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Donghyun doesn’t even understand why he agreed to go with Sanghyeok to the senior highschool fair that they’re both alumni’s in. it’s been 3 years since he’s graduated, and he’s in third year college now. The last thing he needed was to go back to the place where everything started.
He was sulky the entire time, but Sanghyeok made sure that he was still in his line of sight, hopefully not running off somewhere and leaving him behind.
When you enter the school, you’ll hear screams from the students from the rides—the vikings, octopus, tea cups, velocity swing—and it, surprisingly, looks like people are having fun with their friends and people from outside the school.
If you veer to the right, there are student booths, you pay a chit, you play their game, if you win, you get a price, if you lose, you get a compensation—which at most, is just a piece of candy—it’s not really that fun, he only goes for the prices. Donghyun remembers this one time where he was a junior, he won a really hard game and got the highest points out of pure luck that he won their biggest price: a huge fish plushie that they claim to be an unknown specie, when it was a neon tetra—one of Leehan’s favorite.
Otherwise, everything else seemed boring.
Donghyun hated being caught in the jailbooth—the students were always so harsh or rude, but he can’t really complain because that’s literally their job.
He doesn’t really remember fairs being this loud—it could be this generation and their loud voices, or it could be because he’s now used to the peace and quiet of college except for the sounds of screaming from architecture majors.
Donghyun doesn’t even know how he got here in the first place, it could be because Sanghyeok is really good at convincing people, but it also could be somes sentimental thing.
Yeah, sure, he hates that school; that school was the soul reason why he was depressed the entirety of high school—people picked on him for liking his class secretary, people were saying that he wasn’t that good looking only to be the entire reason why he barely shows his face on his instagram account, people called him paper skinny because he was too depressed to eat at one point.
He still remembers the days where he cried before even going to school, the days where he woke up not wanting to go because of all these things going on in his head.
Sentimental thing, yeah, if he wants to reminisce all the trauma this school put him through.
He doesn’t even want to see certain people.
Specifically Han Dongmin, his first love, the boy he’s been in love with since seventh grade and convincing everyone that he’s long moved on when that’s just him gaslighting himself.
But the possibility of seeing Dongmin is small—he remembers this one time back in sophomore year when Dongmin told him that he wanted to study abroad, and learn how to make music somewhere far, somewhere that’s not here.
Donghyun remembers telling him that he’ll support him no matter what, and that he’ll always be a phone call away if he needed anything.
They broke up around the end of sophomore year—something about it being a healthy break up, a mutual one, something about them staying as friends from now on because maybe they aren’t meant to be lovers, only to be friends.
Donghyun never really moved on, he gave Dongmin a letter of him basically confessing his feelings to him and that he shouldn’t say anything about it unless he wanted Donghyun to feel bad about himself.
So, no, Donghyun really didn’t expect anything out of tonight. He was already planning how he’d drag Sanghyeok out after an hour, maybe two if he was feeling generous, and then they’d get convenience store ramen like they used to. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as people brushed past him like he was just another body in the crowd. The music was too loud, the lights were too bright, and everything felt like it was trying too hard to be something he no longer belonged to. It made his chest feel tight in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Hey,” Sanghyeok nudged him, holding up two chits between his fingers, “don’t look like you’re about to die, it’s embarrassing me.”
“I am about to die,” Donghyun mutters, dragging his feet as he follows anyway, not really having the energy to argue back. His voice comes out flat, but there’s a faint habit of following Sanghyeok regardless, like muscle memory from years ago. Sanghyeok laughs, the same loud, unapologetic laugh that used to echo through their classroom, and pulls him toward one of the booths. Donghyun doesn’t even bother asking what game it is, already expecting disappointment.
The booth is crowded—students yelling over each other as they try to explain the rules, something about throwing rings onto glass bottles lined up too close together. Donghyun watches for a second, unimpressed, before holding his hand out for one of the rings without even listening. He tosses it lazily, not expecting it to land, but it does, slipping perfectly onto the bottle like it was meant to be there. The students erupt, half impressed, half annoyed, and Sanghyeok lets out a dramatic gasp beside him.
“See?” Sanghyeok grins, clapping him on the back, “you’re still lucky as hell.”
Donghyun shrugs, already losing interest as they hand him a small plush keychain—nothing compared to the oversized fish he once dragged home years ago. He turns it over in his hands, thumb brushing against the cheap fabric, and for a moment, he almost remembers what it felt like to actually be excited about something like this. It passes quickly, like most things do these days—leaving behind something hollow and quiet. He stuffs it into his pocket without another word.
They move again, deeper into the fair, where the lights get harsher and the crowd gets thicker. Donghyun keeps his gaze low, avoiding eye contact, avoiding recognition, avoiding the possibility of someone calling his name from a past he doesn’t want to reopen. He tells himself it’s unlikely that everyone’s moved on just like they were supposed to. That the people who mattered back then don’t matter now.
“Donghyun.”
He stops.
It’s not loud, not shouted over the crowd like everything else, but it cuts through the noise anyway, clear and familiar in a way that makes his stomach drop. His body reacts before his mind does, shoulders stiffening, fingers curling slightly in his pockets as if bracing for something. Sanghyeok notices immediately, his chatter cutting off as he glances between Donghyun and whoever just called him.
Slowly, like he’s giving himself time to pretend he didn’t hear it, Donghyun turns around.
And there he is—Han Dongmin, standing a few feet away like he didn’t just step out of a memory Donghyun spent years trying to bury.
He was still tall, annoying, and good looking, same face, though he only lost a couple of weight, but he still looked the same. He was wearing the glasses Donghyun finds him attractive in, he was wearing a black leather jacket with a black shirt underneath, and Donghyun noticed the piercing on his ears.
Donghyun hates to admit this, but he swears that his heart started beating quickly again like he was a freshman and had an insane crush on him, the popular guy—the last person everyone thought Donghyun would date.
“Dongmin…” He says, shocked, “Hey.. I haven’t seen you since graduation.”
He tried his best to sound normal despite his heart beating out of his chest. He wants to rip it out and stomp on it because he swears that Dongmin can hear it right now.
Dongmin lets out a small breath, like he’s been holding it the entire time, eyes scanning Donghyun’s face as if trying to confirm that he’s real and not just someone he imagined in passing. His lips part slightly before he smiles, soft, familiar, the kind that used to make Donghyun feel like he was chosen out of everyone else. “Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than Donghyun remembers, a little rough around the edges, “it’s been a while.” He adjusts his glasses with one hand, a habit that never really left him, and Donghyun hates how easily he recognizes it.
For a second, neither of them move, like they’re both stuck in that gap between what they were and what they’re supposed to be now.
“You look… the same,” Dongmin adds, then lets out a short laugh like he realized how stupid that sounds, running a hand through his hair. “I mean—not the same, but… you know what I mean.” He shifts his weight, glancing briefly at Sanghyeok, then back at Donghyun, like he’s unsure where to place himself in this moment.
There’s something hesitant in the way he stands—not quite stepping closer, not quite staying back either. It’s strange seeing him like this, when Donghyun remembers him as someone who never really second-guessed anything.
Donghyun nods, because what else is he supposed to do, his fingers digging into his pockets just to ground himself. “You too,” he says, and it comes out more honest than he intended, eyes flickering to the details he already noticed earlier. The glasses, the shirt, the piercing, all of it hitting him at once like nothing ever really changed. He swallows, forcing himself to look away for a second, like if he stares too long, something’s going to slip out of him that he can’t take back. His chest feels tight again—but this time it’s louder, heavier, harder to ignore.
“Didn’t you… go abroad?” Donghyun asks, trying to keep the conversation steady, something safe, something that doesn’t dig too deep too fast. His voice is careful, measured, like he’s walking on something fragile that could crack if he puts too much weight on it.
He remembers that conversation too clearly, the way Dongmin talked about leaving like it was the only thing he was sure about. The way Donghyun said he’d stay, that he’d be there, even if it meant being far away.
Dongmin nods, slow, like he’s thinking through what to say before he says it. “I did,” he answers, glancing down for a moment before looking back up again, meeting Donghyun’s eyes properly this time. “Came back a few months ago.” He pauses, something unreadable passing through his expression, like there’s more he wants to say but doesn’t know if he should. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Donghyun lets out a quiet huff, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Me neither,” he admits, because that’s the truth, and it feels pointless to pretend otherwise.
He shifts slightly, shoulders tense, like he’s debating whether to stay or make an excuse and leave before this gets worse. Before it gets real. Before it starts to feel like something he can’t control anymore.
Sanghyeok clears his throat beside him, awkward but observant, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching something unfold that he doesn’t want to interrupt but also doesn’t fully understand.
“I’m gonna… get more chits,” he says slowly, already backing away before either of them can respond. He gives Donghyun a look, quick but knowing, then disappears into the crowd, leaving the two of them standing there with nothing but the noise around them.
Suddenly, it feels too quiet.
Dongmin exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the ground before lifting again. “You cut your hair,” he says, like it’s the safest thing he could possibly point out, like he’s trying to ease into something instead of diving straight into it. His gaze lingers just a second longer than it should, and Donghyun notices, of course he does. “It suits you.”
Donghyun’s breath catches for half a second, barely noticeable, but it’s there. He nods, once, not trusting himself to say anything more than that without his voice giving him away. The compliment settles somewhere deep, somewhere he thought he already buried years ago. And the worst part is, it still matters.
“Are you going to DJ night?” Dongmin asked.
Donghyun sighed, “I don’t have a choice,” he says, “Sanghyeok bought us tickets even if he promised that we’d only spend an hour here.”
Dongmin lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that comes out softer than before, like he’s learned how to hold himself back over the years. He nods, glancing toward the direction of the main stage where the lights are already starting to flicker, the bass faint but present even from where they’re standing.
“Yeah,” he says, shifting his weight, hands slipping into his pockets, “I got dragged into it too.” His lips curl into a small smile, almost sheepish, like he’s admitting something he didn’t plan on sharing. “My friends are already there.”
Donghyun hums in response, eyes following where Dongmin glanced for a second before pulling away again. Of course he’d have people there, he thinks, because Dongmin was always the type to have people around him without even trying. It shouldn’t feel the way it does, that small, sharp thing in his chest, but it’s there anyway. He exhales slowly, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that this isn’t high school anymore, that things are different now.
“Are you staying long?” Dongmin asks after a beat, voice careful, like he’s testing the waters rather than diving in.
Donghyun shrugs, one shoulder lifting as he looks anywhere but at him. “Probably not,” he answers, honest in a way that feels a little too blunt, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here this long.” He lets out a small breath, something tired slipping through despite himself, like the night is already weighing on him more than it should. The truth is, he doesn’t trust himself to stay, not when everything feels like it’s pressing too close to something he hasn’t dealt with.
Dongmin nods, slow, like he understands more than Donghyun is saying out loud. His gaze lingers for a moment, studying him, like he’s trying to read between the lines, like he used to. “You always leave early,” he says, almost absent-mindedly, but there’s something else underneath it, something quieter, heavier. “Even before.”
Donghyun’s jaw tightens slightly at that, the words hitting somewhere deeper than they should. He lets out a short breath through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground as he shifts his weight. “Yeah,” he says, voice flat, “well.” He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t feel the need to—what is there to explain that hasn’t already been left behind.
There’s a pause again, thicker this time, filled with things neither of them are saying.
Dongmin inhales like he’s about to speak, then hesitates, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his jeans. “Hey,” he starts, quieter now, a little unsure, “about before—”
“Donghyun!”
Sanghyeok’s voice cuts through before he can finish, loud and bright as he pushes his way back through the crowd with a handful of chits and two drinks. The moment snaps, clean and sudden, like something fragile being interrupted before it could fully form. He slings an arm over Donghyun’s shoulder, oblivious or maybe intentionally ignoring the tension in the air. “They’re starting soon, we should head over now before it gets worse.”
Donghyun blinks like he’s being pulled out of something he didn’t realize he was sinking into. He nods automatically, stepping back slightly, just enough to put space between him and Dongmin again. The distance feels necessary, even if it also feels wrong.
“See you around,” Donghyun says, quick, almost rushed; staying any longer feels like a mistake waiting to happen.
Dongmin nods, but he doesn’t move right away. His eyes stay on Donghyun, something unreadable settling in them as he gives a small, quiet, “Yeah.”
He feels it build up all at once—too fast for him to even catch it properly. He wants to cry, wants to leave, wants to just turn around and walk out of the school like none of this ever happened. The thought of staying for the DJ night suddenly feels unbearable, as if something pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe the closer they get to the stage. He swallows it down, jaw tightening, because he knows Sanghyeok would notice if he starts acting off now. Still, the urge sits there, heavy and persistent; telling him to just quit and be done with it.
The closer they get, the louder everything becomes, the bass vibrating through the ground and up his legs like it’s trying to settle inside his bones. Lights flash in uneven bursts, washing over faces he doesn’t recognize and some he almost does, and Donghyun keeps his head low, eyes unfocused. Sanghyeok is talking beside him—something about finding a good spot, but the words blur together, slipping past him without sticking.
He nods anyway, automatic, because that’s easier than admitting he’s barely holding himself together. The crowd presses in, warm and suffocating, and he can feel his pulse in his throat.
“Stay here,” Sanghyeok says, gripping his shoulder briefly before letting go, already turning to push through the crowd again, probably to get drinks or something he thinks will help. Donghyun doesn’t stop him, doesn’t reach out, just stands there as the space beside him empties out.
The second Sanghyeok disappears, it gets worse—the noise sharper, the lights harsher, everything too much without something to anchor him. He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, but it comes out uneven, like his body isn’t cooperating. His fingers curl at his sides, nails pressing into his palms just to feel something real.
He tells himself it’s fine, that it’s just a night, just a stupid fair, just music and people and nothing that should matter this much. But then his mind drifts, uninvited, dragging him back to a different gym, a different crowd, a different version of himself standing awkwardly at the edge while Dongmin laughed somewhere in the middle of it all. Back when everything felt overwhelming in a different way, when every glance felt like it meant something, when every word from Dongmin felt like it mattered more than it should’ve. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like that might be enough to push it away.
It isn’t.
“Hey.”
The voice comes from his side this time, closer than before, and Donghyun’s eyes snap open before he can stop himself. Dongmin stands there again, a little out of breath like he had to push through the same crowd.
The lights catch on the metal of his piercing, flashing briefly, and Donghyun hates that he notices something so small at a time like this. There’s a crease between Dongmin’s brows, something like concern settling into his expression as he looks at him properly.
“You okay?” Dongmin asks, softer than the music, but somehow it still reaches him.
Donghyun lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “Yeah,” he says automatically, nodding once like that’s enough to make it true, even if it clearly isn’t. His voice sounds off to his own ears, too tight, too controlled, like he’s holding something back with everything he has. He looks away immediately after, focusing on the stage lights instead, because meeting Dongmin’s eyes right now feels dangerous.
Dongmin doesn’t move away.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says, not accusing, just stating it like he always used to, blunt in a way that cuts through whatever Donghyun is trying to hide. He shifts a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough that Donghyun can feel his presence, steady and familiar in a way that messes with his head. “Did you eat?”
Donghyun’s throat tightens at that, the question hitting somewhere deeper than it should. He lets out a slow breath, shaking his head before he can stop himself, the honesty slipping out like a bad habit he never unlearned around Dongmin. “I’m fine,” he adds quickly after, like he can patch it up, like he can take it back.
Dongmin sighs, quiet but noticeable, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck again. “You always say that,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Donghyun, but he hears it anyway. There’s a pause, a beat where the music swells and the crowd cheers, and it almost feels like the world is moving around them while they stay stuck in place.
Then, a little firmer, “Come on.”
Donghyun glances at him, confused, guard already halfway up. “What?”
“Just—come with me for a second,” Dongmin says, gesturing vaguely toward the side, away from the densest part of the crowd. His voice isn’t pushy, but there’s a quiet insistence in it, something steady that Donghyun remembers all too well. “It’s too crowded here.”
Donghyun hesitates.
He should say no, he knows he should, should stay where Sanghyeok told him to, should keep things simple and distant and safe; but his chest still feels tight, his head still feels too full, and Dongmin is right there, offering an out that feels dangerously easy to take. He exhales, long and slow, like he’s trying to decide something bigger than it actually is.
“Just for a bit,” Donghyun mutters finally, already stepping slightly toward him before he can second guess it.
Dongmin nods once, like he expected that answer, and turns, guiding them through the crowd without touching him, just glancing back every now and then to make sure he’s still there.
Donghyun follows anyway.
They don’t stop until the music dulls into something distant, the bass no longer rattling through his chest but still present enough to remind him where they are. It’s quieter near the edge of the gym—tucked behind one of the support pillars where the lights don’t hit as harshly and the crowd thins out just enough to breathe. Donghyun exhales the second they settle there, shoulders dropping a fraction like he didn’t realize how tense he was until now. He leans back slightly, head tipping against the cool surface behind him, eyes fixed somewhere unfocused.
Dongmin watches him for a second before speaking, gaze steady, almost careful. “You hate things like these,” he says, not as a question—something he already knows for a fact. His voice is quieter now, easier to hear without the noise swallowing it whole, and it lands heavier because of that. He tilts his head slightly, brows pulling together just a bit. “I don’t know why you agreed.”
Donghyun lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, there’s no humor in it—just something tired and worn down. He drags a hand over his face, lingering there for a second like he’s trying to gather himself before answering.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says, voice low, muffled slightly against his palm. It comes out more honest than he intended; more loaded than just Sanghyeok buying tickets and dragging him along.
Dongmin hums, shifting his weight as he looks at him, like he’s trying to piece together everything Donghyun isn’t saying. “You always say that too,” he murmurs, softer this time, almost like he’s remembering something rather than pointing it out. His eyes flicker over Donghyun’s face, lingering in a way that feels too familiar, too close to how things used to be. “But you still came.”
Donghyun drops his hand, jaw tightening slightly as he looks away again, gaze landing somewhere near the floor. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, quieter now, like the word costs him something. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain, he’s not even sure how to put it into words without unraveling something he’s been keeping together for years.
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full of things neither of them are saying, hanging there between them, heavy and unresolved.
Donghyun shifts against the pillar, the cool surface grounding him just enough to keep his thoughts from spiraling completely out of control. He keeps his eyes somewhere off to the side, fixed on nothing in particular—looking at Dongmin feels like opening something he won’t be able to close again.
The question sits at the back of his throat for a few seconds, heavy, hesitant, like he’s debating whether it’s worth saying out loud. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, restless, betraying more than he wants them to.
“…why are you still so nice to me?” Donghyun finally says, voice quieter than before, almost getting lost under the distant thrum of the music. He swallows, forcing the rest of it out before he can take it back. “After I just… cut things off.” The words feel awkward, insufficient, like they don’t fully capture what happened between them, but he doesn’t know how else to say it without making it worse.
Dongmin stills.
It’s subtle, the way his shoulders tense for just a second before he exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the floor like he’s replaying something in his head. His hand comes up to the back of his neck again, rubbing at it absentmindedly, a habit Donghyun remembers too well. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, and the silence stretches just enough to make Donghyun regret asking at all.
“You didn’t just cut things off,” Dongmin says finally, voice low, steady, but there’s something under it, something that wasn’t there earlier. He lifts his gaze, meeting Donghyun’s eyes properly this time, not letting him look away so easily. “We both agreed to it.”
Donghyun lets out a small breath, almost a scoff, shaking his head slightly. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t—” he stops himself, jaw tightening, words catching before they can fully form. He looks away again, pressing his lips together like he’s trying to hold everything in place. “You know what I mean.”
Dongmin watches him for a second longer, something unreadable settling in his expression before it softens, just a little. He shifts his weight, leaning back slightly, giving Donghyun space without actually stepping away. “I’m not gonna be an asshole to you just because things didn’t work out,” he says, simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His tone isn’t defensive, just honest, in a way that makes it harder to argue with.
There’s a pause, then, quieter, “I still care about you.”
The words land heavier than anything else that’s been said tonight.
Donghyun’s chest tightens, breath catching for half a second before he looks down, fingers curling slightly like he needs something to hold onto. That familiar feeling creeps back in, the one he thought he’d buried, the one he’s been pretending doesn’t exist anymore. And he hates it, hates how easy it is for everything to come rushing back just from a few words, from the way Dongmin is looking at him right now.
He lets out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, more to himself than anything else.
“…you shouldn’t.”
Dongmin’s brows pull together slightly, like the words didn’t land the way Donghyun intended them to. He straightens just a bit, attention sharpening, eyes fixed on him in a way that makes it impossible to brush it off.
“What do you mean I shouldn’t?” he asks, voice steady but quieter now, like he doesn’t want to push too hard but can’t let it go either. There’s confusion there, but something else too, something a little more guarded.
Donghyun exhales slowly, head dropping back against the pillar for a second before he looks away again. His throat feels tight, like every word has to fight its way out, and he already regrets opening his mouth in the first place.
“I mean…” he starts, then stops, jaw clenching as he searches for something that won’t make this worse than it already is. His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, grounding himself in something small and physical.
“You shouldn’t still care about me like that,” Donghyun says finally, voice low, uneven at the edges despite how much he tries to keep it flat. He lets out a small breath after—even saying that took something out of him. “It doesn’t make sense.” He shakes his head slightly, eyes fixed on the floor like he’ll find the right explanation there if he just looks long enough.
Dongmin doesn’t answer right away.
The silence stretches, heavier this time, filled with something that feels too close to the surface. Dongmin studies him, really looks at him, like he’s trying to understand what’s underneath all the things Donghyun isn’t saying. His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose; something frustrated but controlled flickering across his face.
“Since when did it have to make sense?” Dongmin says, softer now, but there’s a firmness in it that wasn’t there before. He shifts a little closer, not enough to corner him, just enough to be heard without raising his voice. “You think I can just turn it off because we said we’d stay friends?”
Donghyun’s chest tightens at that, his grip on his sleeve tightening as he keeps his gaze down. “You’re supposed to,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s saying it more to himself than to Dongmin. Like it’s something he’s been trying to convince himself of for years.
Dongmin lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff, shaking his head slightly. “That’s not how it works,” he says, and there’s something raw in it now, something less careful than before. He runs a hand through his hair. “Not for me, at least.”
That makes Donghyun look up for a second, just enough to catch the expression on Dongmin’s face, something unguarded in a way that feels dangerous. It hits him harder than anything else tonight, harder than seeing him again, harder than hearing his voice.
Donghyun swallows, looking away almost immediately, like he touched something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Well, it should be,” he says, quieter now, but there’s a strain in it, something cracking just slightly under the surface.
Dongmin’s voice cuts through before Donghyun can retreat any further into himself. “Why are you so hellbent on me hating you, Donghyun?”
It’s not loud, not angry, but it lands harder than anything else he’s said tonight. There’s something frustrated in it now, something that’s been building up quietly and finally slipped through. Donghyun freezes where he stands, the words hitting somewhere deep, somewhere he’s been avoiding this entire time. His grip on his sleeve loosens just slightly—it’s like his body doesn’t know how to hold onto anything anymore.
He lets out a breath, shaky this time, and looks away again, because of course he does.
“I’m not—” he starts, but the words fall apart halfway through, thin and unconvincing even to his own ears. He presses his lips together, jaw tightening, like he’s trying to force himself to stop talking before he says something he can’t take back. The noise from the gym bleeds back in, distant but constant, filling the silence he doesn’t know how to handle.
Dongmin doesn’t let it go.
“You are,” he says, softer now, but firmer, stepping just a little closer, enough that Donghyun can’t pretend he’s not there. “You keep saying I shouldn’t care, like you did something so bad that I have to hate you for it.” His brows knit together, eyes searching Donghyun’s face like he’s trying to find the answer written somewhere there. “Why?”
Donghyun exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but it comes out wrong, strained at the edges. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging slightly like he’s trying to pull himself back together. “Because it’s easier,” he mutters, voice low, barely above the hum of the music.
Dongmin frowns. “Easier for who?”
Donghyun doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the ground, blinking a little too slowly, like he’s trying to keep something from spilling over. His chest feels tight again, tighter than before, and he hates how familiar this feeling is when Dongmin is involved. It’s always been like this, too much, too fast, too hard to control.
“For me,” Donghyun admits finally, the words quiet but heavy, like they’ve been sitting there for years waiting to be said.
He swallows, forcing himself to keep going before he loses the nerve. “If you hate me, then it’s done,” he says, voice uneven now, cracking just slightly despite how hard he tries to keep it steady. “There’s nothing to think about, nothing to come back to, nothing to…” he trails off, shaking his head like he can’t even finish the thought.
“I don’t have to wonder if I made the wrong choice.”
“Donghyun, the letter—”
“I don’t want to talk about that letter,” he cuts in immediately, too fast, too sharp, like he’s been waiting for it to come up just so he could shut it down. His head shakes before Dongmin can even continue, hands coming up briefly like he’s physically pushing the topic away. “I shouldn’t have gave it to you.” His voice drops at the end, quieter, but it doesn’t lose that edge, that urgency to bury it before it gets any deeper.
Dongmin doesn’t flinch.
“Let me finish, Donghyun.”
There’s something different in his tone now, not louder, not harsher, but steady in a way that makes Donghyun pause despite himself. It’s not a request, not really, but it’s not forceful either, it just… stays. Donghyun stills, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past Dongmin like he’s debating whether to walk away again.
Dongmin takes a small step closer, careful, like he knows one wrong move and Donghyun’s gone. “I read it,” he says, voice quieter now, but every word lands clearly. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t give Donghyun the chance to pretend this isn’t happening. “More than once.”
Donghyun’s breath catches, just for a second.
“I kept it,” Dongmin adds, and there’s a faint crease between his brows, something conflicted, something honest. “I still have it.”
Donghyun looks at him then, properly, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t stop himself.
“And I didn’t say anything,” Dongmin continues, softer now, like he’s stepping through something fragile, “because you told me not to.” He exhales slowly, eyes flickering over Donghyun’s face like he’s trying to gauge how much more he can say without pushing him too far. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.”
Donghyun’s throat tightens.
“That letter wasn’t something you ‘shouldn’t have given,’” Dongmin says, a little firmer this time, like he needs him to understand this part at least. “You meant every word in it. I know you did.”
Silence falls again, heavy, pressing in from all sides.
Donghyun’s fingers curl into his sleeves, grip tightening like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer force. He shakes his head slightly, but it’s weaker this time, less convincing, like the ground he’s been standing on is starting to crack.
“…that’s exactly why I shouldn’t have,” he murmurs, voice small, almost lost under the distant music.
Donghyun feels it rise up again, that same tight, overwhelming pressure sitting right behind his eyes, threatening to spill over if he even breathes wrong. He wants to cry, wants to turn around and find Sanghyeok, wants something familiar to pull him out of this before it gets worse. Before he says something he can’t take back, before Dongmin says something that changes everything all over again. His chest feels heavy, like it’s caving in on itself, and for a second, he genuinely thinks he might just break right there.
But his body won’t move; his feet stay planted where they are, like something invisible is holding him in place, like leaving isn’t an option no matter how much he wants it to be. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, desperate for something to do, but they don’t reach for anything, don’t reach for anyone. He just stands there, stuck, caught between wanting to run and not being able to take a single step. It’s frustrating, suffocating, the way his own body betrays him like this.
Dongmin notices.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him, eyes softening in a way that makes everything worse instead of better. He shifts slightly, like he’s debating whether to get closer or give him space, caught in that same uncertainty that’s been hanging between them all night. His hand lifts a little, almost instinctive, like he’s about to reach out, but he stops himself halfway, letting it fall back down.
“Hey…” Dongmin says quietly, careful, like he’s talking to something fragile instead of a person.
Donghyun lets out a shaky breath, barely holding it together now, eyes fixed on the ground because looking up feels impossible. He blinks hard once, then again, trying to push everything back where it came from, trying to act like he’s still in control. But it’s slipping—he can feel it slipping, and he doesn’t know how to stop it anymore.
“I’m fine,” he whispers, even though nothing about him looks fine at all.
Dongmin exhales slowly, like he expected that answer but doesn’t believe it for a second. He takes a small step closer this time, cautious, like approaching a stray that might bolt at any sudden movement. “You don’t look fine,” he says, not pushing, not accusing, just stating it the way he always has.
Donghyun laughs weakly under his breath, shaking his head, but it comes out wrong, uneven, like everything else tonight. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly despite himself, “I noticed.”
There’s a pause.
“…I don’t know what to do.”
Silence settles between the two of them, thick and unmoving, like even the noise from the gym knows better than to interrupt. Donghyun can’t stand in it for too long, not when his thoughts are getting louder the longer nothing is said. He exhales sharply, pushing himself off the pillar, already stepping away before he can think too much about it. “I need water,” he mutters, more to himself than to Dongmin, voice still uneven as he moves toward one of the nearby stalls.
The line isn’t long, thankfully.
Donghyun keeps his head down as he waits, fingers tapping lightly against his arm in a quiet, restless rhythm. He can feel Dongmin behind him, not too close, not too far, just there, and it makes everything feel more real than he wants it to be.
When it’s his turn, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills, trying to focus on something simple, something normal. The cold bottle presses into his palm when it’s handed to him, and he holds onto it a little tighter than necessary.
“I’ll pay.”
Donghyun exhales through his nose, already shaking his head before he even turns around. “Stop it, Dongmin,” he says, not harsh, but firm enough, like this is one of the few things he can still control right now. He hands the money over before Dongmin can argue, grabbing the bottle properly and stepping aside. There’s something in the familiarity of it, the way Dongmin offers, the way he refuses, that makes his chest ache in a quieter, more dangerous way.
He twists the cap open, taking a long sip, the cold water grounding him just enough to steady his breathing. It helps, a little, not enough to fix anything, but enough to keep him standing. He wipes at his face quickly with the back of his hand, subtle, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge what almost happened earlier. For a moment, he just focuses on that, on the simple act of drinking water, like it’s the only thing keeping everything else from spilling over again.
“…you still do that,” Donghyun mutters after a second, glancing at Dongmin briefly before looking away again.
Dongmin tilts his head slightly. “What?”
Donghyun shrugs, taking another sip, eyes fixed on the bottle this time. “Offer to pay,” he says, quieter now, like he’s talking more to the memory than the person in front of him. “Even when you don’t have to.”
Dongmin lets out a small breath, something almost like a laugh, but softer. “Some things don’t really change,” he says.
Donghyun hums, but there’s no real response after that.
He grips the bottle a little tighter, the plastic crinkling softly under his fingers as he stares down at it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The noise from the gym swells again in the distance, laughter and music bleeding into each other, but it feels far away compared to what’s standing right in front of him. He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady something that won’t settle no matter how hard he tries. His shoulders tense, then drop, like he’s already made up his mind about something he doesn’t want to follow through with.
“…I should go back to Sanghyeok,” Donghyun says, quiet, almost careful, like if he says it the wrong way, it’ll fall apart before it even lands.
“But—”
“This isn’t some 2000s romcom, Dongmin,” Donghyun cuts in, sharper this time, finally looking at him, and there’s something strained in his expression, something caught between frustration and something else he won’t name. “It should’ve been over when it was over.” His voice wavers just slightly at the edges, but he pushes through it anyway, like he has to finish this before he loses the nerve. “But if you still like me, that’s a whole different story.”
There’s a beat.
Dongmin doesn’t look away.
“Okay,” he says, steady, like he’s already decided he’s not backing down from this, “so what if I do?”
Donghyun’s grip tightens again, jaw clenching as something flickers across his face, something close to panic, something he’s been trying to outrun all night. “Stop it,” he says immediately, too quick, too defensive, like shutting it down is the only way to keep control of the situation. He shakes his head, taking a small step back without even realizing it.
But Dongmin doesn’t stop.
“I do, Donghyun,” he says, and this time there’s no hesitation, no careful distance, just something honest and unfiltered that cuts straight through everything Donghyun’s been trying to build around himself. “I still do.”
Donghyun feels it hit him all at once, like something cracking open in his chest that he spent years sealing shut. His breath catches, his grip on the bottle loosening just slightly as he stares at Dongmin like he doesn’t know what to do with what he just heard. This wasn’t supposed to happen, none of this was supposed to happen, not like this, not now.
Donghyun shakes his head immediately, like if he does it fast enough, it’ll erase what Dongmin just said.
“Stop saying bullshit.”
It comes out harsher than anything he’s said tonight, sharp and defensive, the kind of tone he only uses when he’s cornered. His grip on the bottle tightens again, knuckles paling slightly as he looks anywhere but at him. There’s a tremor underneath it, barely there, but enough to give him away if anyone’s paying close enough attention.
Dongmin doesn’t react the way he expects.
He doesn’t get angry, doesn’t snap back, doesn’t even look offended. He just stands there, watching him, something steady and unshaken in his expression that makes Donghyun’s chest tighten even more.
“That’s not bullshit,” Dongmin says, quieter this time, but firmer, like he’s grounding the words instead of throwing them back. He takes a small step forward, not enough to overwhelm, just enough to close the space Donghyun tried to create. “You think I’d lie about something like that?”
Donghyun lets out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head again, more frantic this time. “Yeah,” he says, quick, like he needs to say it before he hesitates, “I do.” His voice cracks slightly at the end, but he pushes past it, like he didn’t even notice.
“Because it doesn’t make sense,” he continues, words coming out faster now, like they’ve been building up and finally found a way out. “We broke up, Dongmin. We agreed on it, we said what we needed to say, and then I—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening, like even getting close to that part is too much.
He swallows hard, forcing himself to keep going.
“I gave you that letter so I could end it properly,” Donghyun says, quieter now, but it hits heavier, like something final. “So I could stop… feeling like that.” He gestures vaguely, frustrated, like he doesn’t even have the words for it anymore. “You don’t get to come back and say you still like me like nothing happened.”
There’s a pause.
Dongmin’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Nothing didn’t happen,” He says, calm, but there’s something underneath it now, something more solid, less careful. “Everything happened.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on Donghyun like he’s trying to make sure he hears every word. “That’s exactly why I still do.”
Donghyun’s breath stutters. He looks away immediately, shaking his head again, but it’s weaker now, less convincing, like the argument he’s trying to hold onto is slipping through his fingers.
“…no,” he mutters, quieter this time, almost to himself, like if he says it enough, it’ll become true.
Dongmin exhales, a little sharper this time, like he’s trying to keep himself from pushing too hard but failing just enough for it to show. His hands hover at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets, grounding himself the way Donghyun does, mirroring something without even realizing it. “We can make it work,” he says, and there’s something stubborn in it now, something that refuses to back down even when it probably should.
Donghyun shakes his head immediately, almost before the sentence fully lands.
“No, we can’t, Dongmin.” His voice is firm, but there’s strain underneath it, something that makes it sound less certain the longer he talks. He finally looks at him again, brows drawn together, like he needs him to understand this, needs him to stop before it gets worse. “You’re studying in college abroad, and I’m here,” he continues, words coming out steadier now, like he’s listing reasons he’s memorized over and over again. “We have two different passions, and—” he pauses, jaw tightening slightly, like the next part matters more than he wants it to. “You know me, I hate long distance.”
The words settle between them, heavier than they should be. Dongmin does know him, he knows him better than anyone else. He studied Donghyun so well back then, he knew his manners, his habits, the way he fidgets when he's nervous, the way he says I'm fine as if it's a default answer, like that would convince everyone around him.
Dongmin watches him for a second, really watches him, like he’s trying to see past everything Donghyun is putting up in front of himself. His expression softens just a little, but he doesn’t look convinced, not even close.
“That’s it?” he asks, quieter now, but there’s something challenging in it, something that doesn’t fully accept what he’s being given.
Donghyun frowns slightly, caught off guard. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”
Dongmin shrugs one shoulder, gaze steady. “That’s your reason?” he says, like he’s testing it, like he’s trying to see if it holds up when he says it out loud. “Distance, different paths… that’s enough for you to just—what, shut everything down?”
Donghyun’s chest tightens again.
“Yes,” he says, quick, almost defensive, like he needs to lock it in before it can be questioned further. “It is.” His grip on the bottle tightens again, the plastic creasing under his fingers. “Because I know how it ends.” His voice drops slightly, quieter now, but it carries more weight than anything else he’s said.
Dongmin’s brows knit together. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Donghyun insists, and this time there’s something raw in it, something less controlled. He shakes his head, looking away again, like he can’t hold eye contact when he says this part. “I’ll wait for you, you’ll get busy, I’ll get insecure, we’ll fight over stupid things, and then—” he stops, breath catching slightly as the rest of it hangs unspoken.
Like it’s already happened in his head a hundred times.
“And then what?” Dongmin asks, softer now.
Donghyun swallows.
“…and then it ends anyway,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.
Dongmin looks at him, something heavy settling in his expression, like he’s realizing this isn’t just about distance, not really. Like this is something Donghyun’s been carrying long before tonight, long before they even broke up.
“So you’d rather end it now,” Dongmin says slowly, “before it even has the chance to be anything again.”
Donghyun doesn’t answer, that’s exactly it.
His chest tightens to the point where it actually hurts, sharp and overwhelming, like something is pressing down on him from the inside. His breathing turns uneven, shallow, like he can’t get enough air no matter how hard he tries. The noise from the gym crashes back all at once, louder than before, disorienting, like everything is happening too fast and too close. He swallows hard, but it doesn’t help, the nausea creeping up his throat, making his stomach twist uncomfortably.
He needs to go to Sanghyeok.
The thought hits him clearly this time, louder than everything else in his head, cutting through the mess of emotions he can’t sort out. He needs something familiar, something safe, someone who isn’t going to make his chest feel like it’s about to cave in. His fingers loosen around the bottle, then tighten again, like he’s trying to hold onto something before everything slips out of his control. He takes a small step back, then another, like his body is finally catching up to what his mind has been screaming at him.
“I—” Donghyun starts, but his voice comes out strained, barely there.
He shakes his head, more to himself than to Dongmin, already turning slightly, like staying here any longer is going to make things worse. “I need to go,” he manages, breath hitching just enough to make it obvious something’s wrong. His hand comes up briefly to his mouth, pressing against it like he’s trying to keep the nausea down, like he’s trying not to lose it right here in front of him.
Dongmin’s expression shifts immediately.
“Hey—” he steps forward instinctively, concern cutting through everything else, but he stops himself before getting too close, like he remembers all over again that Donghyun might not want that. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, caught between helping and holding back. “Are you okay?”
Donghyun lets out a weak, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly because that question feels almost ridiculous right now. “No,” he admits, honest in a way he hasn’t been all night, because he doesn’t have the energy to pretend anymore. His voice cracks at the end, small and fragile despite how much he tries to steady it.
He takes another step back.
“I just—” he swallows, forcing the words out before he loses them completely, “I need Sanghyeok.”
He doesn’t wait this time.
By the time Donghyun finds him, or maybe it’s the other way around, Sanghyeok is already pushing through the crowd, eyes scanning frantically like he’s been searching for him this entire time. The moment their gazes meet, something in Sanghyeok’s expression drops, immediate and unmistakable, like he knows something’s wrong before a single word is said. Donghyun doesn’t even realize how bad he looks until he sees it reflected there, the way Sanghyeok’s brows pull together, the way his steps quicken without hesitation.
“Donghyun—” Sanghyeok starts, but it cuts off when he gets closer, really seeing him now.
Donghyun’s eyes are flooded with tears he didn’t even notice spilling over, his breathing uneven, shoulders tense like he’s barely holding himself together. His grip on the water bottle is loose now, fingers trembling slightly, like he forgot he was even holding it. Everything he tried to keep down, to push away, is right there on the surface, impossible to hide anymore.
“What happened to you, Donghyun?” Sanghyeok asks, voice softer now, careful, like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing and making it worse.
Donghyun shakes his head immediately, a small, desperate motion, like he doesn’t even know where to start. His throat feels tight again, words getting stuck before they can come out properly. He takes a shaky breath, then another, like he’s trying to steady himself enough to speak.
“Can we please just leave?” he manages, voice breaking halfway through, quiet but urgent. Staying here isn’t an option anymore.
Sanghyeok doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah— yeah, okay,” he says quickly, nodding as his hand comes up to rest lightly on Donghyun’s arm, grounding, steady. There’s no questions this time, no teasing, no pushing, just immediate understanding. He glances toward the exit, already guiding them through the crowd without letting go, like he’s making sure Donghyun doesn’t disappear again.
Donghyun follows, barely aware of anything else around him.
The air outside hits different, cooler, quieter, like the world finally lets Donghyun breathe even just a little. The noise from inside muffles behind the closed doors, reduced to a dull thump that no longer feels like it’s shaking him apart. Sanghyeok doesn’t let go of him, guiding him down the steps, hand firm on his arm, steady in a way that keeps him grounded. Donghyun’s breathing is still uneven, but it’s slowing, inch by inch, like his body is trying to catch up with the fact that he’s out.
He barely notices the footsteps behind them.
“Donghyun—”
Sanghyeok stops first.
It’s subtle, the way his body stills—the way his grip on Donghyun tightens just slightly before he turns his head. He doesn’t need to ask who it is, doesn’t need an explanation, because the moment he sees Donghyun’s face earlier, the tears, the way he looked like he was about to fall apart—he already knew.
Sanghyeok exhales slowly, something protective settling into his expression as he shifts, just enough to put himself between them without making it obvious. His hand moves from Donghyun’s arm to his wrist, firmer now, like he’s making sure he stays right there.
“No,” Sanghyeok says, voice calm but unyielding, cutting through before Dongmin can say anything else. He finally looks at him properly, and there’s no hesitation in his gaze, no room for argument. “Leave him alone, Dongmin.”
Dongmin falters for a second, like he didn’t expect that, like he thought he’d at least get a chance to speak. His eyes flicker past Sanghyeok to Donghyun, searching, like he’s hoping he’ll say something, anything, that contradicts this. “I just—” he starts, but the words don’t fully form.
“You’ve done enough.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Donghyun feels it, even without looking.
There’s silence, thick and tense, hanging in the space between all three of them. The night air feels colder now, sharper, like it’s cutting through whatever warmth was left. Donghyun keeps his gaze down, fingers gripping weakly onto Sanghyeok’s sleeve this time.
Dongmin goes quiet—not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because there’s suddenly nowhere for those words to go.
Sanghyeok doesn’t move, doesn’t back down, just stands there, steady, unwavering in a way Donghyun doesn’t have the strength to be right now.
“Let’s go,” Sanghyeok murmurs after a second, softer this time, turning slightly back to Donghyun.
“Sanghyeok hyung, just let me talk to Donghyun.”
Dongmin’s voice isn’t as steady this time, the edge from earlier gone, replaced with something quieter, something that sounds dangerously close to breaking. It carries through the night air, softer than before, but it reaches them anyway.
“...please?”
Sanghyeok doesn’t answer immediately.
He stands there for a second, still between them, eyes flickering briefly to Donghyun like he’s checking, like he’s waiting for some kind of signal. His grip loosens just slightly, not letting go—but not holding as tight either, giving Donghyun space to decide instead of deciding for him. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t leave, though, doesn’t soften, like he’s ready to step back in the second things go wrong.
Donghyun feels the shift—the way everything pauses, like the decision is suddenly his to make, like the next few seconds matter more than anything that’s happened tonight. His chest still hurts, his head still feels too full, but now there’s something else layered on top of it, something heavier, something that makes it even harder to breathe properly.
He swallows, his fingers tighten slightly around Sanghyeok’s sleeve, then loosen, like he’s caught between holding on and letting go.
For a second, he almost says no.
“…it’s fine,” Donghyun murmurs, voice small, tired, like he doesn’t have the energy to fight this anymore. He doesn’t look at Dongmin when he says it, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ground. “Just—just for a bit.”
Sanghyeok hesitates, it’s brief, but it’s there, the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way he exhales through his nose like he doesn’t fully agree but won’t override him. He gives Donghyun one last look, searching, like he’s making sure this is really what he wants.
Then, slowly, he steps aside, but he stays close, close enough that Donghyun can still reach him if he needs to, close enough that Dongmin knows he’s not going anywhere.
Donghyun finally lifts his gaze, and meets Dongmin’s eyes again.
Dongmin takes a small step closer, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile that might slip away if he moves too fast. His eyes flicker briefly to Sanghyeok, then back to Donghyun, like silently acknowledging the space he’s been given. He exhales, slow, steady, like he’s trying to organize everything in his head before it comes out wrong.
“I’ll do the talking, okay?”
It’s quiet, almost gentle, but there’s a firmness to it, he knows Donghyun doesn’t have it in him to carry this right now. Donghyun doesn’t respond, just stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes tired, but he doesn’t walk away either. That’s enough.
Dongmin nods once, more to himself than anything else.
“When you gave me that letter,” he starts, voice low, steady despite the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides, “I didn’t think much of it at first.” He lets out a small breath, like he’s admitting something he’s not proud of. “I thought it was just… closure. Something you needed so we could actually move on like we said we would.”
He pauses, glancing down for a second before looking back up.
“But then I read it.” His voice softens, just a little. “And I realized I didn’t want to move on.”
The words settle between them, quieter than everything that was said earlier, but somehow heavier.
“I kept rereading it,” Dongmin continues, slower now, like he’s walking through every part of it again as he speaks. “Every time I told myself it was over, I’d go back to it and think—” he stops briefly, jaw tightening, like the thought still gets to him even now. “—this doesn’t feel like something that’s supposed to end.”
Donghyun’s breath hitches, barely there.
“I didn’t say anything because you told me not to,” Dongmin adds, eyes flickering with something conflicted, something that’s been sitting with him for a long time. “And I thought maybe that’s what you needed. Space, distance, whatever it was.” He exhales again, shaking his head slightly. “But that didn’t mean I stopped feeling anything.”
He looks at Donghyun properly then.
“I tried,” he admits, quieter now, more honest than before, “especially when I left. New place, new people, everything was different, and I thought maybe that would make it easier.” There’s a faint, almost humorless smile that passes over his lips. “It didn’t.”
The night feels still around them.
“Because no matter what I did, it kept going back to you,” Dongmin says, and there’s no hesitation in it now, no second guessing. “Not in a dramatic way, not like some movie or whatever you think this is.” His gaze softens slightly, something steadier, more grounded. “Just… in a way that didn’t go away.
“I’m not saying this to mess with you,” he adds, like he knows Donghyun might think that, like he’s trying to strip it down to something simple and real. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”
He swallows, just once.
“And I think you knew that when you wrote that letter, too.”
That’s when it finally spills over.
Donghyun feels it before he even realizes what’s happening, the pressure behind his eyes breaking all at once, tears slipping out no matter how hard he tries to hold them back. He turns his head slightly, like that’ll hide it, like that’ll make it less obvious, but it doesn’t. His arms come up instinctively, crossing over his chest as he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, quick, almost frustrated, like he’s annoyed at himself for letting it get this far.
He exhales shakily, then crosses his arms again, tighter this time, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I don’t—” his voice catches, uneven, and he has to swallow before he can even try again. “I don’t know what to feel, Dongmin-ah…” The name slips out softer, more familiar than anything he’s said all night, like it doesn’t belong to the present but found its way there anyway. He shakes his head slightly, eyes dropping to the ground, lashes still wet.
“It should’ve been over years ago…” he continues, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything else. His grip on his sleeves tightens, knuckles pressing against the fabric as he curls into himself just a little more. “We ended it. We said what we had to say. I gave you that letter so I could stop feeling like this.”
His breath stutters again.
“So why does it still feel like this?”
The question hangs there, fragile and exposed, like something that wasn’t meant to be said out loud but couldn’t stay hidden anymore. Donghyun’s shoulders shake just slightly, barely noticeable, but enough to show how much he’s trying to keep it together. He presses his lips together, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he’s trying to stop more tears from falling, but they slip through anyway.
Dongmin doesn’t answer right away.
He watches him, really watches him, like this is the first time he’s seeing everything laid out this clearly. His chest rises and falls slowly, like he’s steadying himself before stepping any closer into something that already feels too much. Then, carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking whatever this is, he speaks.
“Because it didn’t end like that for you.” His voice is quiet, but it lands exactly where it needs to.
Donghyun’s breath hitches again, sharper this time, like the words hit something he’s been avoiding for years. He shakes his head immediately, even as his chest tightens, even as something in him knows that might be true. “No,” he says, weak, unconvincing, like he’s trying to push it away before it settles too deep.
Dongmin takes a small step closer.
“It didn’t end for me either,” he adds, softer now, but there’s no hesitation left in it, no space for doubt. “We just… stopped.” His brows pull together slightly, like he’s piecing it together as he says it. “We said it was over, but we didn’t actually finish it.”
Donghyun lets out a shaky breath, head dropping lower, like the weight of it is finally catching up to him. His arms stay crossed, but they loosen slightly—he’s too tired to keep holding everything so tight. “That doesn’t make sense,” he murmurs, but it sounds less like an argument now and more like confusion.
“It does,” Dongmin says gently.
There’s a pause.
“You loved me,” he continues, voice careful, like he knows how heavy those words are, “and I loved you too.” He swallows, eyes flickering briefly before settling back on Donghyun. “We just… gave up on it because it was easier to call it mutual than to deal with everything that came with it.”
Donghyun’s fingers twitch against his sleeves.
“That doesn’t mean it disappeared,” Dongmin adds.
Donghyun inhales shakily, lifting his head just enough to look at him again, eyes still glassy, still unsure. There’s something softer there now, something less guarded, like the walls he’s been holding up are finally starting to crack.
“Then what am I supposed to do with that?” he asks, voice small, almost lost.
Dongmin exhales slowly—he doesn’t answer right away, like he knows there isn’t a simple answer to give.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says finally, quieter, steadier. “I’m not asking you to.” He shifts slightly, hands still in his pockets, grounding himself the same way he’s been doing all night. “I just needed you to know that it didn’t end for me. That it’s not… gone.”
Donghyun’s chest tightens again, but it feels different now, he looks down again, processing, trying to sort through something that doesn’t want to be sorted.
Donghyun lets out a slow breath, dragging his sleeve across his face again, rough this time, like he’s trying to wipe everything away all at once. His arms fold back over his chest, tighter than before, like he needs something to hold him together again after everything that just slipped out. He keeps his gaze low, fixed somewhere between them, like looking directly at Dongmin would undo whatever little control he just managed to regain.
“Past is the past, Dongmin,” he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, like he’s reaching for something familiar to ground himself. He swallows, then adds, “You used to say that all the time.”
Dongmin stills slightly at that.
There’s a flicker of recognition, something almost bittersweet passing through his expression, he remembers exactly when and why he used to say it. He lets out a small breath, nodding once, slow, like he’s acknowledging it instead of denying it. “Yeah,” he admits, voice softer now, less defensive, more reflective. “I did.”
Donghyun nods faintly, like that proves his point, like that should be enough to end this conversation right here. “So… that’s it,” he continues, but there’s a slight hesitation in it, something that doesn’t fully commit to what he’s saying. “That’s what this is supposed to be. Something that already happened.”
Dongmin tilts his head slightly, watching him carefully.
“That’s what I thought too,” he says after a moment, tone even, but there’s something underneath it now, something that doesn’t quite agree. He shifts his weight, eyes not leaving Donghyun’s face. “But I think I only said that because it was easier to believe.”
Donghyun’s fingers tighten slightly against his sleeves.
“Because if the past is just the past,” Dongmin continues, quieter now, “then I don’t have to deal with the fact that some of it… didn’t stay there.” He glances down briefly, then back up, more certain this time. “Some things just follow you whether you want them to or not.”
Donghyun exhales slowly, shaking his head, but it’s weaker now, like the words don’t hit the same way they used to. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” he murmurs, almost stubborn, like he needs the world to follow rules that make this easier to understand.
Dongmin gives a small, almost sad smile.
“Yeah,” he says, “but it’s how it works anyway.”
Donghyun looks down again, quieter now, like he’s running out of arguments that actually feel solid in his hands. The phrase that used to make everything simple suddenly feels… insufficient, like it doesn’t cover what’s happening right now, standing here, with Dongmin still looking at him like this, and that scares him more than anything else.
Dongmin’s voice softens, like he’s stepping onto something fragile, something that might give out if he puts too much weight on it.
“I still love you, Donghyun,” he says, and there’s no hesitation this time, no second guessing, just something honest and steady that doesn’t waver even when it probably should. He exhales after, like the words took something out of him, like he’s been holding them in for far too long. “And I know it’s something you don’t want to hear from me, but… just…”
He trails off, jaw tightening slightly, like he’s trying to find the right way to say something that doesn’t have a right way.
“Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything,” Dongmin finishes quietly, eyes fixed on him, not forcing, not pushing, just asking. “Not to you. Not to me.”
Donghyun’s breath stutters—he looks away immediately, like the words hit too close, like they landed somewhere he’s been trying to keep buried. His arms stay crossed, but they loosen just slightly, like he’s too tired to hold everything as tightly as before. His chest aches again, but it’s different now, not just panic, not just overwhelm, something deeper, something that settles and lingers instead of crashing all at once.
“I never said it didn’t,” Donghyun mutters, voice low, uneven despite how hard he tries to steady it.
Dongmin watches him carefully.
“Then don’t act like it’s something that just disappeared,” he says, softer now, like he’s meeting him halfway instead of pushing forward.
Donghyun shakes his head, slow, conflicted, like he doesn’t even know which part of himself to listen to anymore. “That’s not what I’m doing,” he says, but it sounds unsure, like even he doesn’t fully believe it.
“Then what are you doing?” Dongmin asks gently.
That’s when Donghyun goes quiet; he doesn’t have an answer. His fingers twitch against his sleeves again, restless, his gaze fixed on the ground like he might find something there that explains all of this. His chest rises and falls slowly, uneven, like he’s still trying to catch up with everything that’s been said, everything that’s been brought back to the surface tonight.
“…I’m trying to move on,” Donghyun says finally, barely above a whisper.
Dongmin shakes his head slightly, like he refuses to let the conversation settle where Donghyun is trying to leave it. His gaze doesn’t waver, steady and intent, like he’s holding onto something that Donghyun is actively trying to push away.
“We could make this work, Donghyun.”
“No— god,” Donghyun cuts in, frustration finally bleeding through, sharper than before, louder, like everything he’s been holding back is starting to crack. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly, pacing a step away before turning back again. “Do you not listen? This won’t work.” His voice shakes, not from uncertainty, but from how much he’s trying to force himself to believe it. “Even if it does, what good will it bring? Long distance relationships never last!”
Dongmin exhales, slower this time, like he’s choosing his words more carefully instead of reacting. “We’ll find a way,” he says, quieter, but no less certain, like he’s not arguing with Donghyun’s fear, just standing firm against it.
Donghyun lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head again, more frustrated now, more desperate. “No, Dongmin, just drop it, okay?” he says, voice cracking despite the edge in it, like he’s reaching his limit. His arms cross again, tighter, defensive, like he’s trying to shield himself from everything being thrown at him. “We’ve said it before—” he swallows, forcing the words out even when they feel wrong, even when they don’t sit right in his chest, “we’re only meant to be friends.”
Dongmin goes quiet.
He watches Donghyun for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, something less about arguing and more about understanding. His shoulders drop slightly, like he’s letting go of the fight, but not the feeling behind it.
“…is that really what you want?” Dongmin asks finally, softer now, not pushing, just asking.
Donghyun opens his mouth to answer immediately.
“Yes—”
But it doesn’t come out right, it catches, gets stuck, like his body refuses to let him lie that easily, he looks away again, that silence says more than the answer ever could.
He inhales slowly, like he’s forcing air into lungs that don’t want to cooperate, like he needs that one second to steady himself before everything slips again. His arms stay crossed, tighter now, fingers gripping into the fabric like he’s holding himself in place.
“Your minute is over.”
It comes out quieter than expected, it felt final.
Dongmin blinks, like the words didn’t quite register at first, like he thought he’d have more time, more space to say something that would change things. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to argue, about to push back one more time, but nothing comes out. The certainty he had earlier falters just enough to leave him standing there, caught between staying and knowing he shouldn’t.
Donghyun doesn’t look at him.
He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere else, jaw tight, like this is the only way he can follow through with it. If he looks, he might hesitate. If he hesitates, he might stay. And he knows he can’t afford that.
There’s a pause—longer than it should be.
“…okay,” Dongmin says finally, voice low, quieter than anything he’s said tonight.
It doesn’t sound like defeat, it doesn’t sound like hope either.
He takes a small step back, then another, like he’s physically forcing himself to respect the line Donghyun just drew. His hands slip into his pockets again, shoulders slightly tense, like leaving is taking more effort than staying ever did.
He lingers for half a second longer.
Then turns.
Donghyun’s chest tightens again, sharp and immediate, like something is being pulled away too fast, leaving behind something raw and unfinished. His fingers twitch against his sleeves, his body betraying him again, wanting to move, wanting to call out—but he doesn’t, he stays where he is. Because this is what he chose.
Sanghyeok steps closer again, quiet, steady, like he’s been waiting for this moment to pass before moving back in. His hand finds Donghyun’s arm, grounding, familiar, safe.
“…come on,” he murmurs.
Donghyun doesn’t realize he’s shaking until they’re already a few steps away.
The adrenaline crashes all at once, leaving him hollow and unsteady, like everything that held him up earlier just disappeared. Sanghyeok doesn’t say anything, just keeps a firm hand on his arm, guiding him further down the street, away from the noise, away from the lights, away from everything that feels too much. The night air is cooler here, quieter, but it doesn’t ease the ache sitting heavy in his chest.
They stop near a convenience store, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.
Donghyun barely makes it two steps inside before he leans forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other gripping the edge of a counter. His breathing turns uneven again, sharper this time, his stomach twisting until he feels sick.
Sanghyeok is right there, steady, one hand on his back, grounding, not asking questions he knows won’t be answered right now.
“Breathe,” Sanghyeok murmurs, low and calm, like he’s done this before.
Donghyun nods weakly, even if his body isn’t fully listening.
It takes a while, a few minutes, maybe more, before the worst of it passes, leaving him drained, eyes red, chest still aching but not as suffocating as before. He straightens slowly, wiping his face again with his sleeve, embarrassed in a way that doesn’t even have the energy to fully form. Sanghyeok hands him a bottle of water without a word this time.
Donghyun takes it.
“…sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse, barely there.
Sanghyeok shakes his head immediately. “Don’t,” he says, simple, firm, like that’s not something Donghyun needs to apologize for.
There’s a pause.
Donghyun stares at the floor, fingers loosely wrapped around the bottle, thoughts still loud but starting to settle into something quieter, something heavier. The words replay in his head whether he wants them to or not, every single one, looping in a way that makes his chest tighten all over again.
“I still love you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second.
“…I hate him,” Donghyun whispers, but it comes out wrong, thin, like there’s no real weight behind it.
Sanghyeok doesn’t respond to that.
Donghyun exhales shakily, leaning back against the glass door, staring out into the night like he’s trying to find something there that makes sense. But all he sees is the reflection of himself, tired, shaken, and not as okay as he pretended to be.
“…I don’t think it ever ended,” he admits quietly. The words feel heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.
Sanghyeok glances at him, but still doesn’t interrupt.
Donghyun swallows, grip tightening slightly around the bottle again. “But I can’t—” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as he shakes his head. “I can’t do that again.”.
He exhales slowly, forcing himself to stand a little straighter, even if it feels fake.
“…let’s just go home,” Donghyun says after a moment, quieter now, like he’s already trying to move past it, even if it hasn’t fully let go of him yet.
Dongmin stays where he is long after they leave.
The space they occupied feels empty too quickly, like something was taken out of it before he had time to adjust. The noise from the fair continues behind him, loud and alive, but it doesn’t reach him the same way anymore. It feels distant now, disconnected, like he’s standing outside of it all.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall back to his side.
“…shit,” he mutters under his breath, not out of anger, but something closer to frustration, maybe even regret.
Not for what he said, but for how it ended.
His gaze drifts toward the direction Donghyun left, like part of him expects to still see him there, like part of him knows he won’t. The image of him, teary-eyed, shaking, still lingers, sharper than anything else from tonight. It settles somewhere deep, uncomfortable, but impossible to ignore.
Dongmin shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets again, grounding himself the only way he knows how.
He thinks about the letter, the way the words felt when he first read them, how they didn’t feel like an ending, no matter how many times he tried to accept it as one. How even now, standing here, nothing about tonight feels finished.
“…we’re only meant to be friends.”
He lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly.
“Liar,” he murmurs, but there’s no bitterness in it.
Dongmin looks back at the entrance of the fair for a second, the lights flickering against his glasses, reflecting something unreadable in his eyes. He could go back inside, rejoin his friends, pretend the night didn’t just unfold the way it did.
But he doesn’t move, for him—it didn’t end tonight either.