Chapter Text
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚
𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟
~𝑚𝑦𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑡ℎ
Westbridge Town | 2090
The sunroom is full, blooming with the warmth of three generations. The air smells of pine floor wax, and the citrusy sweetness of the oranges Xiaoyu is peeling for the twins. On the sideboard, a towering birthday cake waits with the number ‘80’ candles still unlit beside a cluster of framed photos and a worn silver-plated basketball trophy that Geonwoo refuses to move to the attic.
Across the room, Minjae, Xiaoyu’s husband, is adjusting the light above a shadow box of championship medals and plaques, state and national alike, with a neat row of framed medical awards and hospital commendations mounted just beside them. He polishes the glass with a soft cloth, moving with the thoughtfulness of someone who understands what those pieces mean to the family.
At eighty, Xinlong finds that life has a way of slowing down until he can finally see the dust motes drifting through the sunlight, a detail he was far too busy to notice when he was fifteen, or even fifty.
Geonwoo stretches in his armchair nearby, deep in conversation with his daughter. His voice is a dry, raspy rumble, and his large hands, the same ones that once controlled a basketball with frightening accuracy, gesture toward a framed Falcons jersey hanging on the other end of the sunroom. Even now, the shape of his eyes when he smiles hasn’t changed in sixty-five years.
“Grandpa,” Yuna says, pulling Xinlong’s attention back to the small table where she and her brother are huddled. She props her chin on her palms, eyes bright with curiosity. “How did you and Grandpa Geonwoo actually start? Mom says you two were neighbours, but neighbours don’t always fall in love.”
Xinlong pauses, his hand hovering over a small plate of fruit. He looks at his fifteen-year-old grandchildren, starting with Yuna, before his gaze drifts to Yunho, who has suddenly decided the question is interesting after all.
“Now why are you asking that today?” he says, amusement curling easily into his voice. “Shouldn’t you be more interested in when we’re cutting that massive cake?”
Yuna shrugs, her ponytail swaying with the motion. “The cake isn’t going anywhere, Grandpa. I’m just… curious.” She glances toward where Geonwoo is still talking with Xiaoyu before looking back at him again. “You two always look at each other like you’re sharing a joke no one else hears, let alone understands. I want to know where that joke started.”
Xinlong lets out a soft, wheezing laugh that carries just far enough across the room to make Geonwoo pause mid-conversation with Xiaoyu. Geonwoo looks over, one brow lifting in inquiry.
“She’s curious, Geonwoo-ah,” Xinlong calls out, his voice settling into its familiar gravel. “She wants to know the origin story.”
Geonwoo huffs under his breath, a faint flush creeping across his weathered cheeks. He glances toward Minjae, who is now holding a faded team photo from 2025, turning it slowly between his fingers as he glances between the picture and his father-in-law.
“Don’t tell them,” Geonwoo mutters, though the protest lacks any real conviction. “I’m still very much embarrassed.”
Xiaoyu immediately perks up. “Oh no, tell them,” she says, leaning forward in her seat. “They’ve never heard the full version.”
She looks at Minjae expectantly. “Honey, back me up here.”
Minjae laughs softly, setting the photo back down on the sideboard. “Xiaoyu is right,” he tells Geonwoo. “They’re old enough to hear it now.”
That is all the encouragement Yunho and Yuna need.
“Tell us!” Yunho says.
“Tell us!” Yuna echoes, louder.
Within seconds they’re chanting together, drumming their hands on the table like a pair of conspirators. The noise fills the sunroom until everyone is laughing.
Geonwoo rubs a hand over his face in defeat.
“Fine,” he grumbles, though the corners of his mouth give him away as he sinks deeper into his chair. “Tell them if you want.”
He points a warning finger at Xinlong. “But leave out the part where I tripped over the bleachers.”
“I’ll tell it exactly how it happened,” Xinlong promises.
He turns back to the twins, his eyes twinkling faintly. “We didn’t start for a long time. In fact, for almost a whole year, your Grandpa Geonwoo decided he didn’t know how to use his tongue. He stopped speaking to me entirely.”
The twins blink at him, scandalised.
Xiaoyu giggles knowingly under her breath, finally setting the peeled oranges down in front of them, before moving to sit beside Minjae.
“He ignored you?” Yunho asks, murmuring a quick thanks to his mother as he picks up a slice. “But why?”
Xinlong reaches out and rests his hand over Geonwoo’s spotted, wrinkled knuckles as his husband leans closer. The skin is thin now, but the warmth is exactly the same.
“Because…” Xinlong says softly.
For a moment the sunroom fades, the bright smell of citrus dissolving into the faint, familiar scent of library books as the memory begins to unfold.
“...He was much better at writing than he was at talking.”
______
Westbridge Town | 2025
He Xinlong would very much like to be a doctor.
Preferably, the kind who rushes into emergency rooms with blood on his sleeves, decisively barking calm orders while everyone else scrambles to keep up. He definitely wants to be the kind of doctor who performs complicated surgeries after being awake for thirty hours straight, saving lives with steady hands and a brilliant mind. Someone the staff whisper about in hospital corridors as he walks out of the operating room at three in the morning, exhausted but still dramatic and heroic after bringing a patient back from the brink of death.
But for now, at fifteen years old and sitting through a literature club meeting at eleven-thirty in the morning with his closest friend from class, who also happens to be the club's vice president, Xinlong understands that he’ll probably have to work his way up to that kind of life.
Besides, the meeting had been perfectly enjoyable until Jiahao decided to ruin it by talking about that one senior the entire school knows he has a crush on.
Junseo? Is that his name? Junmin? Xinlong honestly can’t remember. He just knows it’s something along the lines of Jun.
“I think I’m finally going to do it,” Jiahao says.
Xinlong blinks, dragged out of his line of grandiose imagination that had somehow wandered from being a surgeon to wondering whether dolphins might secretly have stronger killer instincts than sharks.
“Do what?” Xinlong asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Junseo.”
Jiahao levels him with a look, glancing around the club room to make sure the other members are too busy sorting through poetry submissions to care about their conversation.
“Junseo,” he repeats in a whisper. “You know. The senior. The one on the Falcons.”
Xinlong makes a noncommittal sound.
“It’s time for me to be proactive,” Jiahao continues, leaning forward slightly. “It’s his last year. If I don’t make a move now, I’ll regret it forever.”
Xinlong studies him for a moment, then leans back in his chair.
“You know,” he says slowly, “there are easier ways to suffer.”
“I’m serious,” Jiahao scoffs, crossing his arms over his maroon sleeveless sweater. “I’ve had my eyes on him since moving to Westbridge High.”
Speaking of moving to Westbridge High, Jiahao arrived the previous year from a neighbouring town. His father had gotten a job with the Westbridge fire service, and the whole family decided to relocate rather than split up and commute the distance every day.
Xinlong had just started his first year of senior high at the time. New students joining a class weren’t unusual; it happened every year. So there was nothing particularly remarkable about Jiahao walking into their classroom that morning.
Except that Jiahao himself was a little hard to ignore.
He’d stood at the front of the room during introductions, bright-eyed, charming, and smiling easily, his fizzy, dirty-blond hair refusing to stay neatly combed no matter how many times he tried smoothing it down.
Xinlong had taken a liking to him almost immediately. Partly because Jiahao seemed like the kind of person who could make conversation with a brick wall. But mostly because, while listing his hobbies during his introductory speech for the class, Jiahao had mentioned something that made Xinlong sit up a little straighter in his seat.
“I was part of the literary club at my old school.”
That alone had been enough.
Xinlong was already a member of Westbridge High’s literary club at the time, holding a small leadership position and steadily working his way toward the presidency. Any opportunity to recruit someone new was an opportunity he took seriously.
So after class, Xinlong approached Jiahao with all the subtlety of someone who had been waiting his entire life for this exact moment. He introduced himself, explained the club, and very clearly stated that Jiahao should join.
Jiahao had agreed almost immediately, and the rest, as people liked to say, was history.
Now, a year later, the two of them are sitting in the same club room, running the whole thing together as president and vice president.
“Are you really sure you want to do this?” Xinlong asks. “You know… put yourself in his line of sight and all that. Aren’t you scared of rejection?”
“What rejection?” Jiahao shoots back instantly, dragging his chair closer to Xinlong’s. “I’m not scared of that.” He laughs, dropping his head briefly against Xinlong’s shoulder.
Xinlong scrunches his face in confusion, his lips pulling into a small pout while at it.
“I’m not scared of being rejected,” Jiahao continues. “I’m only scared of losing my chance if I don’t do anything about it.”
“See,” he straightens up and begins drawing invisible lines on the table like he’s explaining complicated math. “It’s a fifty–fifty thing, okay? What if I approach him and he likes me back? Isn’t that a better fifty percent chance than doing nothing at all?” Jiahao rambles on, clearly pleased with his logic. “I’d rather know I tried than spend the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I made a move. Being proactive gets you answers.”
“Hm.”
Xinlong hesitates, thinking it over. Jiahao is making a frustrating amount of sense. It does seem better to get a clear answer than spend years blaming yourself for a missed chance. Then again, it’s a bold move. But Jiahao has always been bold. That’s exactly why they became friends in the first place.
“Fine, fine,” Xinlong finally concedes, cutting Jiahao off before he can launch into yet another speech. “I get it. I’ll support you.”
“Do you have a choice?” Jiahao rolls his eyes, and they both break into laughter.
“So how do you intend to go about it?” Xinlong asks after answering a junior club member’s question about sorting the poetry submissions by word count before they’re reviewed.
“Well…” Jiahao taps his cheek with his index finger thoughtfully. “I have a pretty solid plan.”
Xinlong narrows his eyes.
“It’s not foolproof,” Jiahao admits, “but it’s solid enough to get Junseo to notice me. I’m sure he already has plenty of students vying for his attention.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically at the thought of competition, and mimics a mocking expression, sticking out his tongue and pretending to barf.
“Well, I can’t blame them,” Jiahao adds. “Have you seen him? With that height, those broad shoulders, shiny hair, and that stupidly pretty face.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Xinlong cuts in quickly. He has absolutely no interest in listening to Jiahao list out Junseo’s attractive qualities for the hundredth time. As if the entire school doesn’t already have eyes.
“Oh. Right.” Jiahao laughs at himself. Once he regains his composure, he leans forward and begins laying out his strategy like a general planning a military campaign.
“First, I’ve taken the time to study his routine around school, so I already know the snacks and protein bars he likes. I also know when the Falcons have their weekly practices.” Jiahao ticks points off on his fingers. “So I’ll start by putting together a curated hamper and slipping it into his locker with a note and a Polaroid of me.”
Xinlong stares blankly at him.
“That should get his attention,” Jiahao continues confidently. “Then I’ll start showing up at the basketball court during practice hours to watch him play.” He spreads his hands as if the conclusion should be obvious. “And hopefully fate runs its course.”
Xinlong looks at Jiahao like he cannot believe this entire insane operation has been cooked up just to impress one senior.
“Oh! Oh!” Jiahao suddenly adds, snapping his fingers as another idea strikes him. “I was also thinking of dragging you along to the Falcons’ practices.”
Xinlong blinks, one brow arching upward subtly.
“You know,” Jiahao continues, grinning now, “so you can see Geonwoo.” He tilts his head curiously. “Maybe it’ll help fix your friendship.”
The sudden urge to throttle Jiahao crosses Xinlong’s mind. Why the hell would he bring that up now, of all times?
“Remind me again why you two stopped talking?” Jiahao asks. “Didn’t you say you basically grew up together?
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Xinlong says, a faint sadness shrouding his expression, barely visible unless one was really looking, but there nonetheless.
The truth is, Xinlong would actually love to talk about it. He could talk about it a thousand times if it meant finally understanding what happened. Because even now, the whole situation still confuses him.
How do two people who grew up so closely intertwined simply drift apart like that, without warning or even the courtesy of an explanation?
The answer lies a little further back.
Geonwoo had always been a constant in Xinlong’s life for as long as he could remember. Their houses stood next to each other on the same street. close enough that it became second nature to wander in and out of each other’s homes the way children did when the neighbourhood still felt like an extension of their living room. Their parents knew each other, their schedules somehow always aligned, and before long, the two boys were inseparable in the way only childhood friendships could be.
They had spent their younger years racing battered bicycles down the sidewalks of their block until someone inevitably wiped out and scraped a knee. They played endless rounds of video games sprawled across living room carpets, argued loudly about which characters were the strongest, then forgot the argument entirely ten minutes later. They showed up to each other’s school activities whenever they could, Xinlong shouting encouragement from the sidelines of Geonwoo’s early basketball games while Geonwoo sat through literature club readings with the patient expression of someone who had absolutely no idea what half the poems meant.
Even when school separated them by grade, the rhythm of their days still overlapped. Geonwoo was always one year ahead, one classroom further down the hallway, but they still walked to school together whenever they missed the bus, shared the same umbrella whenever the weather turned bad, and made their way home along the same streets after classes ended. There were sleepovers that stretched long past midnight, shared snacks stolen from kitchen cupboards, and childish tea parties organised with complete seriousness when they were small enough to believe every gathering deserved a ceremony.
For most of Xinlong’s childhood, Geonwoo had simply been there. Reliable, and as steady a presence as the street they grew up on.
Which was why the change, when it came, had felt so strange.
It had started slowly, almost quietly enough that Xinlong hadn’t noticed it at first.
Two years earlier, when Geonwoo began his first year of senior high while Xinlong was still finishing his last year of junior high, small cracks began appearing in the routines they once followed so easily. Plans were cancelled more often than not, messages took longer to receive a reply, and sometimes Geonwoo didn’t show up at all to things they had agreed to do together.
Xinlong had tried not to think too much of it.
At home, he tried not to let it show either. One evening, his mother casually asked why Geonwoo hadn’t been coming around lately, mentioning that it had been a while since she’d last seen him wandering through the house. Xinlong shrugged and told her school had been busy for both of them. They still talked, he said. Everything was fine.
Senior high came with more responsibilities, more difficult classes, and more expectations. Around the same time, Geonwoo had also been accepted into the Westbridge Falcons basketball team, which meant long practices, weekend games, and coaches who demanded far more discipline than the casual neighbourhood matches they used to play when they were younger.
So Xinlong had told himself it made sense. He had been patient and understanding. He continued sending messages asking if Geonwoo wanted to meet up after school, if he had time on weekends and felt like grabbing snacks at the convenience store the way they used to. Sometimes Geonwoo answered briefly. Other times, the messages simply sat there unanswered until Xinlong eventually stopped checking the screen.
Still, he told himself it was temporary.
Until the following year arrived, and the distance between them hardened and turned colder.
By the time Xinlong entered senior high school, Geonwoo had stopped speaking to him entirely.
He no longer waited in front of the house for them to walk to school together. And even when their paths crossed in the hallway, Geonwoo looked past him as if he were just another student moving through the crowd.
Every small thread that had once tied their daily lives together had quietly snapped. And for the past year, the silence between them had remained exactly like that. Unbroken.
Now Xinlong is in his second year of senior high, while Geonwoo is already in his final one, and sometimes a restless thought creeps into his mind late at night when he can’t sleep. If he can somehow trace the exact moment their friendship began to unravel, if he can locate the point where the first crack appeared, then maybe there is still a chance to salvage it before the school year ends and Geonwoo graduates and leaves Westbridge behind like so many seniors before him.
Because the idea of Geonwoo leaving without ever explaining what happened between them feels like an unanswered question that will never stop echoing in Xinlong’s mind.
“I’m not asking you to talk about it,” Jiahao says, nudging Xinlong as he teases. “It’ll just be nice to reach out one last time. Who knows? He might meet you halfway.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Xinlong murmurs, rolling his eyes.
He’s definitely not doing that. All the times he had tried before, what had it yielded? Absolutely nothing. Reaching out again now would just be a waste of time.
Jiahao opens his mouth to argue further, but the sound of the bell cuts him off, ringing sharply through the hallway and signalling the end of club activities.
Back to regular classes.
Xinlong pushes his chair back and stands, clapping his hands lightly to get everyone’s attention. A few heads perk up immediately.
“Alright, everyone,” he says, addressing the room. “Before you leave, start thinking about preparations for the annual spring anonymous letter exchange.”
A small ripple of excited murmurs spreads through the room.
The exchange is one of Westbridge High’s longest-running traditions, organised by the literary club every spring. Participation is limited to senior students, who sign up anonymously under a pen name and are matched with another participant before being assigned a number. They then spend several weeks exchanging letters, small notes, and sometimes little gifts through the club’s collection boxes. No names or identities, just words passed back and forth between strangers until the final week, when people can choose whether or not to reveal themselves. Every year, the anticipation builds the same way: curiosity, speculation, and the thrill of wondering who might be writing back.
“With luck,” Xinlong adds, glancing around the room, “we’ll run it even better than last year.”
With that reminder given, the room slowly empties as club members gather their things and head back toward their classrooms.
Xinlong grabs his bag and falls into step beside Jiahao, the two of them walking back to class together.
💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌
True to his word, Jiahao begins Operation Junseo the very next morning.
Xinlong still can’t believe he let himself get dragged into this mess. He’s currently standing at the end of the hallway pretending to examine the school’s upcoming sports announcement board while Jiahao crouches several lockers away like a criminal conducting a heist.
“This is insane,” Xinlong mutters under his breath.
Jiahao ignores him completely. With surprising speed, he swings Junseo’s locker open, slips the small curated hamper inside, and carefully places the Polaroid on top like a finishing touch. The picture shows Jiahao smiling brightly at the camera, his dirty-blond hair doing absolutely nothing to obey gravity.
On the back of the photo, he has written, in very confident handwriting:
Jiahao. 15. Class 2-B. Locker 314.
I really like you and want to get to know you.
Xinlong watches the whole thing unfold with the deep certainty that this will end in humiliation, because it’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
Jiahao closes the locker softly, turns around, and immediately sprints back toward Xinlong like a victorious athlete finishing a race.
“Mission accomplished,” he whispers, flashing two enthusiastic thumbs up.
“You’re so embarrassing, I can't believe I'm your friend,” Xinlong whispers back.
Jiahao grins, completely unbothered. “I just pray I get lucky.”
Before Xinlong can respond, Jiahao grabs his arm and drags him down the hallway, both of them walking back to class as if they haven’t just committed what feels like a minor felony involving snacks and romantic intent.
.
.
.
Well, much to Xinlong’s surprise and mild disappointment, Junseo replies the very next day.
Jiahao nearly dislocates his shoulder after opening his locker that morning, because what falls out is a neatly folded envelope that looks like it was shoved inside in a rush.
“Is that—” Jiahao breathes, going very still while Xinlong leans closer.
He picks it up and opens it with shaking hands. Inside is a signed Polaroid of Junseo wearing his Falcons jersey, sweat dampening the collar as if the photo had been taken right after practice. Junseo is smiling slightly at the camera, a pretty, effortless smile that explains exactly why half the school has a crush on him.
Written neatly beneath the photo is a short note thanking Jiahao for the snacks and admitting they were great. Junseo adds that he has seen Jiahao around school and thinks he is kind of cute. He apologises for not sending snacks back because he has no idea what Jiahao likes yet, and finishes by saying that if Jiahao wants to be friends, he would like to learn.
For a few seconds, Jiahao just stands there staring at the Polaroid, completely motionless, before the realisation hits him all at once.
“Oh my god!” He explodes, spinning toward Xinlong like someone who has just won the lottery.
“Oh my god, Xinlong, it worked.”
Xinlong stares at the Polaroid again and again, like he can’t quite believe it.
It worked. It actually worked.
Unfortunately, Jiahao never shuts up about it after that. He celebrates loudly and brings up the story at every available opportunity. And every single time Xinlong shows the slightest hint of doubt about the method, Jiahao simply points at the Polaroid like it’s irrefutable evidence.
“See?” he says smugly, nudging Xinlong’s shoulder. “Fifty–fifty.”
.
.
.
It doesn’t stop there at all.
Jiahao sends another Polaroid the following day, this one listing his preferred snacks in exaggerated detail, and to Xinlong’s growing disbelief, Junseo actually responds by leaving those exact snacks in Jiahao’s locker the next morning.
What starts as a bold stunt quickly turns into a regular exchange between them by the end of the week, small gifts and notes passing back and forth, with both of them already making tentative plans to meet properly soon.
Xinlong tries not to think about it too much. Unfortunately, that proves impossible because Jiahao becomes even more unbearable about it.
Even now, long after the house has gone quiet, Xinlong finds himself turning restlessly in bed while sleep refuses to come. His mind drifts again and again to Jiahao’s words about proactiveness as he replays the scene in the hallway, the hamper in Junseo’s locker, the Polaroids, the notes, the gifts, and the ridiculous plan that somehow worked.
He wonders, briefly, if he should try the same thing. Maybe not exactly the same way, though. Jiahao’s approach had been loud and fearless, and Xinlong is fairly sure that he could never pull it off without dying of embarrassment. But perhaps he could approach more gently.
Because the truth is, he misses Geonwoo. He misses their conversations, the easy familiarity they used to share, the way they once moved through their days like it was the natural order of things to always be side by side. He just wants things to go back to normal.
But the thought immediately twists with doubt.
Geonwoo had spent the entire past year deliberately keeping his distance. He had ignored messages, avoided conversations, and walked past Xinlong in the hallway like he was just another face in the crowd. Trying to reach out again might only push him further away, or worse, it might lead to outright rejection.
Xinlong turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
Still… Jiahao had been right about one thing.
What if Geonwoo actually met him halfway?
Well, Xinlong would never know unless he tries.
The thought lingers there for a long moment before finally cresting into resolve.
Alright, he’ll try. Not because he expects anything dramatic to happen, but because if Geonwoo really does want nothing to do with him anymore, then at least Xinlong will know he made one last effort to fix what had broken between them.
Sleep finds him a little more easily after that.
.
.
Xinlong spends the weekend carefully curating some snacks he knows Geonwoo likes.
A chocolate bar. The salted crackers Geonwoo always bought after basketball practice. A small bottle of electrolyte he remembers Geonwoo grabbing from the convenience store more times than he can count.
He places everything neatly into a paper bag before adding a small folded note on top.
Hi, it’s me.
I hope you’ve been doing okay.
We haven’t really talked in a long time, and I was wondering if maybe you’d want to meet up sometime and just… talk.
I miss my friend.
—Xinlong.
On Monday, without telling Jiahao (because the last thing he wants is another round of pep talks if this whole approach backfires), Xinlong waits for an opening during class and quietly asks to step out.
The hallway is almost empty when he slips out, the distant murmur of other lessons drifting through the doors as he makes his way toward the row of lockers near the end of the corridor. His heart starts beating a little faster the closer he gets.
He finds Geonwoo’s locker easily. Of course he does. For a brief moment he just stands there, staring at the small metal door. Then he takes a slow breath, opens it, and quickly places the small paper bag inside with the folded note carefully on top.
It looks small sitting there against the cramped space of the locker, but Xinlong hopes it says everything he doesn’t quite know how to say out loud. He closes the locker quietly and steps away before anyone sees him lingering.
As he walks back toward his classroom, a tight knot of nerves forms in his chest. He keeps replaying the moment in his mind, wondering if he has just made the biggest mistake of his life… or if, somehow, he has finally managed to reach Geonwoo again.
Either way, he knows he’ll have his answer soon enough. He plans to check after school.
.
.
After school, Xinlong ends up staying later than he expects.
The design team pulls him into an impromptu meeting about this year’s anonymous letter exchange poster, which means an entire hour disappears into discussions about colour palettes, typography, and whether the theme should lean more toward romance or mystery.
Normally, Xinlong would enjoy this kind of thing, but his mind keeps drifting back to Geonwoo's locker at the far end of the hallway, the paper bag sitting inside it, and the note folded carefully on top.
By the time the meeting finally wraps up and everyone begins packing their things, Xinlong feels like his nerves have been stretched thin. He tries not to rush, but the moment he steps out into the hallway, his feet carry him in that direction anyway.
The corridors are quieter now, most students already heading home or lingering outside the building. His footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor as he walks toward the row of lockers near the end of the hall.
For a brief, hopeful moment, Xinlong imagines opening the locker and finding the note and the bag gone.
His heart begins to beat a little faster as he approaches, before his eyes catch on the paper bag.
It’s sitting on the floor a short distance away from the locker row, pushed slightly toward the wall like something that had been taken out and set aside without much thought.
Xinlong’s feet stop moving for a few seconds as he just stands there, staring.
Finally pushing through his initial shock and gathering himself, he takes the last few slow steps forward and crouches down.
When he opens it, the chocolate bar is still inside, the crackers are still there, as well as the small bottled drink. Additionally, the note which he had placed on top is now inside the paper bag, which means it had been read before being placed inside the bag.
For a moment Xinlong just stares at it, his throat tightening in a way he can’t quite explain. He reaches in and picks up the note, turning it over slowly in his fingers as if hoping some detail might prove he’s misunderstood the situation.
Geonwoo had seen it, and he had chosen to give it back.
Xinlong lets out a slow, shaky breath. Carefully, he folds the note again and places it back inside the bag before standing up.
The hallway feels much longer on the walk out of the building.
By the time he reaches the front gate, the sky has already begun to shift toward evening, the air cooler than it had been that morning when he first left the bag behind with cautious hope.
Now that hope feels very foolish.
He walks home slowly, the paper bag hanging loosely from his hand, trying very hard not to think about how small the gesture had been, how simple the note was, and how easy it would have been for Geonwoo to at least say something.
By the time he turns onto his street, his chest hurts in a way it hasn't in a long time.
He tells himself it’s fine, he expected this, and at least now he knows. Fifty-fifty, right?
But knowing this truth doesn't make it hurt any less.
Xinlong blinks hard against the sting gathering at the corners of his eyes and refuses to let it spill over as he stubbornly races the last few steps into his home.
He should never have tried reaching out at all.
💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌
The next week passes quietly, with Xinlong withdrawing a little without meaning to. Not completely, though. He still talks with Jiahao as usual, and listens patiently as Jiahao gushes about Junseo’s notes between classes, but he finds himself keeping his thoughts way more to himself.
Jiahao and Junseo exchange numbers not long after the locker incident, and from that point on, the two of them seem to be texting constantly. Jiahao provides Xinlong with enthusiastic updates about everything from Junseo’s favourite music to the way he apparently types with too many emojis.
Xinlong listens, smiling when he’s supposed to.
Truthfully, he is happy for Jiahao. Even if things didn’t work out the same way for him, it’s nice to see his friend’s ridiculous plan actually succeed.
Eventually, Jiahao announces that he and Junseo are going to meet properly for the first time after school. Then he immediately begs Xinlong to come along.
“Please,” Jiahao says, grabbing Xinlong’s sleeve dramatically. “I can’t meet him alone. What if I forget how to speak?”
“You talk too much,” Xinlong points out. “Forgetting how to speak might actually improve your chances.”
Jiahao ignores this completely. “Just come as emotional support,” he begs.
And somehow, despite his better judgment, Xinlong agrees.
They end up sitting on the edge of the basketball court after school, the late afternoon light stretching long shadows across the polished floor. Practice hasn’t started yet, but a few students are already scattered around the bleachers.
Xinlong sits with his notebook open on his lap, trying to pass the time by focusing on an assignment for tomorrow's class while Jiahao taps his feet endlessly beside him like someone waiting for exam results.
It doesn’t take long for Junseo to appear. Jiahao spots him first as Junseo walks onto the court wearing a loose Falcons practice jersey, his gym bag slung over one shoulder. The moment he sees Jiahao, his eyes light up.
“There,” Jiahao breathes, practically beaming as he gives a tiny, cute wave.
Junseo waves back, a smile breaking across his face.
“Well,” Jiahao says quickly, already standing, “I’ll be back later.”
He barely waits for Xinlong to respond before hurrying across the court. He and Junseo meet halfway, exchanging shy smiles before drifting toward the far end of the gym, already falling into conversation.
Xinlong watches them for a moment, wondering how easy this whole experience has been for Jiahao, before lowering his gaze back to his notebook.
He tries to focus on the assignment in front of him, really does, but a few minutes later the sound of the gym doors opening pulls his attention up again just as the Falcons team begins filing in for practice.
And among them—Geonwoo.
Xinlong notices him immediately. It’s almost instinctive at this point, the way his eyes find Geonwoo in a crowded space before his mind has time to catch up. Geonwoo walks in with the rest of the Falcons team, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, the loose practice jersey already pulled on over a dark T-shirt.
It has been a while since Xinlong last saw him this close. But Geonwoo looks exactly the same, and yet somehow older at the same time, broader in the shoulders, moving with the confidence that comes from being one of the team’s best players. The gymnasium lights catch on the familiar shape of his face as he laughs at something one of his teammates says.
Then, almost as if he can feel the intensity of someone's eyes burning through him, Geonwoo’s gaze shifts and their eyes meet.
It happens so quickly, no more than a few seconds, but it’s enough for Xinlong’s breath to hitch and his heart to stumble painfully in his chest.
What does he do? Does he wave the same way Jiahao did to Junseo? Would Geonwoo wave back? Or does he say hi and pretend nothing happened between them?
His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of his notebook as a dozen possible reactions rush through his mind all at once.
But before he can decide, Geonwoo turns his head and looks away. He continues walking with the rest of the team like Xinlong had never been there at all. Like he hadn’t even seen him.
The moment passes so quickly that Xinlong almost wonders if he imagined it. But the tight, hollow feeling spreading through his chest tells him he didn’t. He lowers his gaze back to his notebook, though the words on the page blur together almost immediately.
Across the court, Jiahao’s laughter carries faintly through the air as he and Junseo continue talking near the bleachers. Their voices are light, easy, and full of the kind of warmth Xinlong remembers sharing with Geonwoo once.
Xinlong closes the notebook slowly. He doesn’t think he can sit here anymore.
Quietly, without drawing attention to himself or alerting Jiahao, he slips the notebook back into his bag and heads toward the exit as the growing noise of practice begins on the court.
Outside, the late afternoon air feels colder than Xinlong expects, the sky already dimming as the sun sinks lower behind the school buildings. He walks slowly at first, then faster, his steps carrying him down the sidewalk and past the school gate before he even realises his eyes are welling up.
Xinlong wipes quickly at his eyes with the back of his hand as he keeps walking, hoping no one passing by will notice.
He had really tried. He had tried to bridge the gap between himself and Geonwoo, even though he hadn’t been the one who created that distance in the first place. He had tried to reach out, to fix things while convincing himself that maybe the silence of the past year was just some misunderstanding that could still be undone.
Now he knows better. Jiahao’s fifty–fifty rule clearly doesn’t apply to everyone. How foolish he had been to think it might work for him.
By the time Xinlong reaches his street, the sky has deepened into evening. The familiarity of the neighbourhood only makes the tight ache in his chest feel heavier as he spots Geonwoo's house just beside his.
He walks straight into his house and beelines for his room. Thankfully, no one is home to catch him in this state.
The moment the door closes behind him, Xinlong drops his bag onto the floor and sinks onto his mattress. He buries his face into the pillow, the tears he’s been holding back finally spilling freely as he lies there, crying into the quiet of his room.
Eventually, the tears taper off, leaving behind a dull exhaustion. Xinlong adjusts his position, curls into himself, wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt and stares blankly at the wall.
With a tired sort of finality, he decides that he’s done trying to reach someone who clearly doesn’t want to be reached.
Maybe their friendship was only meant to be short-lived after all.