the neck of it like it was the only solid thing keeping him grounded.
But even as he said it, he knew it was useless. Seonghyeon had always been good at reading him. “Is it about Juhoon, then?” Seonghyeon asked.
Martin froze.
Of course he knew. Of course he did. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, unsure. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… feel weird. Like something changed. I suddenly feel something weird toward Juhoon. You know?”
He hesitated, then continued, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I just love seeing him happy. Smiling. It makes me feel… safe.”
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. “God, I don’t even know why I’m saying this, but I’d do anything for him,” he said. Seonghyeon stayed silent, listening, letting him unravel at his own pace.
“And fuck,” Martin added softly, the word slipping out like a confession. “I know it’s not normal anymore. I just… I’m scared.”
“You’re scared of what?” Seonghyeon asked quietly. “Are you scared of confronting your real feelings, or are you scared of losing Juhoon in the process?”
The question landed heavier than Martin expected. It stayed with him long after the room fell quiet, after the noise returned, after everything else tried to move on like normal.
At seventeen, Martin finally understood it. He was in love. Completely. With the same boy he had met when he was twelve. The same boy he once thought was rude for never responding, until Martin learned the truth and felt stupid for ever thinking that way.
Somewhere between practices and performances, between laughter and noise and all the chaos Martin surrounded himself with, he had fallen in love with Juhoon’s quiet world.
The sky was burning orange when it happened. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting everything in warm light, and it spilled gently over Juhoon’s face. They should have been watching it together, shoulder to shoulder, like people always did in movies.
But Martin couldn’t tear his eyes away from Juhoon instead. Not when he looked like that. Not when the light caught on his skin just right.
Juhoon was pretty. Beautiful, even, but not in a fragile way. His eyes, his nose, his lips, every detail felt painfully perfect through Martin’s eyes, and that was the worst part. Seeing him like this hurt, because it made everything impossible to ignore.
Martin reached out and tapped Juhoon’s arm lightly. Juhoon turned immediately, eyebrows lifting in silent question, giving Martin his full attention like he always did.
“I’m going to say something,” Martin signed, his movements slower than usual. “Please be patient with me.”
Juhoon nodded.
Martin inhaled deeply, his chest tight, his hands already trembling. “You’re pretty,” he signed, fingers brushing against Juhoon’s hands as if grounding himself. “You’re perfect in a way that hurts.”
Juhoon’s eyes followed his hands, then lifted to Martin’s face, then back again, reading carefully, like he didn’t want to miss a single word.
“It hurts,” Martin continued, swallowing hard, “because I couldn’t do anything about it. I just… admired you from afar. As a friend.”
“Juhoon,” he signed next, his throat burning, his hands shaking now no matter how hard he tried to steady them. “I like you.” He paused, forcing himself to keep going. “I like you not as a friend. But as something more.”
The words hung between them, fragile and exposed, like Martin had just handed Juhoon his heart without knowing whether it would be held or dropped.
Juhoon didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at Martin like the world had tilted slightly off its axis. Martin noticed it right away, the way Juhoon’s breathing went uneven,
That alone scared Martin more than anything else could have. He wished, suddenly, that he could take everything back, rewind a few seconds, swallow the words before they ever left his hands.
Then Juhoon lifted his own. “I’m sorry.”
Before Martin could react, before his mind could even catch up to what was happening, Juhoon stood up. He moved fast, quicker than Martin had ever seen him move, already turning away, already leaving.
Martin didn’t even get the chance to call his name or reach out. One second Juhoon was there, the next he was gone, disappearing down the path as the sun dipped lower into the horizon.
Just like that, everything shattered. Martin stayed where he was, frozen, hating himself with a kind of bitterness that made his chest ache. He cried under the setting sun, shoulders shaking, face burning with shame.
There was no point in chasing after Juhoon. He didn’t need to. The answer was already clear enough. Loud enough. He had ruined it. Ruined them.
A week passed. A week of nothing. A week without seeing Juhoon. A week of barely eating, of forgetting meals until his stomach hurt.
A week of throwing himself into schoolwork, events, rehearsals, anything that kept him busy enough not to think. He overworked himself until exhaustion became normal, until it felt easier than sitting alone with his thoughts.
His friends noticed. The way he stopped joking around. The way he looked like shit during class, eyes dull, posture slumped. The way music didn’t light him up anymore, how his guitar stayed untouched for longer than usual.
His family noticed too. They asked him what happened, asked if something was wrong, and Martin always answered the same way. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”
Yeah. Fine. Fine after ruining the best thing in his life because of his dumb feelings. Stupid Martin.
One night, he sat on his bedroom floor, guitar resting uselessly against his leg, papers scattered everywhere. Half-written lyrics, crossed-out lines, melodies that went nowhere.
He tried to write again, tried to force something out of himself, but it was impossible. Juhoon had become his muse without permission, and now that he was gone, everything sounded empty.
Then he heard it. A knock. Soft at first, barely there. Martin ignored it, thinking it was just the wind brushing against the window. But it came again, louder this time, deliberate. His heart jumped into his throat.
Slowly, he set his guitar aside and stood up, walking toward the window like he was afraid of what he might find, or what he might not.
He opened it. And there he was. Juhoon stood outside, slightly out of breath, wearing an oversized hoodie that Martin recognized instantly. His hoodie. Again.
“Jju,” Martin whispered to himself, disbelief flooding his chest. He moved without thinking, reaching out to help Juhoon climb inside.
As Juhoon stepped fully into the room, Martin closed the window behind them. His hands were shaking so badly he had to curl them into fists, his heart beating so hard it felt like it might give him away.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They stood there, close but not touching, both staring at anything but each other. The floor. The wall. The scattered papers by Martin’s guitar. Anything safer than eye contact.
Then Martin felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He turned immediately. Juhoon looked tired. Not just physically, but in a way Martin had never seen before.
His eyes were duller, shadows sitting beneath them like he hadn’t been sleeping properly. Seeing him like that hurt more than the week of silence ever did.
Guilt settled heavy in Martin’s chest, sharp and relentless. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve kept it to himself. He should’ve just stayed quiet and let things be.
Juhoon raised his hands slowly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to express myself about that.”
Martin smiled, but it didn’t feel like one. It was tight and painful, like his face didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to reach out so badly. To pull Juhoon into his arms and pretend none of this ever happened.
But he stayed still, afraid that even one wrong move would make Juhoon disappear again.
Juhoon hesitated, then continued. “Why me?” His hands trembled slightly, and Martin hated himself for being the reason. “I’m deaf. I couldn’t hear you. I couldn’t speak properly.”
Martin’s chest ached.
“You should be with someone who can hear you,” Juhoon finished.
That was when Martin realized he was crying. He hadn’t felt the tears fall, hadn’t noticed the way his vision blurred, only that suddenly everything hurt more.
He stood there, silent, tears slipping down his face, because the thought of Juhoon believing that he wasn’t enough, that he was something to be worked around instead of chosen, felt unbearable.
Martin lifted his hands between them, waiting until Juhoon’s eyes were fully on him. He didn’t rush. In sign language, attention mattered just as much as the words themselves.
“I love you.” He signed it clearly. One hand to his chest, then outward, calm and certain. He paused, letting the meaning settle, before repeating it more softly. “I love you, Juhoon.”
Juhoon’s eyes filled almost immediately. The change in his expression was subtle but devastating, like something fragile finally being named. Martin felt a sting behind his own eyes at the sight. He never wanted to hurt him. Never wanted his words to be heavy in the wrong way.
So Martin slowed down. His hands moved again, his face open, honest, letting meaning show in every small movement.
“You don’t need to be anything else,” he told him. “Nothing about you is wrong. I like the way you are. I always have.”
Juhoon’s tears slipped free, quiet and unguarded, but he didn’t look away. He followed every movement, every pause, as if the space between Martin’s hands and his own heart had finally closed.
“When I’m with you,” Martin continued, “everything feels calm. The noise doesn’t disappear, but it stops hurting.”
He touched his chest again, then gestured gently between them. “If peace is something you carry, I want to share it with you.”
Martin swallowed and signed the last part slowly, deliberately, making sure nothing was lost. “Other people hear my voice, but you understand me.”
His hands lowered at last, the confession complete, hanging in the quiet between them. No sound followed. None was needed.
Without warning, before Martin could even finish the thought unraveling in his head, Juhoon’s hand found his wrist.
The pull wasn’t rough, just urgent, guided by instinct rather than intention, and then suddenly Juhoon was against him, arms wrapping around his middle like he was afraid the world might take Martin back if he didn’t hold tight enough.
The moment cracked something open in Martin. He folded around Juhoon His tears came quietly, slipping down his face, soaking into Juhoon’s hair, his shoulders shaking in a way he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
Juhoon cried too. The way Juhoon’s body trembled spoke louder than any sound ever could. His shirt grew damp where Juhoon pressed his face, tears bleeding through cotton, but Martin didn’t care.
He would have stood there forever if it meant keeping Juhoon right there, real and breathing and alive in his arms.
For a heartbeat, or maybe several, the world softened around them. The light felt thicker, almost golden, like it was bending closer just to witness this. Martin swore he felt something else too, something unseen brushing past them, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Maybe love did that. Maybe it bent things you couldn’t name.
Eventually, Juhoon pulled back. Slowly, like letting go hurt just as much as holding on. He tilted his head up, eyes glassy, lashes clumped together with tears. His cheeks were flushed pink, sun-kissed and raw, and his lower lip trembled as he bit down on it, trying to stay calm.
His hands rose between them, still shaking, fingers clumsy with emotion but determined.When he signed, Martin watched every movement like it was sacred.
“I love you too.” The words didn’t just live in Juhoon’s hands. They lived in the way his shoulders sagged afterward, in the relief that crossed his face like a tide finally pulling back.
Then his hands moved again, slower this time, softer. “Thank you for loving me.”
Something in Martin’s chest ached so deeply it felt sacred, like he had stumbled into a truth too fragile to say out loud. He nodded, breath uneven, and rested his forehead against Juhoon’s, their noses nearly touching.
For a second, they simply stayed there, sharing warmth, sharing the space between heartbeats, as if the world might dissolve if they moved too fast.
Martin lifted his gaze, searching Juhoon’s eyes, asking without words. There was a pause, brief but heavy, the kind that carries entire lifetimes inside it.
When Juhoon nodded back, slow and sure, something gentle loosened inside Martin. He leaned in carefully, reverently, as if love itself were something that could shatter if mishandled.
Their lips met, soft and unsure at first, then warmer, fuller. They smiled into the kiss, a quiet, almost disbelieving joy passing between them, like they had found something rare and were afraid to name it.
In that moment, Martin realized how strange it was that peace could exist at all. In a world that never stopped shouting, that demanded noise just to prove it was alive, he had found his quiet here, in the steady presence of someone who listened with more than ears.
And Juhoon, who had grown up in stillness, in a world shaped by calm and careful attention, had somehow found his way to someone willing to learn that silence was not emptiness, but a language of its own.
They were not opposites, Martin thought. They were translations. Two worlds leaning toward each other, choosing, again and again, to meet in the middle.
And maybe that was love. Not the absence of sound or the promise of peace, but the decision to stay, to listen, to exist gently in someone else’s universe without trying to change its shape.