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Sunghoon didn’t like noise.
He didn’t like crowded hallways, or the way voices overlapped until everything blurred into something he couldn’t quite process. He preferred quiet corners like library tables by the window, empty classrooms during lunch, the far end of the bleachers where no one really looked. It wasn’t that he hated people. He just didn’t know what to do with them. Most days, that was enough. Invisible was comfortable. Predictable.
Until someone decided he didn’t get to stay that way.
“Why do you always sit here?”
Sunghoon looked up.
The boy standing in front of him didn’t wait for permission before dropping his bag onto the chair across from him. Bright. That was the first thing Sunghoon noticed. Not just his smile, but the way he carried himself, like the world naturally made space for him.
Sunghoon blinked. “It’s quiet.”
The boy glanced around the nearly empty classroom, then grinned. “It’s lonely.”
Sunghoon didn’t answer.
The boy leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re Park Sunghoon, right?”
“…Yeah.”
“I’m Kim Sunoo.”
Sunghoon nodded once, unsure what else to say.
Sunoo didn’t seem bothered by the lack of response. “You never eat with your classmates.”
Sunghoon stared at him. “Do you always observe people like that?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
“I’m not interesting.”
Sunoo smiled wider. “That’s what makes you interesting.”
Sunghoon looked away first.
That should’ve been it. A strange conversation with a stranger who talked too much and smiled too easily. But the next day— Sunoo sat across from him again. And the day after that.
And the day after that.
“You always bring the same lunch,” Sunoo pointed out one afternoon, peeking into Sunghoon’s neatly packed container.
“It’s convenient.”
“It’s boring.”
“It’s food.”
Sunoo laughed. “You’re funny.”
“I’m really not.”
“You are. You just don’t try to be.”
Sunghoon didn’t understand why that mattered. But for some reason, he didn’t tell Sunoo to leave.
It became a pattern. Sunoo talked. Sunghoon listened. Or at least, he appeared to. In reality, he found himself paying attention more than he intended to—memorizing the way Sunoo’s eyes curved when he smiled, the way his voice shifted when he got excited, the way he filled silence like it was something meant to be chased away.
It was… different.
Annoying, sometimes. But not unwelcome.
“Why me?”
The question slipped out before Sunghoon could stop it.
Sunoo paused mid-sentence. “What do you mean?”
“You have friends,” Sunghoon said, frowning slightly. “A lot of them. Why do you keep coming here?”
Sunoo tilted his head, considering.
Then he shrugged. “Because I want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
Sunghoon looked unconvinced so Sunoo leaned forward again, softer this time.
“They’re fun,” he said. “But they don’t see me.”
Sunghoon blinked. “…What?”
Sunoo smiled, but it wasn’t as bright as usual.
“With you, I don’t feel like I have to be anything,” he continued. “I can just… sit.”
Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not heavy.
Just… there.
Sunghoon didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t. And somehow— that felt like the right answer.
It wasn’t long before people started noticing.
“Sunoo, why are you always with him?”
“You’re ditching us again?”
“You could do better, you know.”
Sunghoon heard it.
Every time.
He never reacted.
But Sunoo did.
“He’s not weird,” Sunoo said once, voice sharper than usual. “You just don’t bother getting to know him.”
It was the first time Sunghoon saw him annoyed. It was also the first time someone defended him like that. Something unfamiliar settled in his chest.
Warm.
Unsteady.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sunghoon said later, as they walked home together.
Sunoo kicked a small rock along the sidewalk, watching it roll. “I know.”
“…Then why?”
Sunoo glanced at him, like the answer was obvious.
“Because I wanted to.”
Sunghoon huffed quietly. “You say that a lot.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Sunghoon didn’t reply. But he noticed something. For someone who claimed he didn’t like noise— he didn’t mind walking beside it. Always loud, Kim Sunoo.
Seasons shifted. Days passed. And somewhere in between, Sunoo stopped being “that boy who wouldn’t leave him alone.”
He became routine.
“Wait,” Sunoo said one afternoon, grabbing Sunghoon’s sleeve just as he was about to leave the classroom.
Sunghoon paused. “What?”
Sunoo pulled something from his bag, a small carton of milk and held it out.
“You forgot this.”
“Huh?.”
“You didn’t bring one today.”
“…So?”
“So you’ll get hungry later,” Sunoo said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Sunghoon stared at the milk.
Then at Sunoo.
“…You’re giving it to me?”
“Obviously.”
“…Why?”
Sunoo rolled his eyes, smiling. “Do you really need a reason for everything?”
Sunghoon hesitated but then slowly…he took it.
That night, he realized something. He had started expecting Sunoo to be there.
At lunch.
After school.
In the spaces that used to belong only to him.
And when Sunoo wasn’t…those spaces felt… different.
Quieter.
But not in the way he liked.
It happened without warning. Without permission. Without either of them saying it out loud.
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted everything in gold, Sunoo leaned against the school gate, waiting. He spotted Sunghoon almost immediately and waved.
Bright. Warm. Unavoidable.
Sunghoon walked toward him. And for a brief moment—he thought:
There you are.
He didn’t say it.
He didn’t have to.
Because somehow, Sunoo had already decided.
He was staying.
There wasn’t a moment when everything suddenly changed.
No dramatic confession.
No grand realization.
Just a series of small things—so quiet, so ordinary that neither of them noticed when friendship started becoming something else.
It began with habits.
Sunoo waiting by the gate after class, even when his friends were calling him somewhere else.
Sunghoon slowing his pace not because he needed to, but because he knew Sunoo would catch up anyway.
Lunch wasn’t just lunch anymore. It became theirs.
A space that belonged to no one else.
“You’re early,” Sunghoon said one afternoon, setting his bag down.
Sunoo grinned. “I skipped half of class.”
“…Why?”
“To beat you here.”
Sunghoon frowned. “That’s not a good reason.”
“It is if I win.”
“There’s no competition.”
“There is now.”
Sunghoon shook his head, but there was something softer in his expression now, something that hadn’t been there before.
Something that stayed.
They started walking home together more often. At first, it was just coincidence.
Then it became routine.
“Do you ever get tired?” Sunghoon asked once.
Sunoo blinked. “Of what?”
“Talking.”
Sunoo laughed. “Do you ever get tired of being quiet?”
“Yes.”
Sunoo stopped walking.
Sunghoon took a few steps before realizing, then turned back. “What?”
Sunoo was looking at him—really looking.
“…You do?”
Sunghoon hesitated.
Then nodded, just slightly.
Sunoo smiled, softer this time. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here, right?”
Sunghoon didn’t answer.
But he didn’t need to.
It wasn’t just the talking. It was everything in between. The way Sunoo would lean too close when looking at something on Sunghoon’s phone. The way Sunghoon stopped pulling away. The way silence between them started to feel… full instead of empty.
One day, it rained hard. Classes ended early, and students rushed out, trying to beat the downpour. Sunghoon stood by the entrance, watching the rain fall in sheets.
“…You didn’t bring an umbrella, did you?”
Sunoo appeared beside him, already damp at the edges.
Sunghoon shook his head.
Sunoo sighed dramatically. “Good thing I did.”
He opened his umbrella and stepped closer.
Too close. Their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved away. They walked slowly. Partly because of the rain but mostly because neither of them wanted to get there too fast.
“You’re getting wet,” Sunghoon said, noticing the way the rain still touched Sunoo’s sleeve.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
Sunghoon adjusted his grip on the umbrella, tilting it more toward Sunoo.
Now he was the one getting wet.
Sunoo noticed immediately.
“…Hey.”
“It’s fine,” Sunghoon repeated.
Sunoo stared at him for a second.
Then smiled.
Not bright.
Not loud.
Just… warm.
That night, neither of them slept easily.
Things started to feel different after that. Not uncomfortable. Just… noticeable.
“Sunghoon,” Sunoo called, jogging up to him one morning. “Wait.”
Sunghoon slowed down. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
“You’re always late.”
“Not always.”
“Most of the time.”
Sunoo fell into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Then without thinking he reached out and grabbed Sunghoon’s wrist.
Sunghoon froze. Not because of the contact. But because neither of them pulled away. Sunoo seemed to realize it a second too late.His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.
“…Sorry,” he murmured.
Sunghoon glanced at their hands.
Then at Sunoo.
“…It’s fine.”
They kept walking like that. Side by side. Connected.
After that, it happened more often.Not always intentional. Not always accidental.
Just… natural.
One afternoon, they ended up at a small arcade near the school. It wasn’t planned. Sunoo just dragged him there.
“Come on, just one game,” Sunoo insisted, already feeding coins into the machine.
“I don’t play these.”
“You do now.”
“I’ll lose.”
“Then lose.”
Sunghoon sighed, but stayed.
They played.
Sunoo laughed too loudly when he won.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes—but didn’t stop playing.
At some point, Sunoo grabbed his hand again.
This time, to pull him toward another machine.
And this time—
Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate.
“Why are you smiling?” Sunoo asked suddenly.
Sunghoon blinked. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
Sunoo leaned closer, squinting at him. “You are.”
Sunghoon turned away slightly. “…It’s nothing.”
Sunoo grinned.
“Then keep smiling.”
It happened a few days later. Quietly. Without warning. They were sitting on the school rooftop. Sunoo had somehow convinced the janitor to let them up “just for a few minutes,” which turned into almost an hour. The sky was soft, painted in orange and pink. The wind was gentle. Everything felt… still.
“Hey,” Sunoo said.
Sunghoon hummed in response.
“…Do you ever think about the future?”
Sunghoon considered it. “Sometimes.”
“What do you see?”
Sunghoon didn’t answer right away.
“…I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something… quiet, I guess.”
Sunoo smiled faintly. “That sounds like you.”
“What about you?”
Sunoo leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky.
“I used to think it had to be something big,” he said. “Something exciting.”
“And now?”
Sunoo turned his head slightly. Looked at him.
“…Now I think it just has to be with the right person.”
Sunghoon’s breath caught.
The air shifted. Not drastically.
Just enough.
Sunoo sat up slowly.
Closer.
Closer than usual.
Close enough that Sunghoon could see every detail—the curve of his lips, the softness in his eyes, the way his breath hitched just slightly.
“Sunghoon…”
It wasn’t loud.
But it felt like everything.
Sunghoon didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Didn’t stop him.
And when Sunoo leaned in—he met him halfway.
The kiss was soft. Uncertain. Barely there.
But it changed everything.
They pulled back slowly. Neither speaking. Neither knowing what to say.
Sunoo laughed first.
Quiet. Breathless.
“…Okay.”
Sunghoon blinked. “Okay?”
Sunoo nodded, smiling in that way that made everything feel warmer.
“Okay.”
Sunghoon looked at him for a long moment.
Then—
just as softly—
he smiled too.
No labels. No declarations. No need to define it yet.
But something had shifted. Something real. Something undeniable. And for the first time— neither of them questioned it. Because whatever this was, it already felt like home.
Love didn’t change overnight. It didn’t suddenly become heavier, or complicated, or difficult. It just… grew. And like anything that grows, it began to stretch into places they hadn’t prepared for.
College felt different. Not because they were different people but because the world around them was. Schedules didn’t line up as easily. Days became fuller. Time, once something they had too much of, suddenly felt limited.
“You’re late,” Sunghoon said, glancing at his watch.
Sunoo rushed toward him, slightly out of breath. “I know, my professor wouldn’t stop talking.”
“You said your class ended thirty minutes ago.”
“It did.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow.
Sunoo grinned sheepishly. “…I got distracted.”
“By what?”
“…Food.”
Sunghoon sighed.
But there was no real annoyance behind it.
Not yet.
They still tried. That was the important part. They met when they could—between classes, after long days, late at night when everything finally slowed down. Sometimes it was enough. Sometimes… it wasn’t.
“You didn’t answer my messages.”
Sunghoon didn’t look up from his notes. “I was studying.”
“All day?”
“Yes.”
Sunoo frowned, dropping his bag onto the chair. “You could’ve replied at least once.”
“I didn’t see them.”
“That’s not true.”
Sunghoon paused.
Then exhaled. “…I was busy.”
There it was.
Not a lie.
But not the whole truth either.
Sunoo crossed his arms. “You’re always busy lately.”
“And you’re always late.”
The words came out sharper than either of them expected.
Silence.
Sunoo looked at him, hurt flashing across his face before he masked it. “I’m trying.”
“So am I.”
“That doesn’t feel like it.”
Sunghoon finally looked up. Their eyes met. And for the first time in a long while, it felt like they were standing on opposite sides of something.
“I have a lot on my plate,” Sunghoon said, voice steadier now. “This semester matters.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you making it harder?”
Sunoo blinked. “…I’m not.”
“It feels like you are.”
The words lingered. Too heavy for something that used to be so light.
Sunoo looked away first.
“…Forget it.”
He grabbed his bag.
“Where are you going?” Sunghoon asked.
“Somewhere I’m not a distraction.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what you said.”
He left before Sunghoon could fix it. That night, neither of them slept well.
They always found their way back. That was the thing about them. No matter how messy it got they never stayed apart for long.
“I’m sorry.” Sunghoon said it first this time.
Sunoo looked up from his phone, surprised. “…For what?”
“For yesterday.”
Sunoo hesitated.
Then shrugged lightly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
A pause.
“…I didn’t mean it like that,” Sunghoon added.
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then—
“I just missed you,” Sunoo admitted quietly.
That did it.
That always did it.
Sunghoon softened.
“…I missed you too.”
And just like that— they were okay again.
Not perfect.
But okay.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. They learned how to compromise. How to wait. How to understand without always agreeing. But some things didn’t change. Like how Sunoo still found his way into Sunghoon’s space, head resting on his shoulder while he studied, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his sleeve.
“You’re distracting me,” Sunghoon murmured.
“Mm,” Sunoo hummed. “But you’re not moving away.”
Sunghoon didn’t respond.
Because he wasn’t.
Or how Sunghoon still showed up—quietly, consistently.
Waiting outside Sunoo’s class. Walking him home. Making sure he got there safely.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sunoo said once.
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
Sunghoon glanced at him. “…Because I want to.”
Sunoo smiled. “See? You’re learning from me.”
It wasn’t always easy. There were more disagreements. More moments where they didn’t quite understand each other.
“You said we’d watch that together.”
“I forgot.”
“You always forget.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
Voices raised. Silences stretched.
But never—
not once—
did either of them walk away for good.
Because at the end of every argument— there was always this quiet, unspoken truth:
They still chose each other.
One evening, they found themselves back on the rooftop. The same place everything had shifted before. Only now things felt different. Heavier.
Real.
Sunoo sat cross-legged, watching the sky fade into dusk. Sunghoon sat beside him, closer than necessary but not close enough.
“Do you think we’ll last?” Sunoo asked suddenly.
Sunghoon turned to him. “…What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately. He thought about it. About everything they’d been through. The good one. The difficult one. The in-between.
“…Yes,” he said finally.
Sunoo looked at him. “Even like this?”
Sunghoon nodded. “Especially like this.”
Sunoo smiled faintly. “But what if it gets harder?”
“It will.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Sunghoon met his gaze.
Steady. Certain.
“I’m okay as long as it’s you.”
For a moment— everything felt still again.
Like it used to.
Sunoo leaned into him slowly, resting his head against Sunghoon’s shoulder. Sunghoon didn’t hesitate this time. He shifted slightly, letting him settle comfortably. No words. No promises spoken out loud. But in that quiet space—they both believed the same thing.That whatever came next, they would face it together. They always had. And they always would.
At least—that’s what they thought.
The first time it happened, Sunoo laughed it off. It was nothing, really. Just a sharp pain in his side that came and went too quickly to matter. He had been in the middle of a conversation, animated as always, hands moving as he talked—until he paused, just for a second, fingers pressing lightly against his ribs.
“You okay?” Sunghoon asked, noticing immediately.
Sunoo blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. Just moved weird, I think.”
Sunghoon studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
Then nodded.
The second time, it lasted longer. Sunoo excused himself from class, saying he needed air. The hallway felt too bright, too loud, too much. He leaned against the wall, breathing through it, waiting for the ache to pass.
It did.
Eventually.
The third time—he collapsed. It wasn’t dramatic. No loud crash. No crowd gathering. Just a quiet loss of balance, his body giving in before he could stop it. When he opened his eyes again, everything smelled like antiseptic. White walls. Soft beeping. A ceiling that didn’t feel real.
“…Sunoo?”
He turned his head slightly.
Sunghoon was there. Eyes tired. Voice tight. Relief barely contained.
“Hey,” Sunoo whispered, forcing a small smile. “You look worse than me.”
Sunghoon didn’t smile back. “What happened?” he asked.
Sunoo shrugged weakly. “I guess I fainted.”
“That’s not ‘just fainting,’” Sunghoon said, sharper now. “You scared everyone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a hospital.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m dying.” The words slipped out too easily.
Too lightly.
Sunghoon stilled. “…Don’t say things like that.”
Sunoo blinked, caught off guard by the way his voice dropped.
“…Sorry.”
Silence settled. Not heavy.
Not yet.
“I’ll call your parents,” Sunghoon said after a moment, already reaching for his phone.
“No.” The response was immediate. Firm.
Sunghoon frowned. “Sunoo—”
“I said no.”
“…Why?”
Sunoo looked away. “They’ll worry.”
“They should worry.”
“I don’t want them to.”
Sunghoon studied him. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it. But Sunoo—
Sunoo was already putting his walls back up.
“Then at least let me stay,” Sunghoon said quietly.
Sunoo hesitated. Then nodded. “…Okay.”
Tests followed.
More than Sunoo had expected. Bloodwork, scans and questions he didn’t want to answer.
Sunghoon stayed for as long as he could. Until visiting hours ended. Until Sunoo insisted he go home.
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“I’m not alone. There are doctors.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Sunoo smiled faintly. “I know.”
It took more convincing than usual.
But eventually—
Sunghoon left.
“Call me if anything happens,” he said at the door.
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“…Promise.”
Sunoo waited until he was gone. Until the door closed. Until the room was quiet again. Then— he exhaled.
The next morning, the doctor came in.
“Kim Sunoo?”
Sunoo nodded, sitting up slightly.
The doctor offered a polite smile. The kind that felt practiced.
“Your test results came in.”
Something in his tone made Sunoo’s chest tighten.
“There are some abnormalities we need to discuss.”
Sunoo listened.
At least—he tried to.
Words blurred together. Medical terms he didn’t fully understand. Something about genetics. Something about progression. Something about—
“…20% survival rate.”
That was the part that stayed.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said gently. “We’ll do everything we can, but… it’s important to prepare for all possibilities.”
Sunoo stared at him.
Numb.
Twenty percent.
He let out a small laugh.
It didn’t sound like him.
“That’s… not a lot.”
The doctor didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Treatment plans were discussed.
Options.
Timelines.
Things that suddenly felt too big for one person to carry.
“Do you have someone we can contact?” the doctor asked. “Family, maybe?”
Sunghoon’s face flashed in his mind before his family, his mother, his grand mother who’s miles away from him.
“I…” Sunoo swallowed. “…I’ll handle it.”
The doctor hesitated.
Then nodded.
When he was alone again, everything sank in. The silence was louder now.
Heavier.
Sunoo stared at his hands. They didn’t look any different. Nothing felt different. And yet— everything was. He thought about telling him.
He imagined it.
Sunghoon sitting beside him. Listening. Processing. Breaking. He imagined hospital visits. Late nights. Worry that never left. A future that slowly shrank—until there was nothing left but waiting.vSunghoon deserved more than that. He cannot afford to do that to the love of his life.
Sunoo closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered to himself. He couldn’t do that to him.
He wouldn’t.
Because love,
real love—
wasn’t just about staying.
Sometimes—
it was about knowing when to leave.
That night, when Sunghoon called, Sunoo answered like nothing had changed.
“How are you?” Sunghoon asked immediately.
“I’m fine.”
“What did the doctor say?”
Sunoo leaned back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “…Just stress.”
“Stress?”
“Yeah. I’ve been overworking myself.”
A pause.
“…Are you sure?” Sunghoon asked.
Sunoo smiled. Even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m sure.”
On the other end of the line, Sunghoon exhaled. Relieved. “Good,” he murmured. “You scared me.”
Sunoo’s grip on the phone tightened. “…Sorry.”
They talked a little longer. About nothing important. About everything that used to feel easy.
And when the call ended, Sunoo sat in the dark.
Phone still in his hand.
Twenty percent.
He let the number settle. Let it sink in. Let it hurt. Slowly, he made his decision. If there was even a chance, even the smallest one, that Sunghoon could live a full life without him…Then that was the life he would choose for him.
Even if it meant walking away.
Even if it meant doing it alone.
Because loving him meant not letting him stay.
And this time Sunoo knew.
He wouldn’t come back from it.
At first, nothing changed. At least nothing obvious. Sunoo still smiled the same way. Still showed up. Still laughed too loudly at his own jokes. Still leaned into Sunghoon like he always did, like closeness was second nature. If anything, he tried harder. Too hard.
“You’re staring,” Sunoo said one afternoon, poking Sunghoon’s cheek.
Sunghoon blinked. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About me?”
“…No.”
Sunoo grinned. “Liar.”
It looked normal. It sounded normal. It felt normal—if you didn’t look too closely. But Sunghoon did. Because beneath all of it, there were small things. Things that didn’t belong. Like how Sunoo would sometimes go quiet mid-conversation, his smile fading just for a second before snapping back into place. Or how he started checking his phone more often than replying, just,.. looking. Or how he flinched, once, when Sunghoon reached for his hand too suddenly.
“Did something happen?” Sunghoon asked it casually. Like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t already bracing for the answer.
Sunoo shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You’ve been… different.”
“I’m always different.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Sunoo smiled. Bright. Practiced. “I’m just tired.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.
Sunghoon didn’t push.
Not yet.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The changes became harder to ignore.
“Can we meet later?” Sunoo texted one evening.
“I have something to finish.” He didn’t.
Another day,
“Sorry, I fell asleep.” He didn’t.
And sometimes, there was no message at all.
Sunghoon stared at his phone more than he liked to admit. Waiting. Refreshing. Telling himself it didn’t matter. But it did.
“You didn’t answer again.”
They were sitting across from each other, but it didn’t feel like it.
Sunoo kept his eyes on his drink. “I was busy.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Because it’s true.”
“You couldn’t reply once?”
Sunoo’s grip tightened slightly around the cup.
“I said I’m busy, Sunghoon.”
“And I said you could’ve taken two seconds.”
There it was again.
That edge.
That unfamiliar sharpness.
Sunoo exhaled slowly. “Why are you making this a big deal?”
“Because it is.”
“It’s just messages.”
“It’s not about the messages.”
Sunoo finally looked at him. And for a moment, just a moment— something flickered in his eyes.
Guilt.
Then it was gone.
“Then what is it about?” Sunoo asked, quieter now.
Sunghoon hesitated. Because he didn’t have a clean answer.
Just a feeling.
“It feels like you’re pulling away,” he said finally.
Silence.
Sunoo looked down again. “…I’m not.” But he was. In ways Sunghoon couldn’t see. In ways he would never let him see. Because every time Sunghoon reached out—Sunoo felt it.
That pull.
That instinct to stay.
To hold on.
To tell him everything.
And every time—
he had to fight it.
“Let’s go out this weekend,” Sunghoon said suddenly. “Just us.”
Sunoo blinked. “This weekend?”
“Yeah.”
Sunoo paused. Too long. “I can’t.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
“Why not?”
“I have something.”
“What something?”
“…Just something.”
Sunghoon frowned. “You’re always busy lately.”
“And you’re always asking.”
“That’s because you’re always saying no.”
Sunoo looked away.
“Then stop asking.” The moment the words left his mouth—he wished he could take them back.
Sunghoon stilled. “…What?”
Sunoo swallowed. But instead of fixing it, he leaned into it. Because it was easier this way.
“I said stop asking,” he repeated, colder now.
Something shifted.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Sunghoon let out a quiet breath. “…Okay.”
That hurt more than anything else.
Because Sunghoon didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t fight.
He just—stepped back.
And for the first time—Sunoo felt it.
Distance.
Real.
Unavoidable.
That night, Sunghoon didn’t text.
Sunoo stared at his phone longer than he should have.
Waiting.
Nothing came.
He told himself it was good.
That this was the point.
That this was what he wanted.
So why did it feel like something was slipping through his fingers?
The next day, they saw each other again. Same campus. Same space. But it felt different.
“Hey,” Sunghoon said.
Polite.
Neutral.
“Hey,” Sunoo replied.
Just as careful.
They walked side by side.
Not touching.
Not quite close enough.
“You have class?” Sunghoon asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
They used to fill silence easily. But now, it has stretched. Unfamiliar. When they reached the hallway, they stopped.
“I’ll see you later,” Sunghoon said.
Sunoo nodded.
“…Yeah.”
Sunghoon walked away first.
He didn’t look back.
Sunoo watched him go. And for a moment,
Just a moment—
he almost called out.
Almost said his name.
Almost told him everything.
But he didn’t.
Because love
real love—
meant seeing the ending before it happened…
And choosing it anyway.
Even if it meant—
breaking it yourself.
So instead
Sunoo turned the other way.
And kept walking.
Sunghoon didn’t plan the confrontation. It wasn’t something he prepared for, or rehearsed, or carefully thought through. It just happened.
“Can we talk?”
Sunoo froze mid-step.
He had just exited his class, bag slung over his shoulder, already preparing himself to leave before Sunghoon could catch up.
Too late.
“We’re talking,” Sunoo said lightly, forcing a smile.
Sunghoon didn’t return it.
“No,” he said. “Not like this.”
Something in his tone made it impossible to brush off.
“…Okay,” Sunoo replied after a beat.
They didn’t go far. Just an empty classroom, quiet, familiar, suffocating in a way neither of them acknowledged. The door clicked shut. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Sunghoon was the first to break. “…What’s going on?”
Straight to it. No pretense. No softness.
Sunoo looked away. “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend like everything’s fine.”
Sunoo let out a quiet breath.
“It is fine.”
Sunghoon shook his head. “No, it’s not.”
Silence stretched. Tight. Fragile.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Sunghoon continued. “You barely reply, you cancel plans, and when we’re together, it feels like you’re somewhere else.”
Sunoo didn’t respond.
“So I’ll ask again,” Sunghoon said, softer this time. “What’s going on?”
Say it.
The truth sat right there.
Heavy.
Waiting.
I’m sick.
I might not live long.
I’m scared.
Sunoo swallowed.
Then—pushed it down.
“…Nothing,” he repeated.
Sunghoon laughed. Not amused. Not light. Just… hollow.
“Do you hear yourself?” he asked. “You think I won’t notice?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Sunoo clenched his fists.
Say it.
Say something that will make him stop.
“I think…” he started, voice catching for just a second.
Then steadied.
“…I think we’ve outgrown each other.”
There it was.
The words landed—
and everything after that felt inevitable.
Sunghoon stared at him. Like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him.
“…What?”
Sunoo forced himself to hold his gaze.
“We’ve been together for a long time,” he continued.
“People change.”
“That’s normal.”
“And sometimes—” Sunoo pressed on, ignoring the way his chest tightened,
“—sometimes they change in different directions.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Firm.
Certain.
Sunghoon shook his head. “That’s not what this is.”
“It is.”
“No, it’s not,” Sunghoon insisted, stepping closer. “If something’s wrong, we fix it. That’s what we do.”
Sunoo almost broke. Because that was true. That had always been true.
But this—
this wasn’t something they could fix.
“I don’t want to fix it,” Sunoo said.
Silence.
Sunghoon blinked.
“…You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
His voice softened.
Not angry anymore.
Just… pleading.
“Sunoo,” he said quietly, “look at me.”
Sunoo hesitated.
Then did.
And that was the problem.
Because the moment their eyes met—everything cracked.
“Did I do something wrong?” Sunghoon asked.
The question hit harder than anything else. Because the answer was so simple. So painfully simple.
“No,” Sunoo whispered.
Sunghoon exhaled shakily. “Then don’t do this.”
Don’t leave.
Don’t give up.
Don’t make me lose you like this.
The words hung unspoken—but Sunoo heard them anyway.
And that’s why he had to finish it.
“It’s not about you,” Sunoo said, forcing distance into his voice. “I just… don’t feel the same anymore.”
Lie.
Lie
Lie
Lie
I’m sorry.
A lie.
A terrible one.
Sunghoon flinched. “…Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say that like it’s easy.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy.”
“Then why does it sound like it is?”
Because if it didn’t—he wouldn’t be able to say it at all.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Sunoo added, quieter now. “I don’t want to keep pretending.”
“Pretending?” Sunghoon repeated.
Sunoo nodded.
Each movement heavier than the last.
“That everything’s still the same.”
Sunghoon stared at him. And for the first time—he didn’t argue.
“…So that’s it?” he asked.
Sunoo didn’t answer.
“That’s really it?” Sunghoon pressed, voice barely holding.
A beat.
“…Yeah.”
Something broke.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
Just enough.
Sunghoon let out a small laugh.
Empty.
“Okay,” he said.
Okay.
It wasn’t acceptance.
It wasn’t understanding.
It was surrender.
Sunoo felt it. And it hurt more than anything else.
Sunghoon stepped back.
Once.
Then again.
“Then I won’t stop you,” he said.
Sunoo’s throat tightened. Because that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted him to fight.
To stay.
To refuse.
But Sunghoon—
Sunghoon respected him too much for that.
“…Take care,” Sunghoon added.
Simple.
Final.
Then he turned—and walked away.
This time,
he didn’t look back.
The door clicked shut.
And just like that—
it was over.
Sunoo stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the silence to settle.
Long enough for the weight of it to sink in.
Long enough to finally,
finally,
let himself break.
His knees gave out first.
Then his hands.
Then everything else.
Because this was the part no one would see.
Not the hospital rooms.
Not the pain.
Not the fear.
Just this.
The moment he chose to lose the person he loved the most
so they wouldn’t have to lose him later.
And somewhere in another part of the building,
Sunghoon stopped walking.
Just for a second.
His chest tightened.
His breath caught.
Like something inside him was trying
desperately—
to turn back.
But he didn’t.
Because love,
the kind they had—
was built on trust.
And Sunoo had just told him it was over.
So he kept going.
Even if every step felt wrong.
Even if it felt like leaving something behind—
that he would never find again.
And in a way…he was right.
The first message came that night.
Sunghoon: Did you get home?
Sunoo stared at the screen for a long time.
Long enough for the words to blur.
Long enough for the ache in his chest to settle into something quieter—but no less painful.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
Then finally—
Sunoo: Yeah.
Short.
Safe.
Distant.
The reply came almost immediately.
Sunghoon: Okay. Take care.
That was it.
No questions.
No follow-up.
No attempt to undo what had already been said.
Sunoo told himself that was good. That this was exactly what he wanted.
So why did it feel like something was already slipping too far away?
The next day, nothing.
No messages.
No calls.
No “good morning.”
Sunoo checked his phone anyway.
More than once.
More than he should have.
By the third day,, he gave in.
Sunoo: Did you eat?
The reply didn’t come right away.
It took hours.
Sunghoon: Yeah
Just that.
Sunoo stared at the single word. Then locked his phone. That should’ve been enough. But it wasn’t.
Days turned into a quiet, careful routine. They still crossed paths sometimes.
Same campus.
Same hallways.
Different everything else.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Polite.
Neutral.
No lingering.
No staying.
Like strangers who remembered too much.
Sunoo started leaving earlier. Taking longer routes. Avoiding places they used to share. Not because he wanted to—but because it was easier than pretending it didn’t hurt.
Sunghoon didn’t chase him. That was the part that made it worse. Because if Sunghoon had fought, if he had argued, insisted, refused to let go—maybe it would’ve been easier to hate him.
But he didn’t.
He respected the distance.
Even if it broke him.
Weeks passed. The messages became fewer.
Sunghoon: I left your jacket at your place.
Sunoo:Okay.
Sunoo: You forgot your book.
Sunghoon: You can keep it.
Practical.
Necessary.
Empty.
Until eventually—
even those stopped.
The silence wasn’t sudden.
It crept in.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like something that didn’t want to be noticed until it was already too late.
One night, Sunoo found himself scrolling through their old messages.
Photos.
Jokes.
Late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise.
Did you eat?
I miss you.
Come here.
Stay a little longer.
His fingers hovered over the screen. Then stilled. Because none of those words belonged to them anymore.
He locked his phone and let the silence stay.
Time didn’t stop.
It never does.
Classes continued.
Days moved forward.
And slowly—the world adjusted to their absence from each other.
People stopped asking.
Stopped noticing.
Stopped expecting to see them together.
Like it had always been this way.
Like nothing had changed.
Except—
everything had.
The last message came on an ordinary day. No special reason. No clear purpose.
Just—something unfinished.
Sunghoon: Take care of yourself, Sunoo.
Sunoo read it once. Then again. There was no anger in it.
No resentment.
No hidden meaning.
Just—care.
The kind that didn’t demand anything in return. The kind that stayed— even when everything else was gone.
Sunoo’s chest tightened.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
He could reply.
He should reply.
Say something.
Anything.
You too.
I’m sorry.
Stay.
The words came.
One by one.
And then….
he erased all of them.
Because answering… meant holding on.
And holding on…
was the one thing he couldn’t allow himself to do.
So instead, He turned off his phone.
And that—
was the end of it.
Five years passed.
No messages.
No calls.
No traces.
Not even silence anymore, because silence implied something waiting.
This—was nothing.
Exactly what Sunoo had planned.
Exactly what he needed.
Exactly what broke him the most.
Somewhere, in a life that no longer included him—Sunghoon learned how to wake up without reaching for his phone.
How to pass by familiar places without stopping.
How to remember without falling apart.
And somewhere else, in a place far colder, far quieter—Sunoo learned how to do the same.
Without him.
Without them.
Without everything they used to be.
Because love..
no matter how strong…
can only survive so long without being held.
And theirs…was never meant to survive this distance.
Not in the way they once knew it.
So it didn’t.
It faded.
Softly.
Until all that remained— was something neither of them could fully let go of…
and neither of them could ever return to.
Five years didn’t pass all at once. They stretched. Day by day. Moment by moment. Until time stopped feeling like something you could measure—and started feeling like something you just… endured.
At first, Sunghoon still noticed everything. The empty seat across from him at lunch. The quiet walk home. The absence of a voice that used to fill every space with ease.
It wasn’t loud.
Not like heartbreak in movies. It was quieter than that. Like reaching for something out of habit and realizing it was no longer there.
He tried not to think about it.
He focused on school.
On deadlines.
On responsibilities.
On anything that required enough attention to keep his thoughts from wandering too far.
Sometimes it worked.
Most of the time—
it didn’t.
“Just forget him.”
His friends didn’t mean harm. They said it casually. Like it was simple. Like it was something you could decide and be done with.
Sunghoon never argued. But he didn’t forget.
Not really.
There were moments.
Small ones.
Unavoidable ones.
A song playing somewhere.
A familiar street corner.
A laugh that sounded almost—but not quite—the same.
And suddenly—
he was back there.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Back when everything felt certain.
He stopped checking his phone eventually. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he learned there would be nothing there.
No messages.
No missed calls.
No “Hey.”
Just… empty space.
The first year was the hardest. Everything still felt recent.
Too close.
Too unfinished.
He replayed things more than he should have.
The last conversation.
The last look.
The way it ended—
without really ending.
“What did I miss?” he asked himself once.
Alone.
Late at night.
“What did I not see?”
There was no answer.
By the second year—the sharp edges softened. It didn’t hurt the same way. Not constantly. Only sometimes.
In waves.
Manageable.
By the third—he stopped expecting anything. No sudden message. No explanation. No return.
Just acceptance.
“Maybe that’s just how it ends sometimes,” a friend told him.
No closure.
No answers.
Just distance.
Sunghoon nodded. Because what else could he do?
He learned new routines.
Different places.
Different habits.
He filled his time with things that didn’t remind him of what used to be.
And slowly—
those things became his life.
By the fourth year—he could say Sunoo’s name without pausing.
Not easily. But without breaking.
By the fifth— it wasn’t the first thing he thought about anymore.
Not the last, either.
Just…something in between.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Just quieter.
Far away in a country where winter lasted longer than it should—Sunoo learned a different kind of silence.
Not the absence of messages.
But the absence of everything familiar.
The air felt different.
Colder.
Sharper.
The days felt longer.
The nights—
longest of all.
Hospitals became routine.
White walls.
Soft beeping.
Voices that spoke gently—like he might break if they didn’t.
He got used to it. Or at least he learned how to pretend he did.
“Do you have someone with you?” a nurse asked once.
Sunoo smiled.
“I’m okay.”
It wasn’t an answer.
But it was enough.
He didn’t call.
Not once.
Not even on the worst days.
Especially not on the worst days.
Because those were the moments—when he wanted to the most.
When the pain was too much.
When the silence felt too loud.
When everything inside him screamed—
I don’t want to do this alone.
But he did.
He chose this.
And choices—
even the right ones,
don’t make things easier.
There were days he almost broke.
Phone in hand.
Number memorized.
All it would take was one call.
One word.
One moment of weakness.
But he never pressed it.
Because somewhere in a life he could no longer see,
Sunghoon was moving forward.
Living.
Becoming someone who didn’t need him anymore.
And that..
that was the whole point.
Sometimes, he wondered.
Not often.
But enough.
Is he happy?
The thought came quietly.
Never answered.
Sunoo didn’t look for him.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t check.
Because knowing would make it harder.
And he had already made his choice.
Five years.
No words.
No contact.
No trace of what they used to be…
except in memory.
Two lives.
Moving forward.
Separately.
As if they had never been intertwined.
As if loving each other hadn’t once been the easiest thing in the world.
And maybe…
in some way…
that was enough.
Because silence was what Sunoo wanted.
What he needed.
What he chose.
Even if sometimes…
it felt louder than anything else.
Moving on didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a decision Sunghoon woke up one morning and suddenly followed through. It was slower than that.
Quieter.
At first, it didn’t even feel like moving on. It felt like… standing still.
“Come out with us.”
Sunghoon didn’t look up from his phone. “I have something to do.”
“You always have something to do.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” his friend sighed. “You just don’t want to.”
Sunghoon didn’t argue. Because that was closer to the truth.
Going out meant noise.
People.
Distractions.
And distractions meant moments where his mind could slip—where something familiar might surface without warning.
He didn’t trust that yet.
“Just this once,” another friend added. “If you hate it, we won’t ask again.”
Sunghoon hesitated. It would be easier to say no. To stay where things were controlled.
Predictable.
Safe.
But something in him, something tired of the same quiet routine, shifted.
“…Fine,” he said.
The place was loud. Exactly as expected. Music is too strong. Voices overlapping. Lights that didn’t sit still. Sunghoon stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets, unsure where to put himself.
“You look like you want to leave already,” his friend laughed.
“I do.”
“Give it ten minutes.”
Ten minutes.
He could handle that.
It wasn’t terrible.
Uncomfortable, yes.
But not unbearable
Someone handed him a drink.
Someone else pulled him into a conversation.
He didn’t say much.
But he listened.
And for the first time in a long while the silence inside his head didn’t feel as loud.
“See?” his friend nudged him later. “You survived.”
Sunghoon huffed lightly. “Barely.”
“That still counts.”
It did.
And somehow that one night turned into another.
Then another.
It didn’t erase anything.
That wasn’t how it worked.
Sunoo didn’t disappear from his thoughts.
Didn’t fade into nothing.
Didn’t stop existing in the quiet parts of his mind.
But he stopped being everything.
Sunghoon started filling his time. Not to forget, but to live around the remembering.
He stayed longer after classes. Picked up small routines.
Allowed himself to be present in moments he used to avoid.
“Hey, you’re smiling more.”
Sunghoon frowned slightly. “Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“…I didn’t notice.”
Neither did he.
There were still nights.
Of course there were.
Moments when everything slowed down when the world quieted just enough for memories to slip through.
The rooftop.
The rain.
The way Sunoo used to say his name like it meant something more.
Sunghoon didn’t fight those moments anymore.
He let them come.
Let them stay.
Then let them pass.
“Do you still think about him?”
The question caught him off guard.
Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately.
Because the answer wasn’t simple.
“…Sometimes,” he said finally.
His friend studied him.
“You miss him?”
Sunghoon looked down at his hands.
“…Yeah.”
A pause.
“But not the same way,” he added.
That was new.
Not the same way.
It didn’t ache constantly anymore.
Didn’t pull at him every second.
Didn’t make everything else feel incomplete.
It was still there.
Just…
softer.
“You’re allowed to move on, you know.”
Sunghoon glanced up.
“I know.”
“And?”
He exhaled slowly.
“I think I’m trying.”
Trying didn’t mean succeeding.
But it meant something had shifted.
Something important.
It happened gradually. The way most important things are done. A conversation that lasted longer than expected. A shared laugh that felt easy. A presence that didn’t feel forced. Sunghoon didn’t notice it at first. Not as something significant.
Just…comfortable.
“You seem different lately.”
He looked up. “Different how?”
His friend smiled slightly. “Lighter.”
Sunghoon considered that.
Lighter.
Maybe.
Or maybe— he had just learned how to carry things better.
One evening, as he walked home, he realized something.
He hadn’t thought about Sunoo all day.
Not once.
He stopped in his tracks.
The realization wasn’t freeing.
It wasn’t painful either.
It just…
was.
For a moment, he didn’t know how to feel about that.
Then slowly—he kept walking.
Because moving on wasn’t about forgetting. It was about learning how to continue even with things you couldn’t take with you anymore. And for the first time, Sunghoon felt like he could.
Not perfectly.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to try.
Enough to stay.
In a life that was still his—
even without the person who once felt like all of it.
It didn’t happen the way people usually expect. There was no moment where Sunghoon thought, this is it. No instant certainty. No overwhelming feeling that swept everything else away. It started quietly.
“You’re Sunghoon, right?”
He looked up from his notes.
The person standing in front of him looked familiar—someone he’d seen around campus, maybe in passing, maybe in the same building more times than he’d realized.
“…Yeah.”
“I thought so,” she said, smiling a little. “You’re in Professor Lim’s class?”
Sunghoon nodded. “You too?”
“Sometimes,” she laughed. “Depends if I wake up on time.”
It wasn’t anything special. Just a conversation.
Short.
Casual.
Forgettable.
At least, it should have been.
But the next time they saw each other—they talked again.
And then again.
Until it stopped feeling like coincidence.
“Do you always sit here?”
The question felt oddly familiar.
Sunghoon glanced up, then around the café.
“…It’s quiet.”
She smiled. “Or maybe you just like being alone.”
Sunghoon didn’t answer.
“Can I sit?”
A pause.
Then—
“…Okay.”
She wasn't like Sunoo.
That was the first thing Sunghoon noticed.
She didn’t fill every silence.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t try to pull him out of himself.
She just… stayed.
Comfortable in the quiet.
And somehow…
that felt easy.
“I feel like you think a lot.”
Sunghoon looked up. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” she said softly. “Just means it might take you longer to say things.”
“…Maybe.”
“That’s okay,” she added. “I don’t mind waiting.”
Waiting.
The word settled somewhere deeper than it should have.
They started spending more time together. Not intentionally. Not planned.
Just…naturally.
Shared breaks.
Walk between classes.
Conversations that didn’t demand too much but still meant something.
“You don’t talk about your past that much.”
Sunghoon stilled slightly.
“…There’s not much to say.”
“That’s not true.”
A small pause.
“You just don’t want to.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Sunghoon looked away. “…I used to be with someone.”
It felt strange—saying it out loud.
Not painful.
Not sharp.
Just…
distant.
“Used to?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“Are you still in love with them?”
The question wasn’t accusing. It wasn't demanding. Just… honest.
Sunghoon thought about it.
Really thought about it.
About what love used to feel like.
About what it meant now.
“…I don’t think so,” he said slowly.
Not a lie.
Not entirely the truth either.
But close enough.
She nodded. Not surprised. Not disappointed. Just full of understanding.
“Okay.”
And that was it.
No pressure. No expectation. Just acceptance.
That was what made it different.
With Sunoo—everything had been intense.
Bright.
All-consuming.
With her…It was steady.
Something that didn’t rush.
Didn’t overwhelm.
Didn’t ask for more than he could give.
“You don’t have to be anything else around me,” she said once.
Sunghoon frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… you can just be you.”
It sounded simple.
But it wasn’t.
Because for a long time—
Sunghoon didn't know what that meant anymore.
“Do you want to try?”
The question came out of nowhere.
Sunghoon blinked. “Try what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing lightly between them. “Whatever this is.”
Sunghoon hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to.
But because he did.
And wanting something again after everything—felt unfamiliar.
“I’m not… good at this,” he admitted quietly.
She smiled.
“I don’t think anyone really is.”
“…What if I mess it up?”
“Then we deal with it.”
“And if I can’t give you everything?”
She looked at him—steady. Patient.
“Then give what you can.”
No pressure. No urgency. Just…space.
Sunghoon exhaled slowly.
Then, “…Okay.”
It wasn’t a grand beginning.
No dramatic shift.
No overwhelming feeling.
Just a quiet step forward.
And somehow—that made it feel more real.
Time passed. Feelings grew. Not loudly.
Not all at once. But steadily.
Sunghoon learned new things. How to laugh without hesitation. How to stay without wondering when it would end. How to build something without fear of losing it immediately. It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. And that was okay.
Because this—
This was something else.
Not a replacement.
Not a continuation.
A different kind of love.
One that didn’t erase the past—
didn’t live in it either.
And for the first time in a long while Sunghoon allowed himself to believe that this could last. Not because it was perfect. But because it was real. And because this time—he chose to stay.
It didn’t happen all at once. Nothing important ever did. There was no single moment where Sunghoon looked around and realized—this is it, this is my life now. Instead, it came together slowly.
Piece by piece.
Choice by choice.
“Are you sure?”
The question wasn’t heavy.
Not pressured.
Just… careful.
Sunghoon looked at her finger with a ring.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Then he looked at her in the eyes.
At the person in front of him—the one who had stayed, who had waited, who had never asked for more than what he could give.
“…Yeah,” he said.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But certain.
The proposal wasn’t grand.
No crowd.
No spectacle.
Just the two of them.
And somehow—that made it feel right.
Marriage felt different. Not like a sudden shift. More like something settling into place.
A shared space.
A shared routine.
A shared life that didn’t need to be explained.
“Did you eat?”
The question came easily now.
Not as a habit carried from the past—but as something that belonged to the present.
“Yeah,” she answered, setting down their bag. “You?”
Sunghoon nodded. “A while ago.”
She smiled. “Good.”
It was quiet.
But not empty.
Years passed. Work became steadier. Days are more structured. There was comfort in it. Predictability. Stability.
“You’re home early.”
Sunghoon slipped off his shoes, glancing up.
“They let us off sooner.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. “We needed that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Needed what?”
Their smile widened.
And that’s when everything changed.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words settled between them. For a moment—Sunghoon didn’t react. Not because he didn’t understand. But because he did.
Fully.
“…Really?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.
She nodded.
And just like that—
everything shifted.
The months that followed were filled with things he never thought about before. Appointments. Preparations. Small moments that slowly turned into something bigger. He learned how to hold things more carefully. Speak more gently. Be more present.
“Feel that?”
Sunghoon placed his hand where they guided it.
A small movement. Barely there. But enough.
His breath caught.“…Yeah.”
It was real.
The day they were born—everything felt louder. The hospital. The voices. The rush of it all.
And then,
Two cries.
Not one.
Two.
“Twins,” someone said.
Sunghoon laughed.
A little breathless.
A little overwhelmed.
He held them carefully. Like they might break. Like this moment might disappear if he wasn’t careful enough.
Days turned into nights.
Nights into routines.
Feeding.
Crying.
Laughter.
Exhaustion.
Everything all at once.
“Your turn.” Sunghoon sighed, but stood up anyway.
“I just sat down.”
“And now you’re getting back up.”
He muttered something under his breath—but there was no real complaint in it.
He learned quickly.
How to carry one child while calming the other. How to function on little sleep. How to find patience he didn’t know he had.
“Daddy.”
The first time she said it—
he froze.
“…What?”
She laughed, repeating it.
“Daddy.”
Something in his chest shifted.
Quiet.
Deep.
He smiled.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“That’s me.”
The house was never quiet anymore. Not like before. There was always something.
Footsteps.
Voices.
Laughter echoing from one room to another.
It was full.
And Sunghoon…
He was happy.
Not in a loud way.
Not in a way that demanded attention.
Just…
steady.
There were still moments. Of course there were.
When something would catch him off guard.
A familiar phrase.
A certain way the light hit at sunset.
A memory that surfaced without warning.
But they didn’t pull him under anymore.
They came.
They stayed.
Then they passed.
One evening, he stood by the doorway watching his children play. His spouse called from the kitchen.
“Can you help me with this?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
He lingered for just a second longer. Taking it in.
The noise.
The warmth.
The life he had built.
Then—
he turned away.
And stepped forward.
Because this—
this was his life now.
Not what he lost.
But what he chose.
What he stayed for.
And for the first time—there was no hesitation in it.
Just quiet certainty.
He was happy.
He really was.
And somewhere in a place he no longer looked toward—the past stayed where it belonged.
Untouched.
Unchanged.
Or at least—
That’s what he believed.
It was an ordinary day. The kind that passed without asking to be remembered. Morning came with the usual noise. Footsteps echoing down the hallway. Soft laughter. A small argument over something insignificant.
“Daddy, he took my toy!”
“I didn’t!”
Sunghoon sighed, stepping into the living room. “Both of you—share.”
“That’s not sharing,” one of them protested.
“It is now.” They pouted.
He almost smiled.
From the kitchen,
“Can you check your email later?” his spouse called out. “You said you were expecting something from work, right?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon replied. “I’ll look at it after breakfast.”
It was routine.
Everything about it.
And that was the point.
The day moved the way most days did.
Work.
Meetings.
Conversations that blurred together.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing that hinted at what was waiting for him.
It was late when he finally remembered. The house had quieted, the children are asleep and the lights had dimmed. His spouse was in the bedroom, folding laundry.
“I’m just going to check something,” Sunghoon said.
“Okay,” came the soft reply.
He sat down on the couch
Laptop resting on his knees.
Inbox.
Unread messages stacked in neat lines.
Work-related.
Spam.
Things that didn’t matter.
He scrolled absentmindedly.
Then—
stopped.
His hand stilled on the trackpad.
Because there between everything ordinary
was something that wasn’t.
A name.
One he hadn’t seen in years.
Kim Sunoo.
For a moment—
nothing moved.
Not his hand.
Not his breath.
Not even his thoughts.
It didn’t make sense.
It couldn’t.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of nothing.
And now—
this?
His chest tightened. He stared at the screen like it might change if he looked long enough.
Like it might disappear.
But it didn’t.
The name stayed.
Unfamiliar now.
And yet—
too familiar.
His first instinct was to close it.
To pretend he hadn’t seen it.
To leave it there…
unopened.
Because opening it meant something.
It meant stepping back into a part of his life he had carefully learned how to live without.
It meant remembering…
not just the good—
but everything that came after.
“Are you coming?” his spouse called from the other room.
Sunghoon didn’t answer right away.
His eyes were still fixed on the screen.
“…In a minute,” he said finally.
His hand hovered over the trackpad.
He could ignore it.
He should ignore it.
Because whatever was inside—it wouldn’t change anything.
It couldn’t.
His life was here.
Now.
Not there.
Not then.
And yet—
His finger moved.
Before he could stop it.
Before he could think it through.
Before he could convince himself not to.
Click.
The email opened.
For a second—
he didn’t read it.
Just stared at the words.
At the name again.
At the timestamp.
At the proof that this was real.
Then
slowly—
his eyes moved.
Sunghoon,
I don’t know if this will reach you.
Or if you’ll even open it.
But I think… I owe you this.
It’s been 20 years, right?
Is it?
I just randomly chose the year I scheduled this email.
I hope it’s that long.
I hope that time was enough.
And maybe,
after all this time
I’m allowed to say goodbye properly.
His breath caught.
The room felt smaller.
Quieter.
From the bedroom—
his spouse laughed softly at something.
A sound that belonged to his present.
But right now—
it felt far away.
Sunghoon swallowed.
And kept reading.
Because whatever this was—
It wasn’t something he could turn away from anymore.
Sunghoon didn’t move.
Not when the words blurred.
Not when his grip on the laptop tightened.
Not even when the room around him seemed to fall away.
He just… read.
Sunghoon,
I don’t know if this will reach you.
Or if you’ll even open it.
But I think… I owe you this.
It’s been 20 years, right?
Is it?
I just randomly chose the year I scheduled this email.
I hope it’s that long. I hope that time was enough.
And maybe,
after all this time
I’m allowed to say goodbye properly.
His chest tightened.
I’m sorry.
I know that’s not enough.
I know it never will be.
But it’s the only place I can start.
Sunghoon exhaled shakily.
The truth is…
I lied to you.
Not just once.
Not just that day.
I think I started lying the moment I decided
you deserved a life that didn’t include me.
His fingers curled slightly.
I wasn’t just “tired.”
I wasn’t “busy.”
And we didn’t “outgrow each other.”
I was sick.
I found out not long before I left.
Genetic.
Something that was already there, just waiting.
They told me I had a 20% chance.
Twenty.
And that fact wasn’t something I could ask you to stay for.
Sunghoon’s breath hitched.
I tried to imagine it.
You sitting in hospital rooms.
Waiting.
Watching me get worse.
I couldn’t do that to you.
Not when I knew what it would take from you.
Not when I knew…
there was a chance I wouldn’t make it anyway.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
He didn’t notice.
So I made a decision for the both of us.
I told myself it was the right one.
That if you hated me—
if you believed I stopped loving you—
it would be easier for you to let go.
I thought I was protecting you.
I didn’t realize…
I was also taking away your choice.
Sunghoon closed his eyes for a second.
Then opened them again.
He couldn’t stop.
Canada wasn’t just an excuse.
I really did go.
Treatment, hospitals, days that all started to feel the same.
I won’t tell you everything.
Not because it didn’t matter—
but because I promised myself I wouldn’t let your memory of me
turn into something painful.
I wanted you to remember me as I was.
Not as I became.
His hand trembled.
There were days I almost called you.
More than I’d like to admit.
I’d hold my phone, stare at your name—
and think,
just one time.
Just to hear your voice again.
But I didn’t.
Because I knew if I did—
I wouldn’t be able to let you go again.
The silence in the room pressed in.
From the other side of the house—a faint sound.
Movement.
Life.
And here—
everything felt suspended.
Five years passed.
Then more.
I stopped counting at some point.
Not because it didn’t matter—
but because time felt different when you’re not sure how much of it you have.
I don’t know what your life looks like now.
I didn’t check.
I didn’t ask.
Because I hoped
if I stayed away long enough—
you would have found something better.
Something stable.
Something that stayed.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.
It’s been 20 years.
I think… that’s enough time.
Enough for the anger to fade.
Enough for the hurt to settle into something quieter.
I hope you’re happy.
I really do.
His vision blurred.
I don’t regret loving you.
Not once.
If anything—
it’s the one thing I’m sure I did right.
What I regret…
is not giving you the truth.
Not trusting you enough to stay—
even if it hurts.
A tear fell onto the keyboard.
Then another.
Maybe you would’ve left anyway.
Maybe you would’ve stayed.
I’ll never know.
And I think…
that’s something I’ll carry with me, wherever I go.
Sunghoon’s breathing grew uneven.
If this email reached you—
it means…i probably gone by now..
I do not expect anything back.
I do not wish to change anything.
But because you deserved to know
that you were never the reason I left.
He pressed his lips together.
Hard.
You were the reason I stayed as long as I did.
And the reason it hurt so much to go.
Silence.
I won’t ask you to remember me.
You don’t owe me that.
But if you ever do—
I hope it’s not with anger.
Not with pain.
Just… something gentle.
Sunghoon shook his head slightly.
Like he could refuse that.
Like he could choose how it felt.
You don’t have to reply.
You don’t have to do anything at all.
Just—
keep living the life I hoped you’d have.
His chest ached.
Deep.
Unfamiliar after all these years.
It’s been 20 years.
And there’s nothing I’ve wished for more
than your happiness.
You’re happy now… right?
The question lingered.
Heavy.
Unanswered.
I think this is the right time to say goodbye.
In a way that won’t hurt you as much.
At least…
I hope it doesn’t.
Sunghoon let out a broken breath.
I’m sorry.
For everything.
For the way I left.
For the silence.
For making you carry questions you never deserved.
If I could do one thing differently—
I would’ve told you.
Even if it meant you stayed.
Even if it meant you saw everything I was so afraid to show.
His hands trembled.
But I was selfish in my own way.
I wanted you to have a life untouched by that kind of pain.
I just didn’t realize…
leaving you without answers
was its own kind of pain too.
Silence.
Long.
Unforgiving.
Thank you.
For loving me when it was easy.
And even when it wasn’t.
You were—
my greatest love.
Sunghoon closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Just to breathe.
And then—
the last lines.
Goodbye, Sunghoon.
I’ll love you until eternity.
—Sunoo
The screen dimmed.
But Sunghoon didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe properly.
Because after twenty years—
everything came back at once.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But all at the same time.
And it was enough—
to break him all over again.
Sunghoon didn’t sleep.
The email stayed open long after the screen dimmed, its glow fading into darkness while he sat there still, unmoving, like if he shifted even slightly, everything would finally become real.
I was sick.
I made a decision for both of us.
“…Why?” he whispered.
Morning came anyway.
Too bright.
Too normal.
“Daddy, you look tired.”
Sunghoon forced a small smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”
He moved through everything like it was routine.
Because it was.
But something inside him—
wasn’t.
He didn’t go to work. Instead he sat in his car, phone in hand, scrolling through names he hadn’t touched in years.
Then—he found one.
He called.
They met at a quiet café.
“You heard from him,” Jungwon, one of their closest friends on high school said.
Sunghoon nodded.
“…Last night.”
A pause.
“I didn’t think he would,” his friend murmured.
“Would what?”
“Reach out.”
Sunghoon’s grip tightened around his cup.
“…Why didn’t anyone told me?”
His friend looked down.
“…He asked us not to.”
Of course he did.
“We didn’t know everything at first,” Jungwon added.
“Not until later.”
“…Later when?”
“A year before your wedding….”
Sunghoon stilled.
“He contacted us,” his friend continued. “Not often. Just… once in a while.”
“…To ask about me?”
A small nod.
“He never wanted details. Just…if you were okay.”
That—
that hurt.
Sunghoon swallowed.
“…Was he alone?”
His friend hesitated.
“…Yeah.”
Sunghoon looked down.
“…Did he—”
He couldn’t finish.
His friend understood anyway.
And this time—
He didn’t hesitate.
“…He’s gone...”
The word didn’t land right away.
Like it needed time—
to find its place.
Sunghoon blinked.
“…When?”
Silence.
Not long.
But long enough.
His friend inhaled slowly.
“…The same day you got married.”
Everything stopped.
Not the world.
Not the café.
Just—
him.
“…What?”
“He was already getting worse,” his friend said quietly.
“He was in the hospital by then.”
Sunghoon’s hands went still.
“We didn’t know until after,” they continued.
“His grandma told us.”
The same day.
The same day.
Sunghoon’s chest tightened—
sharp.
Sudden.
He saw it.
Not the café.
But that day.
The wedding.
The lights.
The vows.
The moment he said I do.
And somewhere
in another country—
Sunoo was…
“…No,” Sunghoon whispered.
His friend’s voice softened.
“He told them not to contact you.”
Of course he did.
Even then.
Even at the end—
Sunoo chose silence.
Chose distance.
Chose him.
“I would’ve stayed.”
The words came out before he could stop them.
Quiet.
But clear.
His friend didn’t respond.
Because there was nothing to say.
“I would’ve stayed,” Sunghoon repeated.
But that choice—
was never his.
And now—
it never would be.
Sunghoon let out a hollow breath.
“…So while I was—”
He couldn’t finish.
Didn’t need to.
His friend nodded slightly.
Sunghoon laughed.
Not because it was funny.
But because it didn’t make sense
how two lives could exist like that.
So far apart.
So unaware.
“…He knew,” Sunghoon murmured. I was getting married that day…
“He did,” his friend said.
Of course he did.
Sunghoon closed his eyes.
And for a moment—
everything overlapped.
The past.
The present.
A wedding vow—
and a goodbye he never heard.
“…He really didn’t want me to know,” Sunghoon said softly.
His friend shook their head.
“He wanted you to be happy.”
Sunghoon let out a slow breath.
“…I was.”
That was the truth.
And somehow—
that made it worse.
Because while he was building something new—
Sunoo was losing everything.
And he never knew.
They sat there in silence.
Nothing left to ask.
Nothing left to change.
When Sunghoon finally stood—
it felt heavier than before.
“…Thanks.”
His friend nodded.
“Take care.”
The same words.
But now—
they meant something else.
Sunghoon stepped outside.
The world looked exactly the same.
But now—
he carried something new.
Not just truth.
But timing.
And somehow—
that was the part that hurt the most.
The house was quiet. Not completely, just enough. The kind of quiet that held everything together. A faint hum from the kitchen. Soft breathing from down the hall. The steady rhythm of a life that hadn’t stopped. Sunghoon stood by the doorway longer than he needed to.
Watching.
His children were asleep, blankets tangled, faces peaceful in a way that didn’t know anything about loss. He adjusted one of the covers gently.
“Goodnight,” he whispered. He closed the door. The hallway light stayed on.
Just enough.
When he reached the living room—he stopped.
The same place.
The same couch.
The same stillness from the night before.
But now—
it felt different.
He knew.
Not just the truth—
but the timing.
Sunghoon sat down slowly. His phone rested in his hand.
The email still open.
Unchanged.
Like it didn’t carry the weight of everything he had just learned.
The same day you got married.
The words echoed.
Again.
Again.
He closed his eyes.
And it came back.
The wedding.
The lights.
The quiet music.
The way his hands had been steady when he held the ring.
“I do.”
He remembered saying it clearly.
Without hesitation.
He remembered the warmth.
The certainty.
The way everything felt like it was beginning.
And somewhere
in that same moment—
Sunoo was ending.
Sunghoon inhaled sharply.
His hand tightened around the phone.
“…Why that day?” he whispered.
There was no answer.
There would never be.
He looked down at the screen again.
At the last line.
I’ll love you until eternity.
His vision blurred.
“You should’ve told me.”
The words came out quiet.
Not angry.
Just—
tired.
“I would’ve stayed.”
He said it again.
Like it could still matter.
Like it could still reach him.
It didn’t.
Sunghoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
For a long time he didn’t move. The weight of it sat heavy in his chest. Not just loss. But something else. Something sharper.
Timing.
He had been smiling.
While somewhere else—
Sunoo was saying goodbye to a life he had already left behind.
“I was happy,” Sunghoon whispered.
The words felt strange.
Conflicting.
Heavy.
“I am happy.”
That was still true.
And yet—
his chest ached.
Because those two truths—
existed at the same time.
And neither erased the other.
From the hallway—a soft voice.
“Sunghoon?”
He looked up.
His spouse stood there, concerned written in the way she held herself.
“You didn’t come to bed.”
Sunghoon blinked.
“…Sorry.”
She walked closer.
“Are you okay?”
The question lingered.
Simple.
Dangerous.
He could say yes.
He should say yes.
Because his life—
this life—
was real.
Was good.
Was everything he had chosen.
“…Yeah,” he said.
And it wasn’t a lie.
She studied him for a moment longer. Then nodded.
“Come to bed,” they said softly.
“In a bit.”
A pause.
“…Okay.”
She didn’t push. Didn’t ask more. And when she walked away, closing the door gently behind them—
Sunghoon was alone again.
He exhaled slowly.
The room felt heavier now.
He looked down at the phone.
At the message that came twenty years too late.
At the goodbye he never got to hear.
“…You really didn’t want me to know,” he murmured.
Even at the end—
Sunoo chose silence.
Chose distance.
Chose him.
Sunghoon let out a quiet, unsteady breath.
And then…
slowly—
he broke.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just—
tears.
Falling quietly.
Because this wasn’t just grief.
It was love—
with nowhere left to go.
It was a past—
that had ended without him.
It was a moment shared across time
where one life began
and another
ended.
And somehow, he had lived through both—
without knowing.
His hand pressed against his mouth. As if that would steady him.
It didn’t.
Because some things—
don’t leave.
They stay.
In the quiet.
In the in-between.
In the life you build—
around what you lost.
From the other room,
soft breathing.
Life.
Waiting.
And he would go back.
He always did.
But not yet.
For now…
he stayed where he was.
With the truth.
With the weight of it.
With the love that never ended
just learned how to exist—
on the same day
everything changed.
And somehow—
he would carry it.
Not instead of his life—
but alongside it.
Forever.
Morning still came.
It always did.
Light slipped through the curtains, soft and steady, like nothing had shifted the night before.
“Daddy!”
Sunghoon blinked awake.
Small footsteps rushed toward him, followed by a familiar weight climbing onto the bed.
“You said pancakes.”
He let out a quiet breath.
“…I did.”
The child frowned slightly, studying his face.
“You look tired.”
Sunghoon reached up, brushing their hair back gently.
“I’m okay.”
And this time—he meant it.
The kitchen filled with warmth.
The soft clatter of utensils.
The low hum of morning.
Laughter—easy, unguarded, alive.
“Don’t burn them,” his spouse teased from the doorway.
“I won’t.”
“You always say that.”
Sunghoon huffed lightly.
“I’ll get it right this time.”
The children giggled.
Something light.
Something real.
He moved through it all naturally.
Flipping pancakes.
Answering questions.
Listening to small stories that didn’t need to be important to matter.
And yet—
something stayed.
Not heavy.
Not overwhelming.
Just…there.
A quiet awareness.
Because now he knew.
Not just that Sunoo was gone—
but when.
The same day.
The memory lingered at the edge of everything.
Not interrupting.
Not taking over.
Just… existing.
“Mine’s bigger,” one of them said.
“No, it’s not.”
“It is!”
Sunghoon glanced over.
“They’re the same.”
“They’re not.”
“They are now.”
They laughed again.
He watched them for a moment.
The way they leaned into each other.
The way everything felt full.
And slowly—
he understood something.
That life didn’t wait for grief to finish.
That joy and loss—could exist at the same time.
That he had lived one of the happiest days of his life and on the same day someone he loved—
took his last breath.
And neither of those things—
could be undone.
“Hey.”
His spouse’s voice pulled him back.
“You’re spacing out again.”
Sunghoon blinked.
“…Sorry.”
She studied him.
Careful.
“You sure you’re okay?”
He paused.
Because the answer wasn’t simple.
He thought about the email.
The words.
The years.
The version of himself who didn’t know—
and the one who did.
Then…
slowly
“…Yeah,” he said.
And after a beat…
“I am.”
Not because it didn’t hurt.
Not because everything made sense.
But because he could carry it now.
Not alone—
but alongside everything else.
Later that day when the house grew quiet again, Sunghoon stepped outside. The air was still. He didn’t go far. Just stood there.
A faint breath left him.
“Even then.”
He looked up.
At nothing in particular.
“…I would’ve stayed.”
The words came softer now.
Not sharp.
Not desperate.
Just true.
Then after a long pause
“…but I understand.”
That was new.
Not easy.
Not complete.
But real.
Sunghoon closed his eyes briefly.
And this time when he remembered…
it wasn’t the hospital.
Not the email.
Not the ending.
It was Sunoo at sixteen.
Bright.
Loud.
Smiling like he had nowhere else to be.
Sunghoon exhaled.
A small, steady breath.
“…Goodbye, Sunoo.”
This time
it didn’t feel unfinished.
Not because the love ended.
But because it finally had a place to rest.
He turned back toward the house.
Toward the voices.
The warmth.
The life that was still his.
And this time he didn’t hesitate.
Because loving someone, even after they’re gone—
doesn’t stop you from living.
It just becomes a part of you.
Quiet.
Enduring.
A love that existed once in sunlight
and now—
in memory.
And somehow—
that was enough.
Until eternity.