Archive of Our Own

Every Lifetime

-----

Mingi died for Yunho before he ever learned what it meant to love him.

That was the first cruelty.

Not the arrow.

Not the blood.

Not even the way Yunho screamed his name so violently that the birds scattered from the palace roof and the guards froze where they stood, grown men with swords in their hands and no courage left in their bones.

No.

The cruelty was that Mingi had been seventeen.

Too young to know that love could be a blade.

Too young to know that devotion, when left unchecked, could become a grave.

Too young to understand that the moment he stepped in front of Prince Yunho, the universe would mistake sacrifice for romance and build a curse out of it.

He only knew one thing.

The arrow was meant for Yunho.

So Mingi moved.

Fast.

Thoughtless.

Instinctive.

One second Yunho was laughing at something stupid Mingi had said under his breath during court training, all tall limbs and royal silk and sunlight caught in his eyes.

The next, Mingi was standing between him and death.

The arrow struck deep.

For a moment, there was no pain.

Only surprise.

A strange pressure beneath his ribs.

Yunho’s smile disappearing.

The world tilting.

Then Yunho caught him.

“Mingi?”

It was not a prince’s voice.

It was a boy’s.

Barely grown.

Terrified.

Mingi blinked up at him, confused by the warmth spreading beneath his palm. He looked down.

Red.

So much red.

“Oh,” he whispered.

Yunho pressed both hands to the wound like he could command blood back into the body by royal decree.

“No. No, no, no. Stay with me.”

Mingi wanted to laugh. Yunho always sounded so offended when the world refused to obey him.

The palace erupted around them.

Guards shouting.

Servants running.

Someone screaming for a physician.

But Yunho heard none of it.

His whole world had narrowed to Mingi’s face.

“Mingi,” he said again, softer this time, broken around the edges. “Look at me.”

Mingi did.

Of course he did.

He had always looked at Yunho when Yunho asked.

Since they were children.

Since Yunho had been a lonely prince with too many rules and Mingi had been the son of a guard captain who got punished for climbing walls, stealing pears, and teaching His Highness how to swear.

They had grown side by side.

Yunho in silk.

Mingi in training cloth.

Yunho with duty wrapped around his throat.

Mingi with bruises on his knuckles and sunlight in his grin.

They were not meant to be equals.

They were not meant to be anything.

But Yunho had never looked at Mingi like he was beneath him.

And Mingi had never learned how to survive that.

“You’re crying,” Mingi said.

Yunho made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.

“Shut up.”

“Rude,” Mingi breathed.

“Mingi.”

There it was.

The fear.

The truth of it.

Mingi felt it then—not the wound, not really, but the cold beginning to climb through him. His fingers shook where they clutched Yunho’s sleeve.

He wanted to say something clever.

Something easy.

Something that would make Yunho stop looking like the world had ended.

But his breath hitched.

Yunho bent closer.

“Mingi, please.”

The word struck deeper than the arrow.

Please.

Princes did not beg.

Yunho did.

For him.

Mingi swallowed, tasting metal.

“You’re safe?”

Yunho’s face crumpled.

“Don’t ask me that.”

“You’re safe?” Mingi repeated, because suddenly it mattered more than anything.

Yunho nodded too fast.

“Yes. Yes, I’m safe. You idiot. You stupid, reckless—”

“Good.”

“Mingi, no.”

Mingi smiled.

It hurt.

Still, he smiled.

Because Yunho was alive.

Because the arrow had missed him.

Because if this was the price, Mingi had paid it before he even knew what he was buying.

Yunho pressed his forehead to Mingi’s.

“Don’t leave me.”

Mingi’s eyes fluttered.

“I wouldn’t.”

“You are.”

“I’ll find you,” Mingi whispered.

He didn’t know why he said it.

The words felt older than him.

Older than the palace.

Older than the blood beneath them.

Yunho’s breath caught.

“What?”

Mingi tried to answer.

Couldn’t.

The world blurred.

Yunho’s arms tightened around him.

“Mingi. Mingi, look at me. Stay with me. Stay. That’s an order.”

Mingi almost laughed again.

Bossy until the end.

Then the courtyard went silent.

Not because the noise stopped.

But because Mingi did.

 

Yunho died three days later.

Not from an arrow.

Not from poison.

Not from any wound the court physicians could name.

He simply stopped living.

 

He sat beside Mingi’s grave beneath the plum tree where they used to hide from lessons, wrapped in mourning white, and refused food. Refused water. Refused comfort.

His father shouted.

His mother wept.

The kingdom waited.

Yunho only stared at the soil.

On the third night, when the moon was thin and pale above him, Yunho pressed his hand to the earth and whispered,

“Find me.”

Then he closed his eyes.

And the universe, cruel and listening, answered.

 

-------

 

The second time, Mingi drowned.

The third, Yunho burned.

The fourth, Mingi died beside a woman he had married because Yunho had been born a priest and could never touch him.

The fifth, Yunho was hanged as a traitor.

The sixth, Mingi forgot his name before the fever took him.

The seventh, they never met until the battlefield, where Yunho held a dying stranger and sobbed like he had loved him forever.

Because he had.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The details changed.

The ending did not.

There was always a meeting.

Always recognition, even if one of them did not understand it.

Always love.

Always death.

Sometimes years passed first.

Sometimes only days.

 

Once, they had one perfect summer in a coastal village where Yunho repaired boats and Mingi sang badly while gutting fish. No titles. No wars. No palace walls. No gods.

Just them.

Barefoot.

Sunburned.

Happy.

Yunho thought maybe the curse had missed them that time.

Then the storm came.

Mingi was swept from the rocks before Yunho could reach him.

His last memory of that life was seawater in his lungs and Yunho’s voice screaming from somewhere above the waves.

 

After that, Yunho began to understand.

Love did not save them.

Love summoned the ending.

And eventually, after enough lifetimes, after enough graves, after enough versions of Mingi lost beneath dirt, water, fire, snow, steel—

Yunho started remembering.

Not from birth.

That would have been kinder, maybe.

No.

The universe waited.

It let him grow.

Let him be a child.

Let him learn language, school, hunger, fear, music, laughter.

Let him believe he was only one person.

Then, always around eighteen, the dreams began.

At first, they were fragments.

A plum tree.

Blood on silk.

A ship cracking open beneath lightning.

Mingi’s hands, calloused and warm.

A wedding ring hidden under floorboards.

A hospital room.

A gunshot.

Snow.

So much snow.

Then came the names.

Not one Mingi.

Many.

Min-gi.

Mingyu.

Minseok.

A boy with his face and another name in a century that no longer existed.

And always the same eyes.

Always.

 

Yunho would wake gasping, hands clawing at his own chest like he could dig out the memories before they rooted.

But they always rooted.

 

By twenty, he remembered everything.

Every lifetime.

Every kiss.

Every funeral.

Every version of himself that had begged.

Every version of Mingi that had died anyway.

 

And Mingi?

Mingi remembered nothing.

 

That was the final cruelty.

Every lifetime was new to him.

Every smile honest.

Every confession brave.

Every first kiss sacred.

Every death unexpected.

 

Yunho carried the centuries alone.

-----

Yunho was seventeen when he met Song Mingi again.

The practice room smelled like sweat, floor polish, cheap deodorant, and desperation.

Boys lined the walls in loose shirts and worn trainers, trying not to look nervous while doing a terrible job of it. Some stretched. Some whispered. Some stared at the mirrors like they were already picturing themselves famous.

Yunho stood near the back.

Tall.

Quiet.

Polite.

Careful.

He had not started dreaming yet, not fully, but something in him had already been wrong for months.

A restlessness beneath his skin.

A sense that he was late for something.

Or someone.

 

Then the door opened.

A lanky boy stumbled in with limbs too long for his body, hair falling into his eyes, backpack slipping off one shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Sorry, sorry, I got lost.”

Someone laughed.

The instructor sighed.

Yunho stopped breathing.

The boy looked up.

And the world folded.

Not dramatically.

No thunder.

No flash of divine light.

Just one heartbeat turning into a grave.

Mingi.

 

He was younger here.

Awkward in the way teenagers were before they understood what their bones were building. His cheeks were flushed from running. His lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes scanned the room and landed on Yunho for half a second.

No recognition.

Of course.

Mingi looked away.

Yunho nearly collapsed.

The instructor clapped once.

 

“Song Mingi. Line up.”

 

Song Mingi.

Yunho tasted the name like a wound reopening.

Mingi.

Not a variation.

Not a near thing.

Mingi.

The universe had gotten lazy.

Or crueler.

Probably crueler.

 

Mingi took his place two rows ahead.

He fumbled the first combination.

Tripped over his own foot.

Muttered a curse under his breath.

Then glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.

Yunho had.

Yunho noticed everything.

 

The way Mingi bit the inside of his cheek when concentrating.

The way he laughed at himself before anyone else could.

The way his shoulders hunched when the instructor corrected him too sharply.

The way his body, even unfinished and clumsy, already carried music like memory.

 

Yunho had seen him hold swords.

Oars.

Cameras.

Cigarettes.

A dying child.

A wedding bouquet.

A rifle.

A violin.

 

Now he watched him hold a water bottle with both hands and spill half of it down his shirt.

Yunho turned away and pressed his palm against the mirror.

Cold glass.

Real.

This was real.

Mingi was alive.

Mingi was here.

And Yunho had to stay away from him.

That thought arrived clean and sharp.

No hesitation.

No romance.

No hope.

Stay away.

Because every time Yunho loved him, Mingi died.

Every time Mingi loved him back, fate came collecting.

So this time, Yunho would not be kind.

 

Not too kind.

He would not be cruel either.

He wasn’t strong enough for that.

But he would be distant.

Safe.

Polite.

He would watch from far enough away that destiny might not notice.

He would let Mingi live.

Even if Mingi lived without him.

Especially then.

 

It lasted four days.

 

On the fifth, Mingi fainted.

Not dramatically.

Not beautifully.

He had been pushing too hard, because boys like Mingi always did when they thought they were behind. He stayed after practice. Repeated the same move until his knees trembled. Refused dinner because he said he wasn’t hungry.

Yunho watched from the doorway like a coward.

Leave, he told himself.

Let someone else notice.

Let someone else care.

Then Mingi swayed.

Yunho moved before thought could catch him.

He crossed the room and caught Mingi under the arms just as his legs buckled.

Mingi’s weight hit him.

Alive.

Warm.

Too thin.

Too familiar.

Yunho’s whole body remembered holding him dead.

He almost made a sound.

Instead, he lowered him carefully to the floor.

 

“Mingi?”

Mingi blinked slowly, lashes fluttering.

“Hyung?”

 

The word went through Yunho like an arrow.

Not again.

Not like that.

Not with trust already blooming in his voice.

 

“You didn’t eat,” Yunho said, because anger was safer than tenderness.

Mingi frowned, dazed. “I did.”

“What?”

“A mint.”

Yunho stared at him.

Mingi blinked again.

“Two mints.”

Yunho wanted to shake him.

Wanted to wrap him in a blanket.

Wanted to scream at the universe for making this boy so breakable again.

 

Instead he said, “You’re an idiot.”

Mingi smiled weakly.

“Mean.”

Yunho looked away too fast.

He knew that smile.

He had seen it under a plum tree.

On a sinking ship.

Behind cigarette smoke.

Across hospital pillows.

Mean.

Rude.

Bossy.

Always the same.

Always Mingi.

 

Yunho stood, forced himself to breathe, and went to get food.

When he came back, he shoved a convenience store triangle kimbap and banana milk into Mingi’s hands.

“Eat.”

Mingi stared up at him.

“You bought this for me?”

“No. I bought it for the ghost haunting the practice room.”

Mingi laughed.

A small thing.

Barely there.

It ruined Yunho anyway.

 

After that, Mingi started following him around.

Not constantly.

Not annoyingly.

Just enough.

Asking questions.

Borrowing tape.

Standing beside him during warmups.

Laughing too loudly when Yunho made dry comments under his breath.

Yunho tried to be boring.

Mingi found him funny.

Yunho tried to be cold.

Mingi decided he was shy.

Yunho tried to disappear.

Mingi kept finding him.

It was infuriating.

It was inevitable.

It was the beginning of the end.

-----

Yunho turned eighteen in a dorm room with seven other trainees singing off-key over a convenience store cake.

Mingi had stuck two candles into it because they only had two.

“One for each decade,” he explained proudly.

“I’m not twenty.”

“Practice.”

“That makes no sense.”

“You make no sense.”

 

The others laughed.

Yunho smiled despite himself.

Mingi sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, grinning up like Yunho’s existence was something worth celebrating.

It terrified him.

The lights were off except for the candles.

Their small flames trembled in the dark.

“Make a wish,” Mingi said.

Yunho looked at him.

 

Don’t love me.

That was the first wish.

 

Live.

That was the second.

 

He blew out the candles.

 

That night, the memories came.

All of them.

Not dreams.

Not fragments.

A flood.

 

Yunho woke choking on seawater that wasn’t there.

His hands clawed at his throat.

He rolled off the mattress and hit the floor hard enough to wake Hongjoong.

 

“Yunho?”

 

Yunho couldn’t answer.

He saw blood.

Mingi’s blood.

He saw a battlefield.

A burning house.

A train station.

Mingi older.

Mingi younger.

Mingi laughing.

Mingi crying.

Mingi saying I love you in languages Yunho no longer spoke but understood anyway.

Mingi dying.

Again.

Again.

Again.

 

Yunho crawled to the bathroom and threw up until his stomach was empty.

Then he locked the door and sobbed with a towel pressed to his mouth so nobody would hear.

 

By morning, Jeong Yunho was centuries old.

And Song Mingi was still eighteen.

 

Still alive.

Still making toast badly in the dorm kitchen and burning one side while leaving the other pale.

 

Still grinning when Yunho walked in.

“Birthday boy. Want breakfast?”

Yunho stared at him.

Mingi’s smile faltered.

“What?”

Yunho could see him with an arrow in his chest.

With water in his lungs.

With fever sweat on his skin.

With glass in his hair after the car crash.

With snow caught on his eyelashes.

Alive.

Dead.

Alive.

Dead.

Alive.

Dead.

 

Mingi lowered the spatula.

“Hyung?”

Yunho turned and walked out.

Behind him, Mingi went very quiet.

Good, Yunho thought, even as something inside him tore.

Good.

Hate me early.

It will hurt less.

 

But Mingi did not hate him.

That would have been easier.

Mingi only became careful.

 

The bright, clumsy openness he had offered Yunho began to fold in on itself. He stopped saving Yunho seats. Stopped asking stupid questions just to hear Yunho answer. Stopped following him to the vending machine.

He still smiled.

At everyone.

At Yunho too, when necessary.

But Yunho knew the difference.

He had known Mingi across centuries.

He knew every version of his hurt.

This one was quiet.

This one pretended not to bleed.

 

And Yunho, coward that he was, let him.

Because Mingi alive and hurt was better than Mingi loved and dead.

That became his mantra.

 

His prayer.

His punishment.

Alive and hurt.

Alive and hurt.

Alive and hurt.

Then they debuted.

And the world fell in love with them.

-----

Being an idol gave Yunho a thousand reasons to touch Mingi and none of them were safe.

Choreography.

Fanservice.

Award show stages.

Photoshoots.

Backstage chaos.

Group hugs.

In-ear fixes.

Mic pack adjustments.

 

Sleeping shoulder to shoulder in vans because their schedules tried to grind them into dust.

Yunho became very good at surviving small deaths.

 

Mingi’s hand brushing his during formation.

Mingi’s laugh against his neck when they collapsed together after practice.

Mingi’s exhausted head dropping onto Yunho’s shoulder during flights.

Mingi reaching blindly for him in crowds.

Every time, Yunho let himself have one second.

 

One.

 

Then he pulled away.

Not harshly.

Just enough.

Always enough.

 

At first, Mingi noticed.

His eyes would flicker.

His mouth would tighten.

Then he learned.

That was worse.

Mingi stopped reaching.

Yunho had no right to miss it.

 

He did anyway.

 

On camera, they were fine.

Perfect, even.

They had chemistry fans loved because fans always noticed truth before people admitted it. They laughed during interviews. Danced together. Teased each other. Shared glances that became gifs within minutes.

People called them soulmates.

Yunho avoided looking at the comments.

Mingi read them sometimes.

Yunho knew because Mingi would go quiet after.

Not sad exactly.

Thoughtful.

Like something in the word soulmate bothered him.

Like it tugged on a thread buried too deep to see.

 

One night in a hotel in Bangkok, after a concert that left all of them hollowed out and buzzing, Yunho found Mingi alone on the balcony.

The city glowed beneath them.

Hot air.

Traffic.

Neon.

Mingi leaned against the railing with damp hair and tired eyes.

Yunho should have left.

Instead he stepped outside.

 

Mingi did not turn.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Yunho said.

Mingi huffed.

“It’s thirty degrees.”

“Still.”

“Still,” Mingi echoed.

Silence settled.

Not comfortable.

Not anymore.

 

Yunho stood beside him, careful to leave space between their arms.

Mingi looked down at the street.

“Do you believe in past lives?”

Yunho’s heart stopped.

His hand tightened around the railing.

“Why?”

Mingi shrugged.

“I don’t know. Fans keep saying we look like people who knew each other before.”

Yunho said nothing.

Mingi laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.

“Stupid, right?”

“No,” Yunho said before he could stop himself.

Mingi looked at him then.

Really looked.

The city light caught in his eyes.

For one reckless second, Yunho was no longer in Bangkok.

 

He was beneath a plum tree.

On a ship deck.

In a burning field.

In a hospital corridor.

Every life collapsed into this one.

 

Mingi’s voice went quiet.

“Sometimes I dream about you.”

Yunho could not breathe.

Mingi looked embarrassed immediately.

 

“Not like— I mean, sometimes. Weird places. Old places. You’re always there.”

 

Yunho stared at him.

Don’t.

Don’t do this.

Don’t remember.

Don’t make this harder.

Mingi swallowed.

“In one of them, I think I died.”

Yunho’s vision blurred.

Mingi studied his face, and something shifted in his expression.

“Hyung?”

Yunho stepped back.

“I’m tired.”

Mingi’s face closed.

“Right.”

“Mingi—”

“No, it’s fine.”

It was not fine.

 

Nothing had been fine for centuries.

Mingi looked back over the railing.

“I’m used to it.”

That was the cruelest thing he could have said.

Because he wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t dramatic.

He simply accepted Yunho leaving as if it had become part of the weather.

Yunho went back inside.

He locked himself in the bathroom.

Pressed his fist to his mouth.

And hated himself until morning.

-----

Mingi confessed two years later.

Not in a grand way.

Not with flowers or trembling music or any of the drama the universe usually enjoyed.

It happened in a hotel room in Osaka after a schedule that had been too long and too bright.

The others had gone to sleep or gaming or food.

Yunho was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through nothing, when Mingi knocked.

Once.

Soft.

Yunho knew it was him before the door opened.

He always knew.

Mingi stepped inside wearing an oversized hoodie, hair messy, face bare. He looked tired in a way sleep would not fix.

“Can we talk?”

Yunho’s first instinct was fear.

It usually was.

“About what?”

Mingi gave him a look.

“You know, you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act stupid when you’re scared.”

 

Yunho’s grip tightened around his phone.

Mingi shut the door.

The click sounded final.

He didn’t sit.

He stood near the small table by the window, fingers twisting in his sleeves.

 

“I’m just going to say it,” Mingi said. “Because if I don’t, I’ll keep swallowing it until I choke.”

Yunho stood.

“Mingi.”

“No. Don’t use that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The one where you already know you’re going to hurt me and you’re trying to sound gentle about it.”

 

Yunho went still.

Mingi smiled sadly.

“Yeah. That one.”

 

The room hummed around them.

Air conditioning.

Distant traffic.

A phone vibrating somewhere under a pillow.

Mingi inhaled.

“I love you.”

Yunho closed his eyes.

There it was.

The sentence that had started wars inside him.

The sentence he had heard from Mingi in every form.

Whispered.

Laughed.

Sobbed.

Signed with trembling hands in one life where Mingi had never spoken.

Written on paper.

Carved into wood.

Breathed against Yunho’s mouth.

I love you.

 

Every time, it had been a beginning.

Every time, it had become an ending.

Mingi continued because Yunho said nothing.

“I know you probably already know. I’m not subtle. I tried to be. I’m bad at it.”

A small laugh.

Broken.

“I’m not asking you for anything. I just need to stop pretending I don’t feel it. Because it’s making me mean in my head, and I hate that. I hate looking at you and wishing you’d just—”

 

His voice cracked.

Yunho opened his eyes.

Mingi looked away fast.

 

“Wishing you’d just choose something. Me or not me. But stop standing close enough to make me hope and far enough to make me feel stupid for it.”

Yunho’s chest caved.

“Mingi.”

Mingi looked at him.

Hope was a terrible thing on his face.

Yunho almost gave in.

The words rose.

 

I love you too.

I have loved you longer than history remembers.

I have buried you more times than I can survive.

I am tired.

I am so tired.

Please don’t ask me to lose you again.

 

Instead he said,

“You deserve someone who isn’t me.”

Mingi blinked.

Once.

Then again.

Like the words had reached him slowly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

“No.” Mingi’s voice sharpened. “It’s a sentence people use when they don’t want to be honest.”

Yunho forced himself to meet his eyes.

 

“I don’t feel that way.”

The lie was clean.

Precise.

Vicious.

Mingi’s face went blank.

For a second, Yunho thought he had killed something.

Maybe he had.

Then Mingi nodded.

One tiny movement.

“Okay.”

 

Yunho hated that.

He hated that Mingi did not shout.

Did not demand.

Did not make him defend himself.

He just accepted the wound and held it inside his own ribs.

“Mingi—”

“No, it’s okay.” Mingi smiled.

It was the worst thing Yunho had ever seen.

“I asked. You answered.”

“Mingi.”

“Goodnight, hyung.”

He left.

 

Yunho stood in the room long after the door closed.

Then he sank to the floor.

Pressed both hands over his face.

And did not make a sound.

In the room next door, Mingi cried into his pillow like someone had died.

Yunho knew.

He heard him.

He did not go.

That was the night Yunho learned there were ways to be crueler than death.

-----

Mingi changed after that.

Not all at once.

That would have been merciful.

No, it happened slowly, in pieces Yunho could not stop counting.

First, Mingi stopped looking for him after performances.

Before, his eyes always found Yunho first.

A habit.

A compass.

Now he looked at Hongjoong.

Or San.

Or the floor.

Then he stopped saving jokes for Yunho.

He still joked.

Still laughed.

Still made rooms brighter by existing in them.

But the jokes no longer landed in Yunho’s lap like offerings.

Then he stopped touching him unless choreography required it.

 

That was the one that almost broke Yunho.

Because Mingi had always been tactile.

Shoulder bumps.

Lazy hands.

Leaning.

Collapsing dramatically across someone’s knees when tired.

 

With Yunho, that ended.

On camera, he performed closeness flawlessly.

Off camera, he gave Yunho exactly what Yunho had asked for.

Distance.

Respect.

Nothing.

Yunho should have been relieved.

 

Mingi was safer this way.

Mingi was free.

Mingi was alive.

 

Then came the collaborations.

A dance challenge with a fourth-generation idol who laughed too hard at everything Mingi said.

A variety show where Mingi got paired with another rapper and came back smiling at his phone.

A live where fans spammed comments about chemistry with someone else.

A backstage photo where another idol’s hand rested on Mingi’s waist for half a second too long.

 

Yunho watched it all.

Quietly.

Professionally.

Like a man watching someone else walk through the home he had burned down himself.

He had no right.

He knew that.

 

He repeated it until it tasted like blood.

You rejected him.

You chose this.

You wanted him to live.

Let him.

 

But jealousy was not reasonable.

Jealousy did not care about ancient curses or noble sacrifices.

It was ugly.

Human.

Immediate.

It crawled beneath Yunho’s skin every time Mingi laughed with someone else.

Every time he leaned close.

Every time someone looked at him and saw what Yunho had spent lifetimes seeing.

Mingi was beautiful.

Not just visually.

Though, yes.

Painfully.

Dangerously.

 

He had grown into himself on stage, all long lines and sharp angles and fire. His voice dropped into songs like thunder. His smile still arrived like sunrise when he forgot to guard it.

But there was more.

Mingi made people feel chosen when he looked at them.

That was his real danger.

He had no idea how devastating he was.

Or maybe now he did.

 

Maybe Yunho had taught him.

That thought made Yunho sick.

 

The first time Yunho interrupted, it was small.

An interview.

Mingi sat at the edge of the sofa beside a guest idol from another group. The man was charming. Too charming. He leaned in whenever Mingi spoke, laughing softly, eyes fixed on Mingi’s mouth.

Yunho watched from two seats away.

The host asked Mingi a question.

Mingi answered.

The idol touched his arm.

A friendly touch.

Nothing.

 

Yunho stood.

Everyone looked at him.

He smiled.

“Sorry, can we switch? My mic pack keeps catching.”

It was a stupid excuse.

His mic pack was fine.

 

The staff blinked.

The host laughed awkwardly.

Mingi stared.

Yunho moved before anyone could argue, stepping between them and lowering himself onto the sofa beside Mingi.

Their shoulders brushed.

Mingi went rigid.

Yunho smiled at the camera like nothing was wrong.

The interview continued.

Under the studio lights, Mingi leaned slightly away from him.

Yunho deserved that.

He still stayed.

 

Afterward, in the hallway, Mingi caught his wrist.

“What was that?”

Yunho looked down at his hand.

Mingi released him immediately, like touching Yunho burned.

“What was what?”

Mingi laughed once.

Cold.

“Don’t.”

Yunho said nothing.

Mingi stepped closer.

“You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You sat between us.”

“My mic—”

“Don’t insult me.”

 

The words snapped through the hallway.

A stylist passing nearby quickly turned around and disappeared.

Mingi’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t get to reject me and then act like I’m betraying you when I breathe near someone else.”

Yunho felt the sentence hit exactly where it was meant to.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

 

Yunho’s control slipped.

“He was touching you.”

 

Mingi stared at him.

For one second, raw disbelief.

Then hurt.

Then anger.

Good.

Anger was better.

Anger kept people alive.

 

Mingi stepped back.

“Next time, close your eyes.”

He walked away.

 

Yunho stayed in the hallway until his hands stopped shaking.

-----

The bus crash happened in winter.

It was raining hard enough to turn the highway into glass.

They were coming back from a schedule outside Seoul, too exhausted to talk properly. Wooyoung had fallen asleep with his mouth open. San was curled into a hoodie. Hongjoong was typing lyrics into his phone with one eye half closed.

 

Mingi sat across the aisle from Yunho.

Head against the window.

Earbuds in.

Eyes shut.

Not asleep.

Yunho knew because Mingi’s fingers tapped rhythm against his thigh.

Yunho watched him.

He shouldn’t have.

He did.

Rain streaked the glass beside Mingi’s face.

 

For a moment, Yunho saw another life.

A train window.

Mingi in a brown coat.

Snow instead of rain.

A goodbye neither of them survived.

 

Yunho looked away.

Then the world screamed.

Brakes.

Metal.

Someone shouting.

The bus lurched violently.

Yunho was thrown sideways.

Glass shattered.

Bodies slammed.

 

A horrible twisting sound tore through the air as the bus skidded, tipped, corrected, struck something hard, then stopped at an angle that made everything feel wrong.

 

For three seconds, there was silence.

Then pain arrived.

Groans.

Coughing.

Someone crying out.

Yunho’s ears rang.

His shoulder burned.

He tasted blood.

He lifted his head.

 

“Mingi?”

No answer.

His heart stopped.

 

“Mingi?”

He unbuckled with shaking hands and stumbled into the aisle.

The bus lights flickered.

Rain poured through a broken window.

Members were moving.

 

Alive.

Scared.

But moving.

 

“Mingi!”

Then he saw him.

Half-collapsed against the side of the bus, pinned awkwardly between seats, blood running from his hairline down his temple.

Too still.

No.

No.

No.

Yunho was on his knees before he remembered crossing the distance.

 

“Mingi.”

He touched his face.

Warm.

Too pale.

 

“Mingi, wake up.”

Nothing.

The centuries opened beneath him.

Every death at once.

Arrow.

Ocean.

Fire.

Fever.

Snow.

Glass.

Blood.

Always blood.

 

Yunho’s hands shook so badly he could barely find Mingi’s pulse.

There.

Faint.

Present.

Not enough.

 

“Hyung?” San’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “Yunho, are you—”

“Call emergency services!”

“They’re coming—”

“Now!”

 

His voice tore out of him, unrecognizable.

Mingi’s head lolled slightly.

Yunho caught it with both hands.

 

“No, no, stay with me.” He pressed his forehead to Mingi’s. “Please. Please, not again.”

The bus went quiet around him.

He didn’t notice.

 

“Mingi, please. I can’t. I can’t do this again. I did what I was supposed to do. I stayed away. I hurt you. I let you go. You don’t get to die anyway.”

Mingi’s lashes fluttered.

Yunho sobbed.

Actually sobbed.

Hard.

Ugly.

Terrified.

 

“Please don’t leave me again. Please. Not in this life too. Please, Min—”

Mingi’s eyes cracked open.

Unfocused.

“Hyung?”

 

Yunho exhaled like his soul had been ripped out and shoved back in wrong.

Mingi blinked at him.

Blood slid down his cheek.

 

“Why are you crying?”

Yunho laughed and cried at the same time.

Because he was alive.

Because he was still there.

Because Yunho had failed at saving him from pain and failed at loving him and failed at staying away and still, somehow, Mingi was looking at him.

Yunho touched his cheek.

 

“You’re okay.”

Mingi looked confused.

“You called me…”

Yunho froze.

Mingi swallowed.

His voice was barely audible.

“You called me something else.”

 

The sirens came then.

Red light flashing through rain.

The others moving.

Staff shouting.

Hands pulling Yunho back so paramedics could reach Mingi.

Yunho fought them without meaning to.

“No—”

“Yunho, let go!”

He couldn’t.

Mingi looked at him through the chaos.

Not angry.

Not hurt.

Afraid.

Not of the crash.

Of Yunho.

Of whatever had just broken open between them.

And Yunho knew, with sick certainty, that the life he had built from lies was over.

-----

Mingi cornered him three days after the accident.

Yunho had been avoiding him.

Badly.

Everyone noticed.

Of course everyone noticed.

 

Hongjoong looked like he wanted to drag Yunho into a room and interrogate him under a lamp. Seonghwa kept watching Mingi with quiet worry. Wooyoung, for once, did not joke.

Mingi had twelve stitches near his hairline and a bruised rib.

 

Alive.

Yunho repeated it every time he saw him.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

 

But Mingi was done being treated like something Yunho could protect by abandoning.

He found Yunho in an empty practice room after midnight.

Of course he did.

Mingi had always found him.

 

Every lifetime.

Every locked door.

Every battlefield.

Every lie.

 

The door closed behind him.

Yunho looked at him through the mirror.

“You shouldn’t be practicing.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be resting.”

“I’m not here for advice.”

 

Yunho turned.

Mingi stood under the fluorescent lights in a black hoodie and loose sweatpants, face pale but eyes steady.

Too steady.

 

“What did you mean?” Mingi asked.

Yunho said nothing.

Mingi stepped closer.

“In the bus. You said not again.”

Yunho looked away.

“You were injured. I panicked.”

“You called me Minseok.”

Yunho went cold.

Mingi’s voice shook, but he did not stop.

 

“I never told anyone about that name.”

 

Yunho’s throat closed.

 

Mingi laughed once, breathless and scared.

“Because there’s nothing to tell. It’s just a name from a dream I had when I was a kid. Over and over. Someone kept calling me that while I was dying.”

Yunho closed his eyes.

Mingi whispered,

“It was you.”

Silence.

Huge.

Merciless.

Yunho opened his eyes.

Mingi looked at him like he wanted Yunho to deny it.

 

Like denial would be kinder.

Yunho could not lie anymore.

Not about this.

Not with Mingi standing there bruised and trembling and alive by inches.

“Yes.”

 

Mingi’s face changed.

Not shock.

Not exactly.

More like the floor had vanished beneath him and he was still waiting to fall.

 

“Yes?” he repeated.

 

Yunho swallowed.

“It was me.”

 

Mingi shook his head slowly.

“No. No, don’t do that. Don’t answer like that unless you’re going to explain.”

 

Yunho’s hands curled into fists.

“Mingi—”

 

“No.” His voice cracked. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after everything. Not after making me feel insane for years. Not after looking at me like I’m something you lost and then treating me like I’m nothing.”

Yunho flinched.

Mingi saw it.

Good.

He deserved worse.

“I need the truth,” Mingi said. “For once. I don’t care if it’s ugly. I don’t care if it makes no sense. Just stop protecting me from information about my own life.”

 

Yunho almost laughed.

His own life.

Which one?

The prince’s guard?

The navigator?

The singer?

The soldier?

The boy in the snow?

The man in the hospital?

The idol standing in front of him now?

 

Yunho sat down on the floor because his knees no longer trusted him.

Mingi did not move.

 

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Yunho said,

“You die.”

Mingi blinked.

“What?”

Yunho stared at his hands.

“Every time.”

Mingi went completely still.

 

Yunho continued before fear could stop him.

“I don’t know when it started. I don’t know why. I don’t know who made the rules. But we find each other. Every life. Different names, different places, different everything. But it’s always us.”

Mingi’s breath grew uneven.

“And?”

“And we love each other.”

The words came out quiet.

Devastating.

 

Yunho still could not look at him.

“Then one of us dies.”

Mingi did not speak.

Yunho forced the rest out.

“Usually you.”

A sound left Mingi.

Small.

Wounded.

 

Yunho pressed his nails into his palms.

“I started remembering when I turned eighteen. This life. Every life. All of it. I remembered you dying in my arms before you even knew me properly. I remembered drowning after you. Burning. Bleeding. I remembered a thousand versions of you saying my name like I could save you.”

His voice broke.

“I never could.”

 

Mingi sank slowly to the floor across from him.

Not close.

Not far.

Just there.

Yunho looked up then.

Mingi’s face had gone white.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because you asked.”

 

Mingi laughed, sharp and terrible.

“I asked why you called me a name from a dream, Yunho. I didn’t ask you to tell me we’re cursed lovers from history.”

 

Yunho nodded.

“I know.”

 

“You know how insane this sounds?”

“Yes.”

 

“You know how cruel this is if you’re lying?”

 

Yunho’s eyes burned.

“I know.”

 

Mingi stared at him for a long time.

Then, quietly,

“Prove it.”

 

Yunho wished he would not ask.

Of course he asked.

 

Yunho told him about the plum tree.

Mingi’s breathing changed.

Yunho told him about the arrow.

Mingi pressed a hand to his ribs.

Yunho told him about the ship.

Mingi whispered, “I hate deep water.”

 

Yunho told him about the life where Mingi had been a jazz singer in 1927 with a laugh like broken champagne and lungs that betrayed him before winter.

Mingi started crying without noticing.

Yunho told him about the university life.

The car crash.

The song Mingi had written but never finished.

Mingi covered his mouth.

Because he knew that melody.

He had hummed it as a child.

His mother had asked where he learned it.

He had said he didn’t know.

 

Yunho kept going until the room felt full of ghosts.

Then Mingi whispered,

“Stop.”

 

Yunho stopped.

Mingi bent forward, both hands in his hair.

“I’m going to throw up.”

 

Yunho moved instinctively.

Mingi snapped his head up.

“Don’t.”

 

Yunho froze.

Mingi’s face twisted.

“Don’t come near me like you care after telling me you rejected me because I die too much.”

Yunho recoiled like he had been struck.

 

Mingi stood unsteadily.

“You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

“I was trying to save you.”

“No,” Mingi said. “You were trying to save yourself from watching.”

 

Yunho had no defense.

None.

Mingi wiped his face with his sleeve, furious at the tears.

“You left me alone in this life because you were grieving lives I don’t remember.”

“Mingi—”

“And maybe that hurt. Maybe it destroyed you. I’m not saying it didn’t.” His voice shook harder. “But you punished me for deaths I didn’t choose.”

 

Yunho could barely breathe.

Mingi looked at him.

Really looked.

And for the first time, there was no hope in it.

Only heartbreak.

 

“I loved you in this life,” Mingi said. “This one. The only one I had.”

Yunho’s tears spilled over.

“And you made me feel like I was hard to love.”

 

That was the blow that finished him.

Yunho bowed his head.

Mingi walked to the door.

Then paused.

His hand rested on the handle.

 

Quietly, without turning around, he said,

“I need to remember for myself. Not through you.”

Then he left.

 

Yunho remained on the practice room floor until sunrise.

For the first time in centuries, he wondered if losing Mingi alive was what he had deserved all along.

-----

Mingi did not speak to Yunho for nine days.

Not properly.

Not beyond work.

Not beyond choreography counts, camera smiles, and polite little sentences that felt like glass pressed into Yunho’s throat.

 

“Can you move left?”

“Your mic is showing.”

“We’re starting.”

“Thanks.”

 

That was all.

And Yunho took it.

Because Mingi was right.

That was the worst part.

Not the silence.

Not the distance.

 

Not even the way Mingi stopped sleeping in the same room when they travelled, claiming he needed “space” so calmly that management accepted it without question.

No.

The worst part was that Mingi was right.

 

Yunho had told himself for years that he was being noble.

That he was sacrificing his own happiness.

That hurting Mingi now was better than burying him later.

 

But Mingi had looked at him under fluorescent lights and sliced straight through every excuse.

You were trying to save yourself from watching.

And Yunho had nothing.

 

Because somewhere beneath the grief and terror and centuries of funerals, there had been a selfish little truth he never wanted to name.

He could not watch Mingi die again.

So he made Mingi lonely instead.

As if loneliness was not its own slow death.

 

Mingi started remembering on the tenth day.

It happened during rehearsal.

They were running an old track, one they had performed so many times that their bodies no longer needed permission to move. Yunho stayed professional. He always did. He counted under his breath, tracked formations, kept distance.

Then the bridge hit.

Mingi turned.

Yunho reached.

Their hands were supposed to pass close without touching.

They had done it hundreds of times.

This time, their fingers brushed.

 

Mingi collapsed.

The music kept going for three seconds before someone shouted.

Yunho was already on the floor beside him.

“Mingi?”

Mingi’s eyes were open.

Wide.

Unseeing.

His body shook like he was freezing.

“Mingi, hey. Look at me.”

Mingi’s mouth moved.

No sound came out.

San crouched beside them. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Liar.

Yunho knew.

He knew before Mingi choked out one word.

“Snow.”

Yunho went still.

Mingi’s eyes filled with tears.

“There was snow.”

Yunho’s hand hovered uselessly above him.

The others fell quiet.

 

Mingi looked at Yunho then, and his face crumpled with a grief that did not belong to this life.

“You were so cold.”

Yunho could not speak.

Mingi grabbed the front of his shirt suddenly, violently.

“You were so cold, and I couldn’t move.”

 

Yunho’s vision blurred.

“Mingi.”

 

“I tried.” Mingi’s voice broke open. “I tried to get to you.”

“I know.”

 

“No, you don’t understand.” Mingi was crying now, shaking hard enough that Yunho reached for him without thinking. “I could see you. You were right there. I couldn’t get to you.”

Yunho knew exactly which life it was.

 

1918.

 

A field hospital near the end of a war that swallowed boys and spat out names.

Mingi had been a medic.

Yunho had been a soldier.

They had found each other too late that time.

Always too late.

A shell had fallen close enough to split the earth.

Yunho remembered snow turning red.

Mingi crawling with a broken leg.

Yunho remembered trying to smile so Mingi would not be afraid.

He remembered dying before Mingi reached him.

 

Mingi had lived three more hours.

Long enough to freeze.

Long enough to keep dragging himself across the snow toward a body that had already gone still.

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

Mingi shoved him away.

Not hard.

Enough.

“Don’t.”

Yunho pulled back immediately.

Mingi sat up with San’s help, breathing like his lungs had forgotten this century.

 

Hongjoong looked between them.

“What the hell is going on?”

 

Mingi wiped his face with trembling hands.

“Nothing.”

 

“Mingi—”

“I said nothing.”

 

His voice snapped so sharply that everyone stopped.

He stood on unsteady legs.

“I need air.”

Yunho rose too.

Mingi turned on him.

“Not you.”

The room went silent again.

Yunho nodded once.

Mingi walked out.

This time, San followed him.

 

Yunho stayed where he was, surrounded by people who loved them both and understood nothing.

Hongjoong stared at him.

“Yunho.”

Yunho looked at the floor.

“I can’t explain.”

Hongjoong’s face hardened.

“Then you better learn. Because whatever this is, it’s destroying him.”

 

Yunho almost laughed.

It had been destroying Mingi for centuries.

The difference was that now everybody could see it.

 

Mingi’s memories did not come back in order.

That would have been too merciful.

They arrived like broken glass.

Sharp.

Random.

Impossible to hold without bleeding.

 

A smell of smoke during hair styling sent him stumbling into the hallway, gasping about a house fire no one remembered.

 

A bowl of pears in a waiting room made him cry so suddenly that Wooyoung dropped his phone in panic.

 

Rain against glass left him silent for hours.

 

The worst one came during a live.

They were smiling.

Performing softness.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder on a sofa while comments flew too fast to read.

Yunho stayed at the far end.

Mingi sat between Seonghwa and Wooyoung, laughing at something San said off camera.

For a few minutes, he looked normal.

Almost.

Then someone in the comments wrote:

 

YunGi look like tragic lovers from another life lol

 

Mingi read it.

His smile disappeared.

Yunho saw the exact second memory hit.

Mingi’s hand tightened around his cup.

His breathing changed.

 

Seonghwa noticed first.

“Mingi?”

 

Mingi stared at the screen.

Then whispered,

“We were married.”

The room froze.

 

Wooyoung laughed too loudly.

“What?”

 

Mingi blinked.

Camera.

Live.

Thousands watching.

He recovered, but badly.

“In a drama. I mean. Like, we look like— you know. Historical drama.”

 

San jumped in.

“Ah, tragic lovers concept?”

 

Mingi smiled.

It looked painful.

“Yeah.”

 

Yunho wanted to die.

Not because fans heard.

Because he knew which life Mingi had seen.

 

Joseon again.

Not the first life.

A later one.

No palace that time.

No titles.

Just a scholar with ink on his fingers and a butcher’s son who brought him lunch every day pretending not to care.

 

They had loved quietly.

Carefully.

Bravely.

They had exchanged rings made from cheap silver and called it marriage because no priest, king, or god had earned the right to deny them.

It lasted eight months.

 

Then Yunho was arrested for writing against the crown.

Mingi confessed instead.

Said the papers were his.

Said Yunho knew nothing.

 

Yunho had watched him executed at dawn.

That lifetime had taught Yunho that love could be a lie told to save someone who did not want saving.

 

After the live ended, Mingi went straight to the bathroom and locked the door.

Yunho stood outside it.

Did not knock.

Did not speak.

Just stood there like a ghost guarding another ghost.

 

Eventually, Mingi’s voice came through the door.

“Was it real?”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

 

A long silence.

Then,

“Did I die?”

 

Yunho leaned his forehead against the wall.

“Yes.”

 

Mingi laughed.

It broke halfway.

“Of course I did.”

 

“Mingi…”

“Did you let me?”

Yunho’s eyes snapped open.

“What?”

 

The door opened.

Mingi stood there, pale and furious, eyes red.

“Did you let me die that time too?”

 

Yunho stared at him.

“No.”

 

“Then what happened?”

“I tried to stop it.”

“How hard?”

The question was cruel.

Mingi knew it.

 

Yunho accepted it anyway.

“I begged until I had no voice.”

 

Mingi’s face twitched.

 

“I tried to trade places with you.”

“And?”

“They wouldn’t let me.”

Mingi looked away.

His anger faltered, which somehow hurt more.

 

Yunho whispered,

“I broke both my hands trying to get through the prison door.”

 

Mingi’s eyes filled.

Yunho stepped back.

“I’m not telling you that so you forgive me.”

“Good.”

“I’m telling you because you asked.”

Mingi nodded.

 

Then wiped his face with the heel of his hand, angry at himself.

“I don’t know what’s mine anymore.”

Yunho’s chest ached.

“These memories are yours.”

 

“No.” Mingi looked at him. “They belong to dead versions of me. I’m the one stuck feeling them.”

 

Yunho had never thought of it that way.

Of course he hadn’t.

Because he had centuries to grow around the memories.

Mingi had days.

Days to inherit grief that should have taken lifetimes to survive.

 

Yunho said quietly,

“I’m sorry.”

 

Mingi laughed again.

Wet.

Bitter.

“You keep saying that.”

 

“I know.”

“Does it ever fix anything?”

“No.”

“Then stop.”

 

Yunho nodded.

Mingi looked exhausted.

So young.

So impossibly tired.

“I hate you sometimes,” Mingi whispered.

 

Yunho swallowed.

“I know.”

 

Mingi’s face twisted.

“And that’s the problem.”

 

“What?”

“You just take it.” His voice shook. “You stand there and take it like you deserve it, and then I feel guilty for being angry.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“Stop deciding what I have to feel.”

 

Yunho went silent.

Mingi breathed hard.

Then softer, almost unwillingly,

“I remember loving you.”

 

Yunho’s whole body went still.

Mingi stared at the floor.

“I don’t want to. But I do. Not all of it. Pieces. Enough.”

 

Yunho could barely speak.

“Mingi…”

 

“And I remember you loving me.” Mingi looked up. “That’s what makes this worse.”

 

Yunho’s tears slipped before he could stop them.

Mingi saw.

His expression crumpled.

For one second, he looked like he might reach out.

 

Then he stepped back instead.

“I need you to leave me alone.”

 

Yunho nodded.

“Okay.”

 

Mingi shut the door.

This time, Yunho walked away.

Because Mingi had asked.

And after centuries of loving him badly, Yunho could at least learn how to obey.

 

It was Wooyoung who broke first.

Of course it was.

He cornered Yunho in the kitchen at 2:13 a.m. holding a spoon like a weapon and wearing the expression of a man prepared to commit emotional violence.

“Talk.”

Yunho stared at him.

Wooyoung pointed the spoon.

“Don’t play tall and mysterious with me. I have lived with you for years. I know when you’re being noble in the annoying way.”

 

Yunho sighed.

“Wooyoung.”

 

“No. Mingi has been walking around like he’s haunted, you look like someone dug up your grave and made you apologise to it, and yesterday Seonghwa found Mingi crying because a pear rolled off the counter.”

 

Yunho flinched.

Wooyoung’s anger softened for half a second.

Then hardened again.

“I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then explain.”

“I can’t.”

 

Wooyoung stepped closer.

“Is he in danger?”

 

Yunho went quiet.

Wrong move.

Wooyoung’s face changed.

“Yunho.”

“I don’t know.”

 

That was the most honest answer he had given anyone in years.

Wooyoung lowered the spoon.

“What does that mean?”

 

Yunho sat at the table because he was suddenly exhausted.

“It means I spent years thinking he was safer away from me.”

 

Wooyoung stared.

“Are you the danger?”

“No.”

“Then what is?”

 

Yunho laughed softly.

“I wish I knew.”

 

Wooyoung watched him for a long time.

Then sat across from him.

“You love him.”

It was not a question.

 

Yunho looked down.

“Yes.”

 

Wooyoung exhaled.

“Yeah. Obviously.”

 

Yunho almost smiled.

It hurt too much.

“Does he know?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I rejected him.”

 

Wooyoung blinked.

Then slapped the table so hard Yunho jumped.

“You what?”

“Quiet.”

“No, actually. What?”

 

Yunho dragged a hand down his face.

“I had reasons.”

“Were they stupid?”

“At the time, no.”

“Are they stupid now?”

 

Yunho said nothing.

Wooyoung leaned back, horrified.

“Oh my god. You did the self-sacrificing idiot thing.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“It always is with idiots.”

 

Yunho looked at him.

Wooyoung looked back, angry and scared and too loyal to pretend he wasn’t both.

“Listen to me carefully,” Wooyoung said. “I don’t care what cosmic trauma or emotionally constipated nonsense you’ve got going on. Mingi is not an object you protect by putting on a shelf.”

 

Yunho flinched.

Good.

He deserved that too.

 

Wooyoung continued, quieter now.

“He gets to choose. Even if the choice scares you. Especially then.”

 

Yunho’s throat tightened.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

“I’m learning.”

 

Wooyoung studied him.

Then sighed, all the fight leaking out of him.

“Is this why you look at him like that?”

 

Yunho opened his eyes.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re counting his breaths.”

Yunho could not answer.

 

Wooyoung’s face softened.

“Oh.”

 

That one syllable was almost worse than anger.

Yunho stood.

“I should go.”

 

Wooyoung did not stop him.

But as Yunho reached the doorway, he said,

“For what it’s worth, he still looks for you when he’s scared.”

 

Yunho’s hand tightened on the doorframe.

Wooyoung’s voice dropped.

“He just hates that he does.”

 

Mingi remembered the first lifetime alone.

That was the one Yunho had feared most.

Not because it was the bloodiest.

It wasn’t.

Not because it was the cruelest.

They had worse.

But because it was the beginning.

The original wound.

The first time the universe learned their shape and decided to punish it.

 

It happened after a concert.

Mingi had been strange all night.

Too bright on stage.

Too reckless.

Throwing himself into every move like he was trying to outrun his own mind.

Yunho watched with increasing dread.

Mingi missed one landing.

Only slightly.

Nobody else noticed.

Yunho did.

His heart climbed into his throat.

 

After encore, Mingi disappeared.

Yunho waited.

 

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Then he went looking.

 

He found Mingi outside near the loading area, standing in the cold without a jacket, staring at nothing.

“Mingi.”

Mingi did not turn.

Yunho approached slowly.

“You’re freezing.”

Mingi laughed under his breath.

“That’s funny.”

Yunho stopped.

Mingi looked over his shoulder.

His eyes were wet.

Not from the cold.

 

“I remembered the plum tree.”

 

Yunho’s world tilted.

Mingi turned fully.

“And the arrow.”

 

Yunho could not move.

Mingi touched his own chest.

“It hurt less than I thought it would.”

 

Yunho’s breath left him.

“Mingi…”

 

“I mean, dying hurt. Obviously.” Mingi’s mouth twisted. “But choosing it didn’t.”

 

Yunho’s eyes burned.

“That’s what scares me.”

 

Mingi stepped closer.

“In every memory, I understand why I did it.”

 

“Don’t say that.”

“I do.” His voice broke. “That’s the problem, Yunho. I’m angry at you for making decisions for me, but then I remember myself making the exact same kind of decision.”

 

Yunho shook his head.

“You were seventeen.”

“So were you.”

“You died.”

“And you followed.”

 

The words hit like a slap.

Yunho looked away.

 

Mingi’s voice softened.

“You died beside my grave.”

 

Yunho shut his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

 

Yunho’s control frayed.

“Because I was a child and I didn’t know how to exist in a world where you weren’t breathing.”

 

Mingi’s face crumpled.

Yunho looked at him then, really looked, and there it was.

The first Mingi.

The prince’s guard.

The boy who stole pears and called Yunho rude and died smiling because Yunho was safe.

But he was also this Mingi.

Idol Mingi.

Song Mingi.

A man with his own anger.

His own life.

His own right to choose.

 

Yunho whispered,

“I have loved you very badly.”

 

Mingi’s lips parted.

 

Yunho continued because stopping would be cowardice.

“I thought if I suffered enough, it meant I was doing the right thing. I thought if I stayed away and let you hate me, at least you’d survive.”

His voice shook.

“But I never asked what surviving looked like for you.”

 

Mingi’s tears fell silently.

 

Yunho forced himself not to wipe them.

“I’m sorry. Not because sorry fixes it. It doesn’t. But because you deserved the truth. And a choice. And I took both.”

 

Mingi stared at him.

There was such pain in his face that Yunho wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

 

“I don’t know what to do with all this,” Mingi whispered.

“You don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“What if I remember everything?”

“Then I’ll help you carry it.”

Mingi laughed brokenly.

“You already are carrying it.”

“No.” Yunho shook his head. “I’m carrying mine. Yours is yours. I can stand beside you, but I don’t get to own it.”

Mingi looked at him like that hurt.

 

Like it helped.

Like both were unbearable.

For one reckless second, he stepped closer.

Yunho did not move.

Mingi lifted a trembling hand and touched Yunho’s sleeve.

Not his skin.

Just fabric.

 

Still, Yunho nearly broke.

Mingi’s voice dropped to almost nothing.

“I missed you before I knew you.”

 

Yunho’s heart cracked clean through.

Mingi looked horrified by his own confession.

He pulled his hand back.

“I need to go.”

 

Yunho nodded.

Mingi walked away.

This time, he looked back once.

It was not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But it was not goodbye either.

 

The worst thing about Mingi remembering was that he became easier to love.

Yunho had expected distance.

Anger.

More silence.

He had prepared himself for Mingi to look at him like a monster wearing a familiar face.

Instead, Mingi became quieter.

Not weaker.

Never that.

Just quieter in the way grief made people careful.

He laughed less loudly.

Slept less.

Watched rain like it was speaking a language only he could almost understand.

Sometimes Yunho would find him staring at his own hands.

Once, when Yunho asked if he was okay, Mingi looked up and said,

“I think these hands have buried you.”

 

Yunho had no answer.

Because they had.

Twice.

Maybe more.

 

Mingi remembered pieces.

Not everything.

Enough to bleed.

Not enough to heal.

 

And Yunho could do nothing except stand nearby and hate himself for wanting to be the person Mingi leaned on.

He had lost the right.

That was what nobody understood.

 

San kept glaring at him like he should fix it.

Wooyoung kept muttering that they were both stupid.

Seonghwa kept gently putting food in front of Mingi.

Hongjoong watched all of them with exhausted eyes, like he was trying to manage a group and a haunting at the same time.

But Yunho knew the truth.

 

There were some things love did not fix.

Sometimes love was the knife.

Sometimes love was the hand holding it.

 

The confession came from someone else on a Thursday.

Of course it did.

The universe had always enjoyed being dramatic.

They were backstage at a music festival, the kind where hallways were too crowded, staff were too stressed, and idols floated in and out of each other’s waiting rooms with polite bows and half-familiar smiles.

Mingi had been better that day.

Not fine.

Fine was a dead word.

But better.

He had eaten breakfast without being bullied into it. He had teased Jongho until Jongho threatened violence. He had laughed during rehearsal and looked surprised by the sound, like he had forgotten his body could still make it.

Yunho had watched from across the room and felt something dangerously close to relief.

 

Then Lee Daehyun walked in.

Soloist.

Ex-dancer.

Pretty in the sharp, polished way that made cameras love him.

He and Mingi had filmed a dance challenge two months earlier. Fans had gone feral. Edits, compilations, slow-motion clips of Daehyun touching Mingi’s shoulder, comments about chemistry, the usual harmless industry nonsense.

Harmless.

 

Yunho had told himself that word until it lost meaning.

 

Daehyun greeted everyone politely, then his gaze found Mingi.

It softened.

Yunho noticed.

Of course Yunho noticed.

He had spent lifetimes noticing anyone who looked at Mingi like they might want to keep him.

 

“Mingi-ssi,” Daehyun said, smiling. “Can we talk for a second?”

Mingi blinked.

“Now?”

“If that’s okay.”

The room changed.

 

Not obviously.

But enough.

 

Wooyoung looked at Yunho.

San looked at Mingi.

Hongjoong suddenly became very interested in his phone in the least convincing way possible.

Mingi glanced at Yunho.

 

Only for a second.

Barely anything.

But Yunho felt it like a hand around his throat.

Then Mingi stood.

“Sure.”

 

Yunho’s body moved before his brain agreed.

“Mingi.”

 

Everyone went still.

Mingi turned.

His face was calm.

Too calm.

“What?”

 

Yunho had no excuse.

No mic pack.

No schedule.

No righteous reason.

Just terror.

Raw.

Pathetic.

Human.

“We’re on in twenty.”

 

Mingi checked the clock.

“Forty-five.”

 

Yunho said nothing.

Daehyun looked between them, polite confusion sharpening into understanding.

Mingi’s mouth tightened.

“I’ll be back.”

 

Yunho hated that sentence.

He had heard it before.

In a train station in 1943.

In a hospital in 1981.

At the door of an apartment in 2009.

Mingi said I’ll be back like fate had ever respected it.

Yunho’s voice dropped.

“Don’t go.”

 

The room inhaled.

Mingi stared at him.

Pain flickered across his face first.

Then anger.

Not loud.

Worse.

Tired.

“You don’t get to do this.”

 

Yunho knew.

He knew.

Still, the thought of Mingi walking away with someone who looked at him softly made something ancient and ugly rise inside him.

“Mingi, please.”

 

The please ruined everything.

Mingi flinched.

Because he remembered it now.

Yunho begging over his body.

Yunho begging beside graves.

Yunho begging through bars.

Yunho begging in snow.

Please.

Always too late.

Mingi turned away.

“Come on,” he said to Daehyun.

And left.

 

Yunho did not follow.

That was his great act of growth.

His magnificent restraint.

He stayed in the waiting room while every instinct in his body tried to tear him through the door.

He sat down.

Stood up.

Sat down again.

Pressed his palms against his thighs until his fingers hurt.

 

Wooyoung watched him with the expression of someone witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

“Don’t,” Yunho said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I’m thinking you look like you’re about to chew through concrete.”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

San spoke from the couch.

“Daehyun’s a decent guy.”

 

Yunho’s eyes snapped open.

San held his gaze.

“That’s not an attack. It’s a fact.”

 

Yunho’s jaw tightened.

Hongjoong sighed.

“Yunho.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

 

Yunho looked at him.

Hongjoong’s face was firm, but not unkind.

“If Mingi chooses someone else because that person makes him feel safe, you have to let him.”

 

The sentence landed like a death sentence.

Yunho nodded once.

He even meant it.

Then the memories arrived.

Not dreams.

Not even his own.

Fear had a way of opening old doors.

 

Suddenly he was twenty-three and standing in a church doorway watching Mingi marry someone else because Yunho had been too afraid to ask him to stay.

 

Suddenly he was thirty-one and receiving a letter that Mingi had died of fever in a city Yunho had never visited because pride had kept them apart.

 

Suddenly he was seventeen under a plum tree.

 

Always too late.

Always watching.

Always losing.

 

Yunho stood.

Wooyoung blocked the door.

“No.”

 

Yunho stared at him.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Wooyoung.”

“No.” Wooyoung’s voice shook, but he held his ground. “You go out there like this and you’ll make it worse.”

“I need to know he’s okay.”

“You need to control yourself.”

 

Yunho went still.

Wooyoung swallowed.

Then said it again, softer and more brutal.

“You need to control yourself.”

 

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because Yunho had dressed fear up as love for years.

Protection.

Sacrifice.

Destiny.

But in that moment, with his hands shaking and his chest full of centuries, he understood how ugly it could become if he let it.

 

Mingi was not his because Yunho had lost him before.

Mingi was not a debt the universe owed him.

Mingi was not proof Yunho had suffered enough.

 

He was a person.

Behind a door.

Maybe being loved properly by someone who had not spent years breaking him in the name of saving him.

 

Yunho stepped back.

Wooyoung exhaled.

“Good.”

 

Yunho sat down.

And waited.

It was worse than dying.

Mingi returned eighteen minutes later.

Alone.

His face was unreadable.

Daehyun did not come back in.

That told Yunho nothing.

Everything.

Nothing.

Mingi avoided his eyes.

That told him more.

Their stage call came almost immediately, which was either mercy or punishment.

Probably both.

 

They performed like professionals.

Of course they did.

That was the horror of idol life.

Your heart could be hanging open in your chest and still you had to hit your mark, smile at the correct camera, make pain look like charisma.

Mingi was flawless.

Too flawless.

He rapped with sharp precision, danced like he was trying to destroy the floor, smiled with all his teeth and none of his soul.

Yunho almost missed a count watching him.

Almost.

 

During the final song, Mingi’s in-ear slipped.

Yunho noticed before staff did.

Old habit.

He moved closer during formation and reached up to fix it.

Mingi caught his wrist.

On camera.

Fast.

Hard.

Not enough for fans to notice as anything other than intensity.

But Yunho felt the warning.

Mingi’s eyes said: don’t.

Yunho lowered his hand.

Mingi let go.

 

They finished the stage.

Backstage, nobody spoke.

Mingi went straight past the members, past staff, past the dressing room.

Yunho followed this time.

Not close.

Not grabbing.

Not demanding.

Just enough to see him turn into a quiet hallway near the emergency exit.

“Mingi.”

 

Mingi stopped with his back to him.

“Don’t.”

 

Yunho froze.

Mingi laughed once.

Dead sound.

“Actually, no. Come here. Let’s do this now.”

 

Yunho approached slowly.

Mingi turned around.

His eyes were red.

Yunho’s stomach dropped.

“What happened?”

 

Mingi smiled.

Ugly.

Wounded.

“He confessed.”

 

Yunho’s world went silent.

Mingi watched the words hit.

“He said he likes me. Said he knows it’s complicated. Said he doesn’t expect anything right away.”

 

Yunho could not breathe.

Mingi stepped closer.

“He was kind.”

 

Yunho flinched.

“He was respectful.”

 

Another step.

“He didn’t touch me without asking. Didn’t tell me what was good for me. Didn’t look at me like I was already dead.”

 

Yunho’s throat closed.

Mingi’s voice cracked.

“And do you know the worst part?”

 

Yunho whispered,

“What?”

“I wanted to say yes.”

Yunho felt something inside him cave in.

 

Mingi’s tears spilled.

“I wanted to. Because he likes me in this life. Just this one. No ghosts. No graves. No fate. No centuries of pain pressing down on my chest every time he looks at me.”

 

Yunho looked away because he could not survive Mingi’s face.

Mingi snapped,

“Look at me.”

 

Yunho did.

Mingi was shaking.

“I wanted to say yes because maybe with him I’d feel normal.”

 

Yunho nodded.

He forced the words out, each one a blade.

“You should.”

Mingi stared.

“What?”

“If he makes you happy, you should.”

 

The lie tasted different this time.

Not like rejection.

Like self-mutilation.

Mingi’s expression twisted.

“Don’t do that.”

Yunho swallowed.

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“No.” Mingi shoved him.

 

Hard enough that Yunho stumbled back.

“You don’t get to stand there bleeding nobility all over me again.”

Yunho’s voice broke.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth!”

“I love you!”

 

The hallway went silent.

Mingi froze.

Yunho froze too.

 

There it was.

Centuries late.

Years late.

Still useless.

 

Yunho’s breath shook.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “I love you so much I turned it into something cruel because I was scared. I love you in ways that have ruined both of us. I love you in this life, and I loved you before it, and I will probably love you in whatever comes after, even if I don’t deserve to.”

 

Mingi’s face crumpled.

 

Yunho stepped back, not closer.

“But that doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

 

Mingi breathed like he had been struck.

Yunho’s tears fell.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t owe me another chance. You don’t owe all the dead versions of us a happy ending.”

 

Mingi covered his mouth.

Yunho continued because if he stopped, he would lose courage.

“And if someone else can love you without making you feel haunted, then I need to let you have that.”

 

Mingi shook his head.

“Stop.”

 

“I’m trying to do one right thing.”

“No, you’re trying to leave me again.”

 

Yunho went still.

Mingi’s voice ripped open.

“That’s what you do. You call it protection or sacrifice or giving me a choice, but it always feels the same. You leaving. You stepping back. You deciding I’m better off without you and expecting me to be grateful for the wound.”

 

Yunho could not answer.

Mingi wiped at his tears angrily.

“I didn’t say yes to him.”

 

Yunho’s heart stuttered.

Mingi looked furious about it.

“I didn’t say yes because I kept thinking about you. Because apparently even when I have a chance to be sane, I’m still stupid enough to want the person who broke my heart.”

“Mingi…”

“Don’t.” His voice dropped. “Don’t say my name like you’re sad for me.”

“I am sad for you.”

“Then stop being the reason.”

 

That shut Yunho up.

Mingi took a shaking breath.

“I told him I couldn’t. Not because of you. I made that clear. I told him I couldn’t because I don’t even know where I end anymore.”

Yunho’s chest hurt.

“I’m sorry.”

Mingi gave a bitter little laugh.

“There it is again.”

 

Yunho went silent.

Mingi stared at him for a long moment.

Then whispered,

“I wish I had never remembered.”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

The sentence entered him cleanly.

No defense.

No softness.

Just truth.

 

Mingi continued, voice barely there.

“I wish I could go back to only being hurt because you didn’t love me.”

 

Yunho opened his eyes.

Mingi looked destroyed.

“Because this is worse.”

He stepped backward.

“Knowing you did.”

 

Yunho stood in the hallway as Mingi walked away.

And for the first time in any lifetime, Yunho did not follow.

 

The next memory Mingi recovered was not a love story.

That was the problem.

Not every lifetime had been tender.

Not every version of them had found softness before the ending.

Some lives had been ugly.

Some had been sharp.

Some had been full of doors slammed too hard and words said too late.

Yunho had remembered those too.

He had simply never told Mingi.

Maybe that was another cruelty.

Maybe honesty delivered in pieces was just another kind of control.

Mingi found out anyway.

He always did.

 

It happened in a hotel in Manila.

Three in the morning.

Yunho woke to pounding on his door.

Not polite knocking.

Pounding.

He opened it already afraid.

Mingi stood there barefoot, eyes wild, hair damp with sweat.

Behind him, San hovered in the hallway, pale and helpless.

 

“I tried to stop him,” San said quietly.

Mingi ignored him.

He shoved past Yunho into the room.

Yunho looked at San.

San shook his head once.

No clue.

Yunho closed the door.

 

Mingi turned on him.

“You lied.”

Yunho’s stomach dropped.

“About what?”

Mingi laughed.

Wrong question.

Wrong answer.

Everything wrong.

“About us.”

Yunho stood very still.

Mingi’s face twisted.

“You made it sound like some tragic romance. Like we always loved each other and then died beautifully.”

 

Yunho’s throat tightened.

“Mingi.”

“I remembered one where I hated you.”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

There it was.

The life in 1974.

Seoul.

Small apartment.

Bad wallpaper.

Too many cigarettes.

Not enough money.

Yunho had been angry in that life.

Angry at the world.

At poverty.

At his father.

At himself.

At wanting Mingi so badly in a time where wanting him could ruin them both.

So he had turned fear into cruelty.

Again.

Maybe Yunho had always been good at that.

Mingi’s voice shook.

“You were awful to me.”

 

Yunho opened his eyes.

“Yes.”

Mingi recoiled like he had expected denial.

“You admit it?”

“Yes.”

 

Mingi stared.

His anger had nowhere to land cleanly.

That made it worse.

Yunho said quietly,

“I was twenty-six. You were twenty-four. We lived above a repair shop. I drank too much. You worked nights. We fought all the time.”

Mingi’s breathing changed.

“You told me I was nothing without you.”

Yunho flinched.

“Yes.”

“You said nobody else would keep me.”

“I know.”

Mingi’s eyes filled with tears.

“I remembered believing you.”

Yunho’s face crumpled.

For a moment, he looked less like Yunho and more like every terrible version of himself standing trial at once.

“I am sorry for that life,” Yunho whispered.

Mingi shook his head.

“No. No, you don’t get to apologize like this is separate. Like that Yunho wasn’t you.”

Yunho swallowed.

“He was me.”

Mingi looked sick.

“And this one?”

Yunho did not understand.

Mingi stepped closer.

“How do I know this Yunho isn’t just better at hiding it?”

The room went dead.

Yunho felt the words tear something vital.

But he did not blame Mingi for asking.

That was the horrible thing.

He had earned the question.

Across lifetimes.

Across this one.

Yunho answered carefully.

“You don’t.”

Mingi’s tears fell.

Yunho’s voice shook.

“You don’t know. And I don’t get to demand trust from you just because I remember loving you too.”

Mingi looked away.

Yunho continued,

“All I can do is choose differently now. Every day. And if that’s not enough, then it’s not enough.”

Mingi laughed bitterly.

“You sound like a therapist.”

“I’ve had centuries to think.”

“Clearly not enough.”

Yunho nodded.

Fair.

Mingi wiped his face.

“I hate that I remember loving you in that life too.”

Yunho looked down.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t do that.”

Yunho went silent.

Mingi looked exhausted, hollowed out by a grief that was not linear enough to understand.

“In that memory, I stayed,” he said. “You hurt me and I stayed. I kept thinking if I loved you better, you’d become gentle again.”

Yunho pressed a fist against his chest because the pain was almost physical.

“Mingi.”

“I died in that one too, didn’t I?”

Yunho could not breathe.

Mingi’s face went blank.

“Oh.”

Yunho whispered,

“You left.”

Mingi stared at him.

“What?”

“You left me.”

Mingi blinked.

Yunho’s eyes burned.

“You finally left. You packed a bag while I was passed out drunk and you left a note on the table. You wrote that loving me had taught you how to survive me, and you didn’t want that lesson anymore.”

Mingi’s lips parted.

“You remember the note?”

“I remember every word.”

Mingi’s anger faltered.

Yunho’s voice went hoarse.

“You didn’t die because of me. Not directly. You were hit by a car three months later. I found out from a newspaper because nobody knew to call me.”

Mingi covered his mouth.

Yunho looked at him, devastated.

“I went to your funeral and your sister slapped me so hard I tasted blood. She said you had started smiling again.”

Mingi sobbed once.

Yunho deserved it.

Every sound.

Every tear.

“I don’t tell you the ugly ones because I’m trying to make myself look better,” Yunho said. “I don’t tell you because I don’t know how to hand you more pain when you’re barely standing.”

Mingi shook his head.

“But it’s mine.”

“I know.”

“It’s mine, Yunho.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Mingi stepped closer. “You keep deciding what parts of me I get to have.”

Yunho’s tears slipped.

“You’re right.”

Mingi stared at him.

“So tell me.”

Yunho’s stomach turned.

“What?”

“All of it.”

“Mingi, no.”

Mingi’s eyes flashed.

“There. See? You’re doing it again.”

Yunho shut his mouth.

Mingi breathed hard.

“Tell me the ugly ones.”

Yunho whispered,

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re shaking.”

Mingi looked down at his own hands.

They were trembling violently.

Yunho did not move toward him.

Mingi looked up again, furious and lost.

“I don’t know how to be a person right now.”

Yunho’s heart broke.

Mingi’s voice went small.

“I don’t know which grief belongs to me. I don’t know if I’m angry because of this life or ten others. I don’t know if I love you because I chose it or because some curse keeps dragging me back.”

Yunho wanted to deny it.

He couldn’t.

That was the question that had haunted him too.

Was it love if fate kept forcing their hands?

Was it choice if they found each other every time?

Mingi’s face crumpled.

“I don’t want to be destined. I want to want.”

Yunho’s voice broke.

“Then want something else.”

Mingi looked at him.

Yunho forced himself to continue.

“Want peace. Want distance. Want someone kind. Want yourself. I won’t stop you.”

Mingi laughed through tears.

“You really don’t get it.”

Yunho fell silent.

Mingi stepped back.

“I came here because I was scared. Not because I wanted you to set me free again.”

Yunho’s breath caught.

Mingi looked embarrassed by his own honesty.

Angry at himself for needing.

Angry at Yunho for being needed.

Angry at the universe for making any of it true.

Yunho said very softly,

“What do you need?”

Mingi stared at him.

A long time.

Then his mouth trembled.

“I don’t know.”

The answer was so young.

So human.

So unlike legends and curses and tragic lovers that Yunho nearly sobbed.

Mingi wrapped his arms around himself.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

Yunho nodded.

“Okay.”

Mingi’s face twisted.

“Don’t make that sound easy.”

“It’s not.”

“What do I do?”

Yunho had no right to answer.

But Mingi had asked.

So he told the truth.

“Tonight? You sleep.”

Mingi laughed weakly.

“I can’t.”

“Then sit.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Yunho stopped breathing.

Mingi looked away immediately.

“Forget it.”

“No.”

Yunho stepped aside, leaving the room open, not reaching, not pushing.

“You can stay.”

Mingi stared at the bed.

Then at Yunho.

“You’re not touching me.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re not going to talk unless I ask.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re not going to look at me like I’m dying.”

Yunho swallowed.

“I’ll try.”

Mingi nodded once.

Then walked to the far side of the room and sat on the floor with his back against the wall.

Not the bed.

Not near Yunho.

The floor.

Yunho sat opposite him.

Far enough to be safe.

Close enough that Mingi was not alone.

They sat that way until dawn.

Neither slept.

At some point, Mingi started crying silently again.

Yunho did not move.

He only stayed.

For once, that was all Mingi had asked of him.

For once, Yunho did not turn staying into a sacrifice.

He simply did it.

 

Daehyun asked again.

Not immediately.

That would have been easier to hate.

He waited.

He gave Mingi space.

He sent one message after the festival.

Not pushy.

Not wounded.

Not designed to make Mingi feel guilty.

Just:

 

Daehyun:

I hope today didn’t make things harder for you. I meant what I said, but you don’t owe me an answer. Rest well.

 

Mingi stared at the message for twenty minutes.

Then left it unanswered.

Not because he was cruel.

Because kindness was harder to respond to than pressure.

Pressure gave him something to push against.

Kindness gave him a door.

And Mingi was terrified of doors.

Every lifetime had one.

A prison door.

A hospital door.

A bedroom door.

A stage door.

A door Yunho stood behind.

A door Mingi walked through and never returned from.

A door that opened into death.

So he left Daehyun’s message unread in spirit, if not in fact, and tried to keep living.

That was the humiliating part.

The world did not pause for ancient grief.

There were rehearsals.

Flights.

Makeup chairs.

Fan calls.

Airport smiles.

Birthday livestreams.

Managers reminding them about call times as if Mingi had not inherited centuries of funerals through skin contact and nightmares.

He still had to bow.

Still had to rap.

Still had to remember camera numbers.

Still had to laugh when Wooyoung made some horrible joke about his hair.

And Yunho—

Yunho stayed.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Infuriatingly.

He stopped making decisions for Mingi.

Which should have felt good.

Instead it made Mingi realise how badly he had wanted Yunho to make one specific decision.

Choose me.

Not as a curse.

Not as a duty.

Not as penance.

Just choose me because you want to.

But Yunho had become disciplined in his guilt.

He was everywhere and nowhere.

He saved Mingi food but did not comment if Mingi ignored it.

He stood near him in crowds but did not touch.

He answered when spoken to and did not force conversation.

He stopped looking at Mingi like he was already dead.

Now he looked at him like he was something free to leave.

Mingi hated that almost as much.

Because freedom, when handed to someone with shaking hands, could feel like abandonment dressed up better.

 

The next memory came soft.

That was worse.

Mingi had started expecting violence.

Blood.

Glass.

Snow.

The sudden, brutal shove of death into an ordinary afternoon.

But this one came while he was brushing his teeth.

Ridiculous.

Domestic.

The tap running.

Mint foam in his mouth.

The bathroom light too bright above him.

Then he blinked.

 

And he was somewhere else.

A kitchen.

Small.

Sunlit.

Yellow curtains.

Yunho barefoot by the stove, wearing Mingi’s shirt and burning pancakes so badly the smoke alarm screamed.

Mingi laughing from the table, head tipped back, chest hurting from happiness instead of grief.

Yunho waving a towel at the alarm with great dignity and no success.

“You’re ruining breakfast.”

“You’re ruining my concentration.”

“You are burning flour.”

“I am creating texture.”

“You are creating evidence.”

 

Then Yunho turned.

Older than now.

Softer.

No stage makeup.

No fear.

He looked at Mingi like loving him had become ordinary.

Like they had lived long enough for devotion to become morning routine.

Mingi watched that remembered version of himself stand, cross the kitchen, and kiss soot from Yunho’s cheek.

 

No blood.

No death.

Just warmth.

Just laughter.

Just Yunho’s hand at his waist and sunlight over both of them.

 

The memory ended.

Mingi came back to the bathroom with toothpaste dripping onto his hand.

He stared at his reflection.

Then broke.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

He slid down the bathroom cabinet until he hit the floor and cried with a toothbrush still in his hand.

Because they had been happy.

Not almost.

Not briefly between tragedies.

Happy.

 

Long enough to have a kitchen.

Long enough to have jokes.

Long enough for Yunho to know where the pans were.

Long enough for Mingi to tease him without fear.

That life existed.

Somewhere.

Once.

 

They had not only been doomed lovers.

They had been breakfast.

They had been laundry.

They had been badly folded towels.

They had been “move your cold feet” under blankets.

They had been ordinary.

 

And somehow, that hurt more than all the dying.

Because death was huge.

Death was cinematic.

Death made sense as a thing to grieve.

But pancakes?

Yellow curtains?

Yunho wearing his shirt?

How was Mingi supposed to mourn a life where he had apparently been loved well?

 

He found Yunho on the balcony.

Not because he meant to.

Because his feet had always known the way.

Yunho stood alone, arms resting on the railing, city lights spread beneath him.

For a second, Mingi did not see idol Yunho.

 

He saw kitchen Yunho.

Barefoot.

Laughing.

Smoke alarm screaming.

The longing hit so hard he almost turned around.

Yunho sensed him anyway.

He always did.

“Mingi?”

 

Mingi stayed in the doorway.

“Did we ever get it right?”

 

Yunho went still.

Mingi’s voice cracked.

“Any lifetime. Did we ever just… live?”

 

Yunho turned slowly.

His face changed when he saw Mingi’s.

“Yes.”

 

The answer came too fast.

Too certain.

Mingi pressed a hand to his chest.

“Which one?”

 

Yunho swallowed.

“1989.”

 

Mingi laughed wetly.

“Of course you know the year.”

“I know all of them.”

“Tell me.”

 

Yunho hesitated.

Mingi’s eyes sharpened.

“Yunho.”

“I’m not refusing.” Yunho’s voice was gentle. “I’m checking.”

“Checking what?”

“If you’re asking because you want to know, or because you want to hurt yourself.”

 

Mingi hated him for that.

A little.

Because it was fair.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Yunho nodded.

“Then I’ll tell you a small part.”

Mingi stepped onto the balcony.

The night air was cold against his damp face.

Yunho looked out at the city instead of at him, like he was giving Mingi the mercy of not being watched too closely.

“We met at a record shop,” Yunho said. “You worked there. I came in every Saturday and pretended I needed recommendations.”

 

Mingi’s mouth trembled.

“Did I know you were pretending?”

“Yes.”

“Did I call you out?”

“Immediately.”

 

A sound escaped Mingi.

Almost a laugh.

Yunho’s eyes softened.

“You said I had terrible taste and worse excuses.”

“That sounds like me.”

“It always does.”

 

The words landed tender and terrible between them.

 

Yunho continued.

“We were careful at first. That life was… quieter. Not easy. But quieter. We had a flat eventually. Too small. Bad heating. Yellow curtains you hated but refused to throw out because you said they made the room look less depressed.”

Mingi covered his mouth.

 

Yunho’s voice lowered.

“You remembered the curtains?”

 

Mingi nodded.

Tears spilled again.

“I remembered pancakes.”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

“Oh.”

“You burned them.”

“I usually did.”

Mingi cried harder.

 

Yunho’s hand twitched, but he kept it at his side.

Good.

Bad.

Mingi didn’t know anymore.

 

“What happened?” Mingi asked.

Yunho opened his eyes.

“Mingi—”

“No. Tell me. I need to know.”

 

Yunho was quiet for a long time.

Then,

“You got sick.”

 

Mingi exhaled.

Of course.

Of course there was a blade hidden in the kitchen.

 

“How old?”

“Forty-six.”

 

Mingi blinked.

That was older than he expected.

Older than most memories had given him.

“We made it that long?”

 

Yunho smiled, but it broke.

“Yeah.”

 

Mingi’s knees nearly gave.

Forty-six.

They had made it to forty-six.

Not enough.

God, not enough.

But more.

More than arrows and crashes and drowning.

More than a handful of stolen months.

Yunho’s voice went rough.

“You hated hospitals. Said they smelled like endings.”

“Did they?”

“Yes.”

 

Mingi stared at the city.

“Was I scared?”

 

Yunho answered honestly.

“Yes.”

 

Mingi nodded.

“Were you?”

 

Yunho’s laugh was silent.

“I was useless with it.”

 

Mingi looked at him.

Yunho’s tears were quiet.

No sobbing.

No collapse.

Just grief leaking through a man who had learned to hold too much.

“You used to make me read to you,” Yunho said. “Terrible books. The worst books I have ever seen.”

 

Mingi smiled through tears.

“Romance?”

“Murder mysteries.”

“Good taste.”

“You guessed the killer by chapter two every time.”

“Obviously.”

 

Yunho’s smile lasted half a second.

Then it faded.

“You died holding my hand.”

Mingi shut his eyes.

“Peacefully?”

Yunho’s voice broke.

“Yes.”

 

Mingi pressed a fist to his mouth.

There were tears he had expected.

Then there was this.

This huge, unbearable tenderness for a death that sounded almost kind.

No arrow.

No screaming.

No metal.

Just a bed.

A hand.

Yunho beside him.

 

Mingi whispered,

“Did you follow me?”

 

Yunho looked down.

 

Mingi already knew.

“How long?”

“Eight days.”

 

Mingi flinched.

“Yunho.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Mingi turned toward him fully. “You keep dying after me.”

 

Yunho had no answer.

 

Mingi’s voice cracked.

“You keep making my death yours.”

 

Yunho’s eyes lifted.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

 

“Live.”

The word came out sharper than Mingi intended.

 

Yunho absorbed it like a wound.

 

Mingi stepped closer.

“You should have lived.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“That’s not romantic.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” Mingi’s face crumpled. “It’s not romantic. It’s horrible. I died, and then you turned my death into a command you had to obey.”

 

Yunho looked away.

Mingi suddenly understood something.

Something awful.

Something bigger than both of them.

Every lifetime, one of them died for the other.

And when Mingi died first, Yunho followed.

 

Not always physically.

Sometimes with his body.

Sometimes with his life.

Sometimes just by stopping everything inside himself that could still want joy.

 

No wonder the curse kept repeating.

They had been feeding it.

Calling it devotion.

Calling it proof.

Calling it love.

 

Mingi whispered,

“Maybe we’re the curse.”

 

Yunho looked at him.

 

Mingi’s voice shook.

“Not fate. Not the universe. Us.”

 

Yunho went pale.

“Mingi.”

 

“What if it keeps happening because we keep choosing death and calling it love?”

 

Yunho’s breathing changed.

Mingi could see the words entering him.

Not as an accusation.

As recognition.

As a door opening somewhere deep and dark.

Yunho said very softly,

“I don’t know how to love you without being ready to die for you.”

 

Mingi started crying again.

Not because the sentence was beautiful.

Because it was broken.

Because Yunho meant it.

Because Mingi, in too many lifetimes, had meant it too.

“Then learn,” Mingi whispered.

 

Yunho stared at him.

Mingi wiped his face with shaking hands.

“Learn, or leave me alone. For real this time.”

 

Yunho’s mouth parted.

No words came.

Mingi stepped back.

“I can’t be loved like a funeral anymore.”

 

Then he walked away.

 

Mingi said yes to coffee.

Not because he was over Yunho.

Not because he wanted Daehyun.

Not even because he knew what he was doing.

He said yes because the next morning he woke up and realised he was waiting.

 

Waiting for Yunho to learn.

Waiting for the curse to explain itself.

Waiting for memories to decide whether he belonged to himself.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

 

And he was so tired of being the haunted room everyone tiptoed around.

So when Daehyun messaged again two days later—

 

Daehyun:

No pressure. But I’d still like to see you. Even just coffee. Public place. No expectations.

 

Mingi typed and deleted seventeen versions of no.

Then wrote:

 

Mingi:

Coffee is okay.

 

He stared at the message.

Then sent it before he could turn coward.

 

For five seconds, he felt powerful.

Then he almost threw up.

 

He told Yunho himself.

That was either kindness or cruelty.

Probably both.

They were alone in a rehearsal room, stretching before everyone else arrived.

 

Yunho sat against the mirror, one knee bent, head tipped back, eyes closed.

He looked tired.

He always looked tired lately.

 

Mingi hated noticing.

“I’m meeting Daehyun.”

 

Yunho opened his eyes.

No dramatic reaction.

No visible snap.

Just stillness.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

 

Yunho nodded.

Mingi wanted him to say don’t.

Wanted him not to.

Wanted something clean from a situation that had never once been clean.

Yunho swallowed.

“I hope it goes well.”

 

Mingi laughed.

He couldn’t help it.

It came out cruel.

Yunho flinched.

Mingi immediately hated himself.

“Do you?” he asked.

 

Yunho looked at him.

“No.”

 

Honesty.

Finally.

Too late.

Mingi’s chest tightened.

 

Yunho continued, voice low.

“I hope he says something wrong. I hope you realise his laugh annoys you. I hope the coffee is bad and the conversation is worse.”

 

Mingi stared.

 

Yunho’s mouth twisted with pain.

“But I also hope he’s kind. And I hope you feel normal for an hour. And I hate both things equally.”

 

Mingi had no idea what to do with that.

 

It was ugly.

It was real.

It was not noble.

For some reason, that hurt less.

 

“You’re not going to tell me not to go?”

 

Yunho’s eyes softened with grief.

“I want to.”

 

Mingi’s throat tightened.

“But?”

 

“But wanting doesn’t give me the right.”

 

Mingi looked away.

There it was again.

Growth.

Awful, inconvenient growth.

The kind that did not give Mingi anywhere easy to put his anger.

 

“I hate this,” Mingi whispered.

 

Yunho nodded.

“Me too.”

 

Mingi looked back at him.

“Do you hate him?”

 

Yunho considered lying.

Didn’t.

“Yes.”

 

Mingi blinked.

 

Yunho sighed quietly.

“Not because he did anything wrong. That might make it worse.”

 

A laugh escaped Mingi before he could stop it.

Small.

Sad.

Real.

Yunho looked at him like that sound had almost killed him.

Mingi’s smile disappeared.

Silence settled.

 

Then Yunho said,

“You should wear the blue sweater.”

 

Mingi frowned.

“What?”

 

“To coffee.” Yunho looked at the floor. “You look happy in blue.”

 

Mingi’s heart broke so suddenly he stood.

“I need air.”

 

Yunho did not follow.

Because he was learning.

Damn him.

 

Coffee was fine.

That was the problem.

Daehyun was handsome, but Mingi knew that already.

He was also patient.

Funny.

Careful without making it obvious.

He did not ask about Yunho.

He did not pretend not to know there was something wrong.

 

He simply said,

“You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to.”

 

Mingi stared into his latte.

“What if I can’t explain because it sounds insane?”

 

Daehyun smiled gently.

“I work in entertainment. My threshold is high.”

 

Mingi almost laughed.

Almost.

They sat in a corner of a quiet café with managers nearby pretending not to watch.

Public enough to be safe.

Private enough to breathe.

Daehyun told him about a terrible audition where his voice cracked so badly a judge offered him water out of pity.

Mingi laughed.

Actually laughed.

Daehyun looked pleased, but not triumphant.

That mattered.

He did not treat Mingi’s smile like something won.

He let it exist.

 

For one hour, Mingi felt almost normal.

Not untouched by grief.

Not free.

But close enough to normal that he understood why people chose new beginnings.

 

Then Daehyun touched his hand.

Barely.

A question more than a move.

Mingi froze.

 

The café disappeared.

Not into death.

Into the kitchen.

Yellow curtains.

Yunho’s hand covered in flour.

Yunho laughing.

Yunho dying eight days after Mingi because living had apparently been too hard.

Mingi pulled back so fast Daehyun’s face fell.

 

“Sorry,” Daehyun said immediately. “I should have asked.”

 

“No.” Mingi’s voice shook. “No, it’s not you.”

 

That was the worst sentence in the world.

Daehyun nodded like he understood too much.

Mingi hated that he was kind.

He would have preferred arrogance.

Arrogance could be rejected cleanly.

Kindness sat across from you and made you realise you were the one unavailable.

 

Daehyun leaned back.

“You’re in love with him.”

 

Mingi closed his eyes.

There it was.

No names needed.

No explanation.

Just the obvious shape of Mingi’s ruin.

“I don’t know what I am.”

 

Daehyun’s voice stayed soft.

“That’s an answer too.”

 

Mingi opened his eyes.

 

Daehyun smiled sadly.

“I like you. I do. But I don’t want to be the place you run because the place you want is on fire.”

 

Mingi’s throat tightened.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“I do.”

“Maybe.” Daehyun’s smile turned faint. “But not for loving someone before I got here.”

 

Mingi looked down.

Daehyun stood.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just careful.

“If you ever want coffee as friends, I can do that.”

 

Mingi nodded.

“Thank you.”

 

Daehyun hesitated.

Then said,

“For what it’s worth, he looked like hell when you left.”

 

Mingi laughed weakly.

“Good.”

 

Daehyun grinned.

“There he is.”

 

Mingi smiled despite himself.

Daehyun left first.

Mingi stayed at the table until his coffee went cold.

Normal had been nice.

But it had not been his.

And that made him furious.

 

Yunho was waiting outside the dorm.

Not by the entrance.

Not in a way that trapped him.

Across the street, under the weak glow of a convenience store sign, hood up, hands in pockets.

Mingi stopped walking.

Yunho saw him.

Did not cross.

Did not call out.

Just stood there.

Letting Mingi choose.

 

Mingi almost hated him for getting it right.

He crossed the street.

Yunho straightened.

“You don’t have to—”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Yunho shut up.

 

Mingi stopped in front of him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The city moved around them.

Cars.

Wind.

A drunk man laughing too loudly at the corner.

Life, rudely continuing.

Mingi looked at Yunho’s face.

“You look like hell.”

 

Yunho’s mouth twitched.

“So I’ve heard.”

 

Mingi narrowed his eyes.

“Did Daehyun tell you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

 

Silence.

Then Yunho asked quietly,

“Are you okay?”

 

Mingi laughed.

“No.”

 

Yunho nodded.

A beat.

Then,

“Was he kind?”

 

Mingi looked away.

“Yes.”

 

Yunho closed his eyes for one second.

When he opened them, the pain was still there.

Controlled.

Not hidden.

“I’m glad.”

 

Mingi scoffed.

“No, you’re not.”

 

“No,” Yunho admitted. “But I’m trying to be the kind of person who could be.”

 

Mingi hated that line.

Loved it.

Hated that too.

“He said I’m in love with you.”

 

Yunho went very still.

 

Mingi looked at him.

“I told him I don’t know what I am.”

 

Yunho’s voice was barely there.

“Okay.”

 

“No, it’s not okay.” Mingi stepped closer. “Nothing is okay. I went on a date with a perfectly kind man and spent half of it remembering your stupid pancakes.”

 

Yunho blinked.

Mingi shoved his shoulder.

Not hard.

“You ruined coffee.”

 

Yunho stared at him.

Then laughed.

One broken, disbelieving breath.

Mingi’s eyes burned.

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You burned them.”

“I know.”

“You always burn them?”

“Most of the time.”

“You’re useless.”

Yunho’s smile trembled.

“I know.”

 

Mingi wanted to kiss him.

The want hit like a fever.

Immediate.

Terrifying.

Old and new at once.

He stepped back.

Yunho noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His smile vanished.

Mingi wrapped his arms around himself.

“I can’t do this.”

 

Yunho nodded too quickly.

“That’s okay.”

 

“Stop saying everything is okay.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.”

 

Yunho closed his mouth.

 

Mingi’s breath shook.

“I don’t want to date him.”

 

Yunho did not move.

 

Mingi continued, each word dragged out of him.

“But I don’t know if I can survive loving you.”

 

Yunho looked wrecked.

Not dramatic.

Not performative.

Just quietly destroyed.

 

“I don’t know if I can survive you loving me either,” he admitted.

That honesty almost undid Mingi completely.

 

Because there it was.

The real truth.

Not destiny.

Not noble sacrifice.

Just two frightened people standing under a convenience store sign with too much history and not enough instructions.

 

Mingi whispered,

“So what do we do?”

 

Yunho looked at him for a long time.

Then said,

“We live until we learn how.”

 

Mingi’s face crumpled.

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“I know.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know.”

 

Mingi laughed through the tears starting again.

Yunho’s eyes softened.

Mingi hated how badly he wanted to step into that softness.

Instead, he pointed at Yunho.

“No dying.”

 

Yunho’s expression changed.

Mingi’s voice shook harder.

“I mean it. If I die first in this life, you don’t follow me. You hear me?”

 

Yunho looked like Mingi had asked him to cut out his own heart.

“Mingi—”

 

“No.” Mingi stepped closer. “Promise me.”

 

Yunho’s throat worked.

“I can’t.”

 

Mingi recoiled.

 

Yunho reached, then stopped himself.

“I won’t lie to you.”

 

Mingi’s tears spilled.

“So you’d do it again?”

 

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

 

Yunho’s voice broke.

“I don’t know how to promise I’ll survive losing you.”

 

Mingi stared at him.

For one second, the anger drained away, leaving only grief.

“Then you don’t get me.”

 

Yunho went still.

 

Mingi wiped his face.

“If loving me means you keep a grave open beside mine, then you don’t get me. Not in this life.”

 

Yunho looked like he had stopped breathing.

Mingi turned toward the dorm.

This time Yunho spoke.

Not to stop him.

Not to beg.

Just broken.

 

“How do I learn?”

 

Mingi paused.

The night held its breath.

Yunho’s voice was raw.

“How do I learn to live after you when every version of me was built around not having to?”

 

Mingi closed his eyes.

That was the problem with Yunho.

Even when he hurt him, he made Mingi understand exactly where the wound came from.

Mingi looked back.

“I don’t know.”

 

Yunho nodded slowly.

Mingi swallowed.

“But you better figure it out.”

 

Then he walked inside.

Yunho stayed under the convenience store light until morning.

 

Not because he was waiting for Mingi to come back.

 

Because for the first time in centuries, Yunho understood that loving Mingi might require the one sacrifice he had never been brave enough to make.

 

It started at 3:17 a.m.

San woke first.

Not because of a scream.

Because of silence.

Years of dorm life had taught him that silence at three in the morning was never really silence.

It was the absence of breathing.

The absence of movement.

The kind of quiet that made the back of his neck prickle.

He rolled over.

The hallway light was on.

Strange.

Mingi always turned it off before bed.

San frowned.

“...Mingi?”

No answer.

He climbed out of bed.

The dorm was dark except for the yellow strip of light leaking from the bathroom.

Water was running.

Constantly.

San knocked once.

“Mingi?”

Nothing.

He pushed the door open.

The tap was running full blast.

The sink was overflowing.

Water covered the floor.

And Mingi...

...was sitting on the tiles.

Still.

Completely still.

Dressed.

Barefoot.

Staring into the mirror.

His reflection wasn’t blinking.

“Mingi?”

San’s stomach dropped.

“Mingi!”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

San shut off the water.

Knelt beside him.

Touched his shoulder.

Mingi slowly turned his head.

Not startled.

Not confused.

Just...

Empty.

He looked at San politely.

Like they had never met.

“...Excuse me.”

San froze.

“...What?”

Mingi smiled faintly.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked genuinely embarrassed.

“I don’t think I know you.”

San didn’t remember calling for help.

Later, Wooyoung would swear San had screamed loud enough to wake the building.

One second he was alone.

The next—

Feet.

Doors opening.

“What happened?”

“Move!”

“Mingi?”

Hongjoong pushed through everyone first.

He crouched in front of Mingi.

“Mingi.”

Nothing.

“Mingi, it’s Hongjoong.”

Mingi tilted his head.

“...Hongjoong?”

Hope.

Tiny.

Then—

“I’m sorry.”

Another smile.

“I don’t think that’s my name.”

The room stopped breathing.

Yunho was last.

He had slept through everything.

Or rather...

He had finally fallen asleep.

Thirty-six hours awake.

He came stumbling into the bathroom, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped.

“What—”

Then he saw Mingi.

Their eyes met.

Something inside Yunho shattered immediately.

Because he’d seen this before.

 

Not exactly.

Close enough.

“No.”

The word escaped before he realized.

“No.”

 

Hongjoong looked at him.

“Yunho?”

 

Yunho wasn’t listening.

He slowly walked forward.

Nobody stopped him.

He knelt.

Not too close.

He remembered.

Always ask.

Always leave room.

“Mingi.”

 

Mingi looked at him.

Kind eyes.

Gentle.

Completely unfamiliar.

“...Hello.”

 

Yunho’s hands started shaking.

“It’s me.”

Silence.

“It’s Yunho.”

 

Mingi studied him carefully.

Like he wanted to remember.

Like he was trying.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was so soft.

“I think you’re mistaken.”

 

Nobody knew what to do.

An ambulance came.

Tests.

Questions.

Lights in his eyes.

Blood pressure.

Blood sugar.

Concussion checks.

Everything normal.

Everything wrong.

 

The doctor asked simple questions.

“What’s today’s date?”

 

Mingi smiled apologetically.

“I’ve had a lot of todays.”

 

...

 

“Can you tell me your full name?”

 

A long pause.

Then—

“I’ve had quite a few.”

 

The doctor looked confused.

Yunho closed his eyes.

The hospital kept him overnight.

Observation.

Nothing more.

Neurology cleared him.

Psychiatry wanted assessments.

The members sat in the waiting room for fourteen hours.

Nobody spoke much.

 

Eventually...

Seonghwa looked at Yunho.

“Tell us.”

 

Yunho stared at the vending machine.

“What?”

“The truth.”

Silence.

“I think...”

Seonghwa swallowed.

“...I think we’re owed that now.”

 

Nobody argued.

Even Wooyoung stayed quiet.

Yunho looked exhausted.

Older than twenty-seven.

Older than this life.

 

“I remember every lifetime.”

Nobody interrupted.

“Mingi doesn’t.”

A pause.

“...or he didn’t.”

 

Hongjoong rubbed his face.

“We figured that much.”

 

Yunho nodded.

“He isn’t remembering anymore.”

 

“What?”

 

Yunho’s voice broke.

“He’s becoming them.”

 

Nobody understood.

Not even Yunho.

 

So he explained.

“When memories stay memories...”

He struggled.

“...they have somewhere to live.”

Another pause.

“But when there are too many...”

He looked toward Mingi’s room.

“...they stop being memories.”

 

San whispered,

“They become people.”

 

Yunho nodded once.

“They become identities.”

 

Silence.

 

“I don’t think Song Mingi knows which life belongs to him anymore.”

 

At 5:42 p.m...

Mingi woke up.

The members rushed in.

He blinked sleepily.

“...Hyung?”

 

Hongjoong nearly cried.

“Mingi.”

 

Mingi frowned.

“Why are you all...”

He looked around.

“...hospital?”

 

His eyes landed on Yunho.

Recognition.

Real recognition.

Yunho almost collapsed.

“Mingi.”

 

Then Mingi’s face changed.

Gone.

Like someone had flipped a switch.

“...Captain?”

 

His accent changed.

Just slightly.

Older.

Different.

 

Yunho felt physically sick.

“Mingi?”

 

Mingi looked around wildly.

“The ship—”

He grabbed Yunho’s shirt.

“The storm!”

 

He wasn’t in Seoul anymore.

He was on a pirate ship.

Three hundred years ago.

“Mingi!”

 

Water.

He could hear water.

He started screaming.

“The mast!”

 

Yunho caught his face.

“Mingi!”

 

Nothing.

 

“He went overboard!”

“Mingi!”

“I can’t swim!”

His breathing became hysterical.

“He can’t swim!”

Yunho wrapped both hands around Mingi’s face.

Hard enough to ground.

Soft enough not to hurt.

 

“SONG MINGI.”

 

Nothing.

Then—

Yunho did the one thing he’d never done before.

He lied.

 

“You’re twenty-seven.”

Silence.

“You hate mushrooms.”

Mingi blinked.

“You leave wet towels on the floor.”

Another blink.

“You cry during Disney movies.”

His breathing slowed.

“You have seven brothers.”

A tear rolled down Yunho’s face.

“Your favourite colour changes every month.”

Mingi stared.

“You complain about leg day.”

“...”

“You burned ramen yesterday.”

The room watched.

Nobody moved.

Yunho kept going.

Rapidly now.

As if building a person from words.

“You hate getting up before eight.”

“You always lose your phone.”

“You snore.”

“You write lyrics in your notes app.”

“You dance when nobody’s watching.”

“You have a scar on your left knee because you fell off your bike when you were twelve.”

Mingi’s eyes started focusing.

“You are Song Mingi.”

Yunho’s voice broke completely.

“You are Song Mingi.”

A sob escaped him.

“You are not a prince.”

Another.

“You are not a sailor.”

“You are not a soldier.”

“You are not dying.”

“You are here.”

“You are alive.”

“You are with me.”

Mingi stared.

One tear.

Then another.

His lips trembled.

 

“...Yunho?”

 

Yunho completely broke.

He laughed.

Cried.

Covered his face.

 

“Oh thank God.”

 

Mingi looked terrified.

“...What happened?”

 

Yunho couldn’t answer.

Because for thirty seconds...

He had watched the love of his life disappear while his body remained.

 

And he’d realized something that terrified him more than any grave ever had.

He could survive Mingi dying.

He’d done it countless times.

He could not survive forgetting him while Mingi was still breathing.

 

Hongjoong quietly ushered everyone out.

The door clicked shut.

 

Only Yunho and Mingi remained.

The room was silent except for the heart monitor.

 

Mingi watched Yunho cry.

Long.

Quietly.

Without trying to hide it.

Finally, he whispered,

“...I scared you.”

 

Yunho laughed wetly.

“You disappeared.”

 

Mingi frowned.

“I’m right here.”

 

Yunho looked at him.

“No.”

His voice was almost too quiet to hear.

“For thirty seconds...”

 

He reached out.

Stopped himself.

Lowered his hand.

“...you weren’t.”

 

Mingi looked down at his own hands.

They were shaking.

“I remember a ship.”

 

Yunho closed his eyes.

“I know.”

 

“I remember drowning.”

“I know.”

“I remember... being old.”

“I know.”

 

Mingi’s breathing hitched.

“...I don’t know where I end anymore.”

 

Yunho had no comforting lie.

No centuries of wisdom.

Nothing.

So he did the only honest thing he had left.

He pulled a chair beside the hospital bed.

Sat down.

 

And said,

“Then tomorrow...”

He met Mingi’s frightened eyes.

“...we’re going to figure out who Song Mingi is.”

 

Not who he had been.

Not who fate wanted him to be.

Not who Yunho had loved before.

Just...

Song Mingi.

For the first time in any lifetime.

That journey had finally begun.

 

Song Mingi

The notebook appeared three days later.

Nobody knew who bought it.

It was just...

There.

Black cover.

Plain.

Left on Mingi’s bed.

Inside the first page, in neat handwriting, someone had written:

Things that are true today.

Nothing else.

No explanation.

No signature.

Mingi stared at it for a long time.

Then smiled.

Small.

“...Hongjoong.”

It became everyone’s project.

Not because anyone suggested it.

Because nobody could stand watching Mingi lose pieces of himself.

 

Page one.

My name is Song Mingi.

 

Written by Mingi himself.

He stared at the sentence for almost five minutes before writing it.

As though committing to it was dangerous.

 

The next page.

Wooyoung.

Messy handwriting.

 

You pretend you hate spicy food but you literally cry and keep eating it.

Underneath:

Idiot.

 

Mingi laughed.

“...Sounds right.”

 

San.

Perfect handwriting.

You always check if everyone else has eaten before you start.

 

Mingi frowned.

“I do?”

San blinked.

“...You don’t remember?”

“No.”

San looked away before smiling.

“You do.”

 

Seonghwa.

A pressed flower taped carefully inside.

You stop to look at every cat you see.

 

Mingi smiled again.

“...Really?”

Seonghwa nodded.

“You once made us twenty minutes late because a kitten followed you.”

Wooyoung immediately interrupted.

“It wasn’t following him.”

“He was following the cat.”

 

Jongho.

One sentence.

You owe me £18.

 

Mingi laughed so hard he cried.

“...Did I really?”

Jongho nodded once.

“With interest.”

 

Even the staff joined.

Hair stylists.

Managers.

Backup dancers.

Everyone adding little truths.

Tiny things.

Things only Song Mingi did.

Yunho didn’t write anything.

Not at first.

He couldn’t.

Every sentence he thought of started with another lifetime.

 

You like pears.

Because...

You hum when you cook.

Because...

You smile like—

No.

Not this time.

Not memories.

Not ghosts.

Song Mingi.

Only Song Mingi.

He sat with the empty page for almost an hour.

 

Then finally wrote:

You always put your shoes on before your jacket.

 

He stared.

Smiled sadly.

Added another.

It makes no sense.

 

Mingi found it later.

He laughed immediately.

“...That’s so specific.”

Yunho shrugged.

“You asked.”

“...Do I actually do that?”

Yunho nodded.

“Every single time.”

Mingi tested it.

Shoes.

Then jacket.

He looked horrified.

“...Why do I do that?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out for seven years.”

 

The notebook grew.

Slowly.

Beautifully.

 

One page read:

You hate cold coffee.

 

Another:

You always steal fries even if you ordered something else.

 

Another:

You can’t walk past a crane machine without trying once.

 

Another:

You sing wrong lyrics confidently.

 

Another:

You text “lol” but never actually laugh.

 

Another:

You smile with your whole face when you’re genuinely happy.

 

Mingi started reading it every morning.

Every night.

Not because he forgot.

Because he was afraid he would.

Then...

The nightmares changed.

He no longer woke up screaming.

Now...

He woke up crying.

Quietly.

Almost politely.

Like he didn’t want to disturb anyone.

Yunho hated those more.

 

One night...

Around four.

Yunho heard movement.

He opened his bedroom door.

Mingi sat on the living room floor.

Notebook open.

Reading.

Again.

Yunho didn’t interrupt.

He quietly made tea.

Set one mug beside Mingi.

Sat opposite him.

Silence.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Finally...

Mingi spoke.

“...Do you think they’re winning?”

Yunho frowned.

“Who?”

“The others.”

His stomach dropped.

“The other me’s.”

Silence.

“I can hear them.”

Yunho stayed very still.

“What do they say?”

Mingi smiled weakly.

“Different things.”

Another pause.

“The prince says I’m a coward.”

...

“The sailor thinks I should’ve drowned.”

...

“The soldier keeps asking where his rifle is.”

...

“The old man...”

His voice cracked.

“...just wants to see you again.”

Yunho felt sick.

“Mingi...”

“I’m tired.”

Barely above a whisper.

“I’m so tired.”

 

Yunho made a decision.

One he’d avoided for weeks.

He reached across the coffee table.

Opened the notebook.

Turned to a blank page.

Then wrote.

Not about pancakes.

Not about shoes.

Not about the present.

He wrote one sentence.

Very carefully.

Then slid the notebook back.

Mingi looked down.

 

They are memories.

You are the one remembering them.

 

Mingi stared.

Long.

Then quietly asked,

“...What’s the difference?”

Yunho’s eyes filled.

“The prince doesn’t love K-pop.”

A tiny smile.

“The sailor never met Wooyoung.”

Another.

“The soldier never adopted thirty-seven stuffed toys.”

“...I don’t have thirty-seven.”

“You have forty-two.”

“...”

“I counted.”

“...Creep.”

 

Yunho smiled for the first time all week.

“There he is.”

Mingi closed the notebook.

“...What if one day that stops working?”

Yunho didn’t answer immediately.

Because he’d asked himself the same question every hour since the hospital.

Finally...

“We’ll write another notebook.”

Mingi frowned.

“...And if that one isn’t enough?”

“We’ll write another.”

“...And another?”

“As many as it takes.”

Silence.

“I’ll remind you every day.”

Another silence.

“For the rest of our lives if I have to.”

Mingi looked down.

“...You’d get tired.”

“No.”

“...Annoyed.”

“Definitely.”

A tiny laugh.

“...But you’d stay?”

Yunho met his eyes.

This answer came easier than breathing.

“Always.”

The second it left his mouth...

Both of them froze.

Always.

The word hung between them.

Heavy.

Ancient.

Mingi’s face slowly fell.

“...Don’t.”

Yunho nodded immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

Mingi shook his head.

“I don’t want always.”

Yunho swallowed.

“I know.”

“I want...”

He struggled.

“...Tuesday.”

Yunho frowned.

“...Tuesday?”

“I want next Tuesday.”

Another pause.

“Then Wednesday.”

His voice became smaller.

“I think...”

He smiled sadly.

“...I’m tired of forever.”

Yunho felt his heart physically ache.

So he nodded.

“Okay.”

No promises.

No eternity.

No destiny.

Just—

“I’ll see you Tuesday.”

Mingi smiled.

Real.

Small.

Perfect.

“I think...”

He looked at Yunho.

“...I’d like that.”

Yunho lay awake until sunrise.

Thinking about Tuesday.

Not forever.

Not another lifetime.

Not destiny.

Just Tuesday.

For the first time in centuries...

Forever no longer sounded like hope.

It sounded like a burden.

And maybe...

Just maybe...

Learning to love Mingi meant learning to love him one ordinary day at a time.

Not because the universe promised another lifetime.

But because Tuesday was enough.

 

Tuesdays

It became a joke first.

Like most things that hurt.

Three weeks after the hospital, Wooyoung burst into the living room holding the grocery bags above his head.

“Attention!”

Nobody looked up.

“Fine.”

He dropped the bags dramatically onto the kitchen island.

“I have returned from civilisation.”

Hongjoong kept typing.

Jongho kept eating.

San was asleep.

Seonghwa folded laundry.

Mingi was writing.

Yunho was pretending not to watch Mingi write.

Wooyoung pointed accusingly.

“You two are disgusting.”

Mingi looked up.

“What did we do?”

“You’ve ruined Tuesdays.”

Silence.

“What?”

Wooyoung threw his hands up.

“Every Tuesday!”

He started counting on his fingers.

“Tuesday breakfast.”

“Tuesday coffee.”

“Tuesday walk.”

“Tuesday notebook review.”

“Tuesday stupid pancakes.”

He glared.

“You’ve accidentally invented couple therapy.”

Mingi looked horrified.

Yunho nearly choked on his tea.

“We’re not—”

“I know you’re not.”

Wooyoung sighed dramatically.

“But emotionally?”

He pointed between them.

“You absolutely are.”

It wasn’t intentional.

Not at first.

It had started because Mingi hated Tuesdays.

After that conversation on the balcony...

Tuesday had become...

Safe.

One day.

One promise.

Manageable.

Not forever.

Never forever.

Just Tuesday.

So every Tuesday...

They checked in.

No memories unless Mingi wanted them.

No talking about the curse.

No “what if.”

Only...

Song Mingi.

 

“What did you discover this week?”

 

That was always Yunho’s first question.

Not:

How are you?

Too big.

Not:

Did you remember anything?

Too dangerous.

Instead...

 

“What did you discover?”

“This.”

Mingi held up his phone.

A photograph.

A tiny café cat sleeping inside a cardboard box.

Yunho smiled immediately.

“You stopped.”

“I was late.”

“You still stopped.”

“...Yeah.”

“You couldn’t help yourself.”

Mingi rolled his eyes.

“There are priorities.”

“There are.”

A pause.

“The cat?”

“The cat.”

 

Another Tuesday.

“What did you discover?”

Mingi thought.

“I like thunderstorms.”

Yunho frowned.

“I thought you hated them.”

“I did.”

Silence.

“Apparently that was the sailor.”

Yunho blinked.

Mingi smiled.

“I like rain.”

“...Really?”

“It makes me sleepy.”

Yunho quietly rewrote another assumption he’d carried for centuries.

 

Another Tuesday.

“What did you discover?”

“...I don’t actually like pears.”

Yunho laughed.

“What?”

“I’ve been forcing myself to eat them because every version of me seemed obsessed.”

Yunho started laughing harder.

Mingi frowned.

“What?”

“You hated pears in this life.”

“I WHAT?”

“You said they tasted like wet sand.”

“...Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to see how long you’d keep pretending.”

Mingi threw a cushion at him.

“You are genuinely the worst.”

“It took you six weeks.”

“I’ve suffered.”

“You did.”

“I’ve been voluntarily eating pears.”

“You have.”

“I deserve compensation.”

“You absolutely do.”

The notebook slowly changed.

At first it had been facts.

 

Now...

Opinions.

 

I don’t actually enjoy pears.

I think blue is still my favourite colour.

I don’t mind getting older.

I still cry during Disney movies.

That’s staying.

 

Yunho never commented unless asked.

That mattered.

Because for the first time...

He wasn’t teaching Mingi who he was.

He was watching him become someone.

 

One Tuesday...

Mingi closed the notebook.

“I have a question.”

Yunho looked up.

“Shoot.”

Mingi hesitated.

“What’s your favourite thing about me?”

Yunho answered too quickly.

“Your laugh.”

Mingi smiled.

“You didn’t even think.”

“I didn’t need to.”

Silence.

Then...

“The laugh from which lifetime?”

 

The question hung there.

Old Yunho would’ve answered immediately.

The prince.

The sailor.

The old man.

The boy.

This Yunho...

Thought.

Actually thought.

Then smiled softly.

“The one from yesterday.”

Mingi stared.

Yunho shrugged.

“When Wooyoung dropped the watermelon.”

Mingi burst out laughing.

“That wasn’t funny.”

“He screamed.”

“He screamed because it exploded.”

“He screamed before it exploded.”

“It looked dangerous.”

“It was a watermelon.”

“It had intent.”

Yunho smiled.

“This laugh.”

Mingi slowly stopped laughing.

His eyes became suspiciously shiny.

“...Oh.”

Yunho looked confused.

“What?”

“...Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

Because...

That was the first time...

Yunho had chosen this lifetime first.

Not another one.

Not a memory.

Not a ghost.

Yesterday.

That night...

Mingi added a new section to the notebook.

A completely new heading.

He stared at it for almost ten minutes before writing underneath.

 

Things that belong only to Song Mingi

 

He smiled.

Then wrote:

 

Wet sand pears.

Tuesday pancakes.

Wooyoung’s terrible jokes.

Jongho still wants his £18.

Yunho likes my laugh from yesterday.

 

He stopped.

Read it again.

Then...

Very slowly...

Crossed out the last line.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because...

It wasn’t about him.

He smiled sadly.

 

Then replaced it with:

I laughed yesterday.

 

And somehow...

That sentence felt even more important.

 

Across the hall...

Yunho couldn’t sleep.

Not because of nightmares.

Because...

For the first time in centuries...

He was happy.

Truly.

Quietly.

Dangerously.

Happy.

 

And somewhere...

In a place neither of them could see...

Something very old...

Very patient...

Shifted.

Not because it was defeated.

Because it had been forgotten.

For just a little while.

And curses...

Have always hated being ignored.

 

It happened so slowly that none of them noticed.

That was the point.

Healing rarely announced itself.

One day you realized someone had laughed.

The next, you couldn’t remember the last nightmare.

Then suddenly weeks had passed without anyone checking if Mingi was still Mingi every five minutes.

Life, rude and stubborn, kept moving.

The notebook no longer lived in Mingi’s pocket.

It stayed on his bedside table.

Sometimes he forgot to write in it for a day.

Once...

He forgot for three.

He panicked when he realized.

Opened it.

Read the last entry.

Then laughed at himself.

Nothing had disappeared.

He was still there.

Seonghwa noticed first.

Over breakfast.

“Mingi.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t check.”

“What?”

“The notebook.”

Mingi looked confused.

“Oh.”

He shrugged.

“I forgot.”

The table fell silent.

Not because forgetting was bad.

Because...

It wasn’t.

Hongjoong smiled into his coffee.

“That’s... actually good.”

Mingi blinked.

“...It is?”

“It means you’re trusting yourself.”

Mingi hadn’t thought of it like that.

He quietly buttered his toast.

Maybe.

The members stopped hovering.

Not intentionally.

It just...

Happened.

San stopped waking up three times a night to check Mingi’s room.

Wooyoung stopped hiding spare notebooks in every bag.

Seonghwa stopped counting how much Mingi ate.

Hongjoong stopped watching him during interviews.

Normal returned.

Bit by bit.

And with normal...

So did teasing.

“You’re wearing two different socks.”

Mingi looked down.

“...I am.”

Wooyoung pointed dramatically.

“Identity crisis.”

Jongho didn’t even look up.

“Wrong diagnosis.”

San grinned.

“Fashion crime.”

Mingi threw a napkin at all of them.

Yunho laughed.

A proper laugh.

The room felt lighter than it had in months.

They started planning again.

A comeback.

A tour.

Future albums.

Future birthdays.

Future holidays.

The word future stopped feeling dangerous.

One Tuesday...

Mingi arrived late.

Yunho was already sitting on their usual park bench with two takeaway coffees.

“You overslept.”

“I absolutely did.”

“You drooled on your pillow.”

“...Were you watching me sleep?”

“No.”

“...Liar.”

“I heard Wooyoung yelling.”

“That’s fair.”

Mingi took his coffee.

They sat.

Watching people walk dogs.

Children race pigeons.

Someone playing violin badly near the fountain.

Ordinary.

Perfectly ordinary.

Mingi smiled.

“I don’t think I remembered anything this week.”

Yunho looked at him.

“Really?”

“No.”

A pause.

“I think...”

He frowned.

“...I think they got quieter.”

Yunho’s chest loosened.

“The memories?”

Mingi nodded.

“They’re still there.”

Another pause.

“But...”

He searched for the words.

“...they don’t feel like they’re shouting anymore.”

Yunho smiled.

“I think that’s called healing.”

Mingi wrinkled his nose.

“Boring.”

“It usually is.”

“I expected lightning.”

“You got therapy.”

“Worse.”

 

The coffee was terrible.

Mingi complained for fifteen straight minutes.

Yunho listened with complete seriousness.

 

“Notes of burnt regret.”

“Mm.”

“A disappointing aftertaste.”

“I see.”

“I think they brewed it using someone’s tears.”

Yunho nodded thoughtfully.

“Probably Wooyoung’s.”

Mingi laughed so loudly people turned to look.

He didn’t care.

 

That evening...

He opened the notebook.

Not because he needed to.

Because he wanted to.

 

He wrote:

 

Today’s coffee was awful.

I complained about it for fourteen minutes.

Yunho counted.

 

He smiled.

Stopped.

Read it.

Then crossed out the last line.

Again.

Replaced it.

 

Today’s coffee was awful.

I laughed a lot.

 

He closed the notebook.

Satisfied.

 

Across town...

Yunho sat alone in his apartment.

His own notebook lay open.

Nobody knew he had one.

Not even Mingi.

Unlike Mingi’s...

It contained no facts.

No reminders.

Just one question.

Every page.

Over and over.

 

Did I love him well today?

 

Some pages read:

No.

I interrupted him.

 

Another:

I answered for him during the interview.

Need to stop.

 

Another:

I almost told him pears were his favourite again.

Caught myself.

 

Today’s page.

He thought carefully.

Then wrote:

 

I let him discover something without helping.

I’m proud of him.

 

He closed the notebook.

Smiling.

 

Outside...

Rain began.

Mingi texted him immediately.

 

Mingi:

It’s raining.

 

Yunho:

I noticed.

 

Mingi:

I still like it.

 

Yunho smiled.

 

Yunho:

I know.

 

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally—

 

Mingi:

Thank you.

 

Yunho stared.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

For what?

He almost asked.

Instead...

He already knew.

He typed:

 

Yunho:

You’re welcome.

 

Mingi never explained.

He didn’t have to.

 

Weeks passed.

Then months.

The nightmares became rare.

The memory episodes rarer still.

Sometimes Mingi would remember something while passing a bakery or hearing an old melody.

He’d pause.

Smile sadly.

Then continue walking.

The memories had become...

History.

Not identity.

One afternoon...

Hongjoong found the notebook lying open on the sofa.

He wasn’t snooping.

He’d been looking for the TV remote.

A page caught his eye.

Not because of the writing.

Because it was almost empty.

Only one sentence.

Written that morning.

 

I think I’m becoming someone none of the other versions of me ever got to be.

 

Hongjoong quietly closed the notebook.

He smiled to himself.

They had done it.

Not perfectly.

Not completely.

But they’d done it.

They’d brought Song Mingi home.

 

That night...

Nobody noticed Yunho rubbing his chest.

Just once.

A brief pressure.

Gone almost immediately.

He frowned.

Probably stress.

Too much coffee.

He drank some water.

Forgot about it.

 

On Tuesday...

Nobody looked over their shoulder.

Not once.

And somewhere...

Something ancient...

Smiled.

 

Ordinary.

 

Ordinary was terrifying.

 

Not because it was bad.

 

Because none of them trusted it.

 

For the first month, every quiet day felt borrowed.

 

Every laugh was followed by someone glancing over their shoulder.

 

Every good morning carried the silent question:

 

Is this the day it comes back?

 

Then...

 

Nothing happened.

 

ATEEZ returned to work properly.

 

Comebacks.

 

Interviews.

 

Dance practices.

 

Fansigns.

 

The endless cycle that had once exhausted them now felt strangely comforting.

 

Schedules meant routines.

 

Routines meant anchors.

 

Anchors kept Song Mingi exactly where he belonged.

 

The notebook shrank.

 

Not in size.

 

In necessity.

 

Some entries became absurdly short.

 

«Tuesday.

 

Ate too much ramen.

 

Worth it.»

 

Another.

 

«I still hate pears.»

 

Another.

 

«Won three games against Wooyoung.

 

He says I cheated.

 

I didn’t.

 

Probably.»

 

Weeks later...

 

There wasn’t an entry at all.

 

Just a date.

 

Blank page.

 

The first blank page.

 

Mingi stared at it.

 

Closed the notebook.

 

Went to bed.

 

Nothing bad happened.

 

“You skipped yesterday.”

 

San mentioned it over breakfast.

 

Mingi blinked.

 

“Oh.”

 

“You forgot?”

 

“I guess.”

 

San smiled.

 

“...Good.”

 

It became a running joke.

 

“Journal today?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

“What are you busy doing?”

 

“Eating.”

 

“Fair.”

 

Even Yunho relaxed.

 

Not dramatically.

 

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

 

Just...

 

Little things.

 

He stopped checking that Mingi’s bedroom light turned off every night.

 

Stopped waking whenever the floorboards creaked.

 

Stopped counting how many times Mingi laughed during interviews.

 

He didn’t notice he had stopped.

 

That was healing too.

 

Tuesday arrived.

 

Like always.

 

Coffee.

 

Park bench.

 

Grey sky threatening rain.

 

Mingi sat beside Yunho and stretched until his back cracked loudly.

 

“You sound old.”

 

“I am old.”

 

Yunho raised an eyebrow.

 

“Oh?”

 

“I’ve technically lived...” Mingi started counting on his fingers.

 

“...too many years.”

 

Yunho laughed.

 

“I suppose that’s true.”

 

Mingi bumped their shoulders together.

 

Accidentally.

 

Neither of them moved away.

 

That would’ve been impossible a few months ago.

 

Now...

 

It barely registered.

 

Comfort had returned before either of them realised it.

 

“What did you discover this week?” Yunho asked.

 

Mingi thought for a while.

 

Then smiled.

 

“...Nothing.”

 

Yunho frowned.

 

“Nothing?”

 

“I think that’s my answer.”

 

Silence.

 

“I wasn’t discovering who I am.”

 

Another pause.

 

“I was just...”

 

He looked around the park.

 

“...being him.”

 

Song Mingi.

 

Yunho swallowed.

 

“...That’s a pretty big discovery.”

 

Mingi smiled.

 

“I think so too.”

 

On the walk back...

 

A little girl fell off her scooter.

 

She burst into tears.

 

Before anyone else reacted...

 

Mingi crouched beside her.

 

“Whoa.”

 

His voice became impossibly gentle.

 

“You’ve got to stop fighting the pavement.”

 

The little girl sniffled.

 

“It pushed me.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

Mingi looked around dramatically.

 

“I’ve been suspicious of this pavement for weeks.”

 

The little girl giggled through her tears.

 

“There.”

 

He smiled.

 

“It confessed.”

 

Her mother thanked him.

 

The girl rode away.

 

Yunho had watched the whole thing quietly.

 

When they started walking again, he asked,

 

“Do you know why you did that?”

 

Mingi shrugged.

 

“It seemed obvious.”

 

Yunho nodded.

 

“It is.”

 

Another few steps.

 

“You’ve done that in every lifetime.”

 

Mingi looked at him.

 

“Really?”

 

“You’ve always been the first person to kneel beside someone crying.”

 

Mingi was quiet.

 

Then...

 

“I think...”

 

He smiled softly.

 

“...maybe that one’s allowed to stay.”

 

Yunho smiled back.

 

“I think so too.”

 

That evening, the notebook opened again.

 

Not because it had to.

 

Because Mingi wanted to remember one thing.

 

He wrote:

 

«Things that belong to every version of me.

 

I stop when someone is hurting.»

 

He looked at the sentence for a long time.

 

Then added underneath:

 

«That isn’t the curse.

 

That’s just kindness.»

 

He smiled.

 

Closed the notebook.

 

Turned off the light.

 

Across the hallway, Yunho sat on the edge of his bed.

 

His own notebook lay open.

 

He wrote only one line.

 

«Today I forgot to be afraid.»

 

He stared at it.

 

Read it twice.

 

Then, slowly...

 

He smiled.

 

It was the first genuine smile he’d given himself in centuries.

 

He turned off the bedside lamp.

 

Outside, rain began tapping softly against the windows.

 

Neither of them woke during the night.

 

Neither dreamed of arrows.

 

Or storms.

 

Or hospitals.

 

Or graves.

 

For the first time in longer than either of them could possibly measure...

 

They both slept all the way until morning.

 

And somewhere beyond either memory or fate...

 

The silence was waiting.

 

The first person to say it was Wooyoung.

"I'm booking us a holiday."

Hongjoong didn't even look up from his laptop.

"With what money?"

"Our money."

"Our money is your money."

"Our money is everyone's money."

"Our money is currently paying for your food."

Wooyoung gasped dramatically.

"So you're saying no?"

"I'm saying stop trying to book a villa in Greece during comeback promotions."

Wooyoung slowly lowered his phone.

"...Fine."

Five seconds passed.

"...Japan?"

Hongjoong closed the laptop.

"No."

 

The conversation should have ended there.

Instead...

It grew.

"What if we actually did?" San asked.

"Did what?" Seonghwa looked up.

"Go somewhere."

"When?"

"When we finally get a proper break."

Silence settled over the table.

Not awkward.

Hopeful.

Jongho spoke around a mouthful of rice.

"I vote somewhere cold."

"Absolutely not," Mingi replied immediately.

"You like rain."

"I didn't say snow."

"It's basically frozen rain."

"It is absolutely not."

Yunho listened.

Smiling.

Not because of the conversation.

Because they were making plans.

Months away.

Without hesitation.

Without wondering if everyone would still be alive.

 

"Where would you go?" Seonghwa asked Mingi.

Mingi leaned back in his chair.

"Ireland."

Everyone looked at him.

"I've always wanted to."

"Since when?" Wooyoung asked.

Mingi frowned.

"I..."

He paused.

"...I don't actually know."

He expected the familiar fear.

The question.

Is that mine?

Or someone else's?

Instead...

He just shrugged.

"I guess I just want to."

Yunho watched him carefully.

Then smiled.

"Then we'll go."

Mingi looked at him.

"You'll come?"

"If you'll have me."

Mingi rolled his eyes.

"Obviously."

Neither of them noticed Hongjoong smiling into his bowl.

 

That evening...

Mingi opened the notebook.

He didn't write a memory.

Or a fact.

He started a list.

Places I want to see.

Ireland.

New Zealand.

Iceland.

A tiny café in Italy where nobody knows my name.

A lighthouse.

The Northern Lights.

He stared at the page.

Then smiled.

None of those places belonged to another lifetime.

They belonged to one that hadn't happened yet.

 

Two days later...

Yunho found him watching travel videos.

"Research?"

"Ireland."

Yunho leaned over the sofa.

"What have you learned?"

Mingi looked completely serious.

"Sheep."

"...Sheep?"

"So many sheep."

"I've heard rumours."

"I think there are more sheep than people."

"I'm not qualified to confirm."

Mingi showed him the screen.

Rolling green hills.

Stone walls.

Grey skies.

Rain.

Yunho laughed softly.

"You picked another rainy country."

Mingi blinked.

"...I did."

"Apparently that's staying too."

"Apparently."

 

Life became wonderfully boring.

Dance practice.

Laundry.

Arguments over whose turn it was to wash dishes.

Wooyoung somehow burning instant noodles.

San adopting another houseplant despite killing the previous three.

Jongho finally getting his £18 back.

He framed the twenty-pound note and refused to give Mingi his change.

"It's sentimental now."

"You're a thief."

"I'm an investor."

 

The notebook stayed closed for almost a week.

Nobody mentioned it.

Until...

Mingi opened it one Sunday afternoon.

He flipped through the pages slowly.

The early ones made his chest ache.

My name is Song Mingi.

I brushed my teeth.

I like cats.

He remembered writing those with shaking hands.

Terrified that if he didn't...

He'd disappear.

He turned another page.

Then another.

The handwriting became steadier.

The sentences became longer.

The fear became quieter.

Finally...

He reached the last written page.

Blank paper waited after it.

He rested his hand on it.

Then wrote:

Today I realised this notebook isn't keeping me alive anymore.

It's just telling my story.

He smiled.

Closed it.

And, for the first time...

Left it in the drawer.

 

Yunho noticed.

He noticed everything.

The drawer stayed closed.

Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

No notebook.

He almost asked.

Almost.

Then stopped himself.

Mingi wasn't forgetting.

He was remembering without help.

There was a difference.

One Yunho had finally learned to trust.

 

That night...

Yunho's phone buzzed.

A message from Mingi.

Mingi: You awake?

Yunho: Yeah.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally—

Mingi: I think I'm happy.

Yunho stared at the screen for a long time.

His eyes burned unexpectedly.

He typed.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Yunho: I'm really glad.

Another pause.

Mingi: It feels scary to say out loud.

Yunho: I know.

Mingi: Do you think it'll disappear?

Yunho looked out of the dorm window.

Rain tapped softly against the glass.

He thought about every lifetime.

Every promise.

Every grave.

Every Tuesday.

Then he answered as the man he wanted to be.

Not the man fear had made him.

Yunho: Maybe someday.

A long pause.

Before Mingi could panic, another message arrived.

Yunho: But if it does, we'll build it again.

The reply came almost instantly.

Mingi: ...I like that answer.

Yunho smiled.

He set his phone down.

Closed his eyes.

And for the first time in centuries...

He let himself believe there would be another Tuesday.

He fell asleep smiling.

Outside, unnoticed by anyone...

The first leaves of autumn drifted onto the empty pavement.

Time, patient as ever, kept moving forward.

 

Tuesday

Tuesday arrived exactly on time.

The sun was out.

Which immediately made Mingi suspicious.

He stood in front of the kitchen window, coffee mug in hand, squinting at the sky.

“This feels illegal.”

Wooyoung looked up from the table.

“What does?”

“The sun.”

“...You’ve officially become British.”

“I’m serious.”

“It was sunny yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

“So?”

“It’s suspicious.”

Wooyoung pointed at him with a piece of toast.

“Write that in your notebook.”

Mingi grinned.

“I don’t need the notebook.”

Wooyoung froze dramatically.

Hongjoong looked over his newspaper.

“...You know what?”

“What?”

“I hadn’t even realised.”

Mingi blinked.

“Realised what?”

“You haven’t carried it around for weeks.”

Silence settled across the kitchen.

Not heavy.

Just thoughtful.

Mingi looked towards the hallway where the notebook sat in the top drawer of his bedside table.

“Oh.”

He hadn’t.

“I guess I forgot.”

Yunho smiled over the rim of his coffee.

“I think that’s allowed.”

Practice ended early.

A miracle.

Hongjoong clapped his hands.

“Go home.”

Nobody argued.

Not even once.

On the drive back, San complained about traffic.

Wooyoung complained about San complaining about traffic.

Jongho fell asleep.

Seonghwa scrolled through recipes.

Mingi rested his forehead against the window.

Watching the city slide past.

“Ireland.”

Yunho looked over.

“What about it?”

“I think we should actually go.”

Yunho smiled.

“I thought we already decided that.”

“No.”

Mingi shook his head.

“I mean actually book it.”

Hongjoong looked up from the front seat.

“...After the tour?”

“After the tour.”

“We’ll see.”

“We always ‘we’ll see.’”

Hongjoong laughed.

“Fine.”

He opened his calendar.

“I’ll look.”

Mingi smiled to himself.

Just like that.

A future.

Back at the dorm...

Yunho found Mingi standing in the kitchen.

Staring at a mixing bowl.

“What are you doing?”

“Pancakes.”

Yunho raised an eyebrow.

“Confident.”

“I’ve watched enough videos.”

“That’s not how cooking works.”

“We’re about to find out.”

Forty-three minutes later...

Smoke.

“Open the window!”

“I’m trying!”

“You’ve made it worse!”

“I don’t know how!”

Wooyoung walked into the kitchen.

Stopped.

Looked at the black disc sitting in the frying pan.

“...What is that?”

“Pancake.”

“No.”

“It was.”

“No.”

Mingi pointed a spatula at him.

“Supportive comments only.”

“I support throwing that away.”

Yunho laughed so hard he had to lean against the counter.

Mingi looked offended.

“Oh, now you’re laughing.”

“I told you.”

“You did.”

“You didn’t listen.”

“I didn’t.”

Another laugh escaped Yunho.

One that made his shoulders shake.

Mingi stared.

Then...

Smiled.

Not because the pancake was funny.

Because...

That laugh.

He wanted to remember it.

Not from another lifetime.

From now.

Later...

They sat on the balcony eating takeaway instead.

Because obviously.

Mingi nudged Yunho’s shoulder.

“I’m getting better.”

“You’ve cooked once.”

“I’m improving rapidly.”

“You nearly invented charcoal.”

“Art takes time.”

“It certainly took the smoke alarm.”

The evening stretched lazily around them.

Cars below.

Wind through the trees.

Someone playing music from an open apartment window.

Mingi looked at the sunset.

“You know...”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think about forever anymore.”

Yunho looked at him.

“No?”

Mingi shook his head.

“I think about next week.”

A smile.

“I think about Ireland.”

Another.

“I think about pancakes I’ll probably ruin.”

Yunho’s eyes softened.

“I think...”

Mingi looked at him.

“...I’m excited.”

Those words hit Yunho harder than any declaration of love ever had.

Excited.

Not afraid.

Not surviving.

Living.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“I’m really happy to hear that.”

Mingi watched him carefully.

“You look like you’re going to cry.”

“I might.”

“Don’t.”

“I’ll try.”

When the others called them inside, neither moved immediately.

The sky had turned deep blue.

The first stars were appearing.

Mingi stood.

Then hesitated.

“Hey.”

Yunho looked up.

“Thanks.”

“For?”

Mingi thought about it.

Everything.

Nothing.

Tuesday.

The notebook.

The hospital.

The rain.

The silence.

The fact that he could breathe again.

He smiled.

“...For Tuesday.”

Yunho smiled back.

“My favourite day.”

That night, before bed, Mingi did something he hadn’t done in over a month.

He opened the notebook.

Not because he needed reminding.

Because he wanted to mark the day.

He wrote one final entry beneath all the others.

Today was ordinary.

We burned pancakes.

We talked about Ireland.

I laughed.

I think this is what living feels like.

He stared at the page.

Then, beneath it, he wrote one last sentence.

Tomorrow is Wednesday.

He closed the notebook.

Placed it gently in the drawer.

Turned off the light.

He never noticed that he didn’t write another page after that.

Across the hall, Yunho set an alarm on his phone.

Wednesday – 7:00 a.m.

He smiled.

Tomorrow, he’d tease Mingi about the pancakes.

Maybe they’d stop for coffee after practice.

Maybe they could look at flights to Ireland.

Maybe—

He plugged his phone in.

Turned off the bedside lamp.

Closed his eyes.

And fell asleep completely certain...

...that there would be another morning.

Outside, dawn was already making its slow journey toward them.

Wednesday was coming.

And neither of them knew...

It would be the last ordinary day they would ever share.

 

Yunho woke up before his alarm.

6:41 a.m.

The room was still grey with early morning light.

He lay there for a moment, listening.

The dorm had its own language.

The pipes.

The refrigerator humming.

Someone snoring.

Wooyoung.

Definitely Wooyoung.

Yunho smiled.

Another ordinary day.

He got up.

 

Mingi was already in the kitchen.

Standing on a chair.

"Why are you on the counter?"

"I'm proving a point."

"What point?"

"I can reach the top cupboard."

"...You know we own a stool."

"The chair was closer."

Yunho sighed.

"You're going to fall."

"I won't."

The cupboard door opened.

Three cereal boxes fell directly onto Mingi's head.

Yunho laughed.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"...Not today."

Yunho reached up, took the last box down, and handed it to him.

"There."

Mingi climbed off the chair with exaggerated dignity.

"I had everything under control."

"You got attacked by cornflakes."

"They came out of nowhere."

"They were in the cupboard."

"They were waiting."

 

Breakfast was loud.

San insisted on making eggs.

Wooyoung insisted San was poisoning everyone.

Jongho quietly ate both portions.

Hongjoong was already answering emails.

Seonghwa kept telling everyone to stop leaving dirty plates in the sink.

It felt...

Normal.

Wonderfully normal.

 

Before leaving for practice, Mingi caught Yunho by the front door.

"Oh."

"What?"

He bent down.

Yunho frowned.

"What are you—"

Mingi brushed something off the shoulder of his hoodie.

"There."

"What was that?"

"Flour."

Yunho blinked.

"...From yesterday?"

"You had pancake flour on your shoulder for almost twenty-four hours."

Yunho laughed.

"I can't believe nobody told me."

"I wanted to see how long it'd survive."

"You menace."

"I learned from Wooyoung."

"You absolutely did not."

 

Practice went well.

Almost suspiciously well.

Nobody forgot choreography.

Nobody argued.

Even the vocal recording finished early.

The staff kept joking that someone had cursed them with competence.

Hongjoong laughed.

"If this is a curse, don't break it."

 

Around lunchtime...

They escaped.

Just Yunho and Mingi.

A tiny café two streets away from the company building.

No cameras.

No managers.

Just forty minutes before they had to be back.

Mingi stirred his iced coffee.

"You know..."

"Hm?"

"I've been thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very."

Yunho smiled.

Mingi looked out of the window.

"...I think I'm ready."

Yunho waited.

"For what?"

Mingi took a breath.

"I don't think I need Tuesdays anymore."

Yunho's smile faded.

Not because it hurt.

Because...

It didn't.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't need one special day."

He shrugged.

"I think..."

A tiny laugh.

"...I just like Wednesdays now."

Yunho stared at him.

Then...

He laughed.

Softly.

"You've become greedy."

"I have."

"You want every day?"

"I think I do."

Yunho looked at him for a long moment.

Then reached across the table.

Not to touch him.

Just to steal one of Mingi's chips.

"Hey!"

"You looked distracted."

"That doesn't make them yours."

"I disagree."

"You've always disagreed."

Yunho stopped.

Always.

The word hung there.

Neither of them flinched anymore.

It had finally become...

Just a word.

 

They walked back together.

The afternoon was warm.

Children were spilling out of a nearby school.

A florist was putting flowers outside.

An elderly couple argued affectionately over which bus they needed.

Life.

Everywhere.

Mingi suddenly spoke.

"I think..."

Yunho looked over.

"...I might be falling in love with you again."

Everything inside Yunho stopped.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

Just...

Quiet.

Mingi rubbed the back of his neck.

"I know."

"Terrible timing."

Yunho couldn't find his voice.

"It's different."

Mingi kept walking.

"I don't think it's because of the curse."

Another step.

"I don't think it's because of the memories."

His smile was nervous.

"I think..."

He looked at Yunho.

"...it's because you're actually trying."

Yunho felt tears burning behind his eyes.

"Mingi..."

"Don't answer."

"What?"

"I don't need an answer today."

He smiled.

"I just thought you should know."

Yunho laughed through the tears threatening to escape.

"I've waited a very long time to hear that."

"I know."

They reached the pedestrian crossing.

The little green man was red.

They stopped.

Cars rushed past.

Mingi nudged Yunho with his shoulder.

"So..."

"So?"

"Ireland."

Yunho smiled.

"Ireland."

"Promise?"

Yunho looked at him.

Not forever.

Not destiny.

Not another lifetime.

Just...

"I promise we'll book the flights."

Mingi grinned.

"Deal."

The light changed.

Green.

People began crossing.

Mingi stepped forward first.

His phone buzzed.

He glanced down instinctively.

A message from Wooyoung.

BUY MILK.

Mingi laughed.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"He actually messaged—"

The sound wasn't loud.

Just...

Wrong.

Tyres.

A horn.

Someone shouting.

Yunho turned.

Time fractured.

A delivery van.

Far too fast.

A cyclist swerved.

The van jerked sideways.

Straight toward the crossing.

Someone screamed.

Yunho didn't think.

He moved.

One hand hit Mingi's chest.

Hard.

Enough to throw him backwards onto the pavement.

Mingi fell.

His phone skidded away.

Everything after that happened in seconds.

Or hours.

Mingi never knew which.

The van clipped the traffic light.

Metal screamed.

Glass exploded.

People ran.

Someone shouted for an ambulance.

Someone else cried.

Mingi pushed himself up immediately.

Disoriented.

"Yunho?"

No answer.

His ears rang.

"Yunho?"

Then he saw him.

Ten feet away.

On the road.

Perfectly still.

 

The world narrowed into a pinpoint.

Everything else disappeared.

The traffic.

The people.

The sirens beginning somewhere in the distance.

Nothing existed except...

Yunho.

Mingi stumbled toward him.

"No."

His voice sounded strange.

Too calm.

"No."

He dropped to his knees.

Yunho's eyes were open.

Looking at the sky.

Breathing.

Barely.

"Hey."

Mingi's hands shook violently.

"Hey."

He didn't know where to touch.

There was blood.

Too much.

Not enough.

He couldn't tell.

"It's okay."

The lie came automatically.

"It's okay."

Yunho's eyes moved.

Slowly.

Until they found Mingi.

Recognition.

Immediate.

Always immediate.

His lips twitched.

Almost a smile.

"...Wednesday."

Mingi broke.

"No."

A laugh escaped him.

Panicked.

"You idiot."

His tears fell onto Yunho's jacket.

"You promised Ireland."

Yunho tried to answer.

Coughed instead.

Blood.

Mingi's entire body went cold.

"No."

His hands pressed uselessly against Yunho's side.

"Somebody!"

He looked around wildly.

"HELP HIM!"

People were already running.

Already calling.

Already kneeling beside them.

Too slow.

Too far away.

Mingi looked back down.

"Stay with me."

Yunho watched him quietly.

Like he was memorising him.

"No."

Mingi shook his head frantically.

"No."

Yunho's voice was barely a breath.

"...Tuesday..."

"What?"

"...You..."

Another breath.

"...learned..."

His eyes started slipping closed.

Mingi grabbed his hand.

"No!"

Yunho forced them open again.

One last time.

He looked at Mingi.

Not frightened.

Not guilty.

Just...

Proud.

His lips moved.

So quietly Mingi almost missed it.

"You chose..."

The rest disappeared into air.

His hand relaxed.

Completely.

"Mingi?"

Nothing.

"No."

"Mingi!"

Nothing.

"No."

"MINGI!"

Nothing.

The sirens arrived.

People pulled Mingi backwards.

He fought them.

Violently.

"No!"

Someone wrapped both arms around him.

He couldn't see who.

"I'M HERE!"

He reached desperately for Yunho.

"I'm here!"

His fingertips brushed empty air.

"They're helping him!"

A voice.

Whose?

He didn't know.

"They're helping him!"

"No."

Mingi whispered.

"No..."

Because he knew.

Not from the curse.

Not from another lifetime.

Not from memory.

He knew because...

For the first time...

The silence inside him wasn't crowded with voices.

There was no prince.

No sailor.

No soldier.

No old man.

No ghosts.

Just Song Mingi.

Watching the man he loved die on an ordinary Wednesday.

And somehow...

That hurt more than centuries ever had.

 

The first thing Mingi noticed was the milk.

It was still in the bag.

Someone had picked it up from where it rolled across the pavement.

It sat on the plastic chair beside him in the hospital corridor.

One bottle of milk.

Condensation running down the side.

Someone had even paid for it.

Mingi stared at it for almost an hour.

He couldn’t remember why.

Then...

Wooyoung’s message.

BUY MILK.

His stomach turned.

Hospitals had always smelled wrong.

Too clean.

Too bright.

Too final.

Only this time...

Nothing came back.

No old memories.

No soldiers.

No plague wards.

No dying kings.

No pirate ships.

Nothing.

Just fluorescent lights.

Plastic chairs.

A vending machine that wouldn’t accept his coins.

This hospital belonged only to Song Mingi.

That somehow made it worse.

Hongjoong was speaking to someone.

Police.

Management.

Maybe both.

Seonghwa was crying silently into San’s shoulder.

Jongho hadn’t said a single word since the ambulance.

Wooyoung kept pacing.

Every five minutes he stopped.

Looked toward the double doors.

Started pacing again.

As if walking fast enough might reverse time.

Mingi didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His hands were still covered in dried blood.

Someone had tried to wash them.

He’d pulled away.

Not angrily.

Just...

No.

A doctor appeared.

Everyone stood.

Except Mingi.

He already knew.

The doctor looked exhausted.

“I’m very sorry.”

Hongjoong’s knees gave out first.

San caught him.

Seonghwa covered his mouth.

Wooyoung whispered,

“No.”

Again.

“No.”

Again.

“No.”

Like repetition could become reality.

The doctor kept talking.

Words.

Injuries.

Impact.

Immediate.

Nothing could have—

Mingi stopped listening.

Someone sat beside him.

He didn’t look.

“...Mingi.”

Hongjoong.

His voice sounded fifty years older.

Mingi kept staring at the milk.

“I forgot.”

Hongjoong frowned.

“...What?”

“The notebook.”

Silence.

“I didn’t write yesterday.”

Hongjoong’s face crumpled.

“Mingi...”

“I forgot.”

His voice stayed calm.

Almost conversational.

“I was going to write after dinner.”

Another pause.

“I was going to write that Wednesdays are nice.”

Hongjoong burst into tears.

Mingi didn’t.

 

The funeral was six days later.

It rained.

Of course it rained.

Mingi almost laughed when he saw the weather.

Yunho would’ve made some stupid comment about suspicious sunshine being safer.

He almost turned to tell him.

Instead...

He looked at the empty space beside him.

Nothing.

People spoke.

Managers.

Staff.

Friends.

Family.

 

Fans lined the streets in silence.

Flowers covered everything.

Someone mentioned Yunho’s kindness.

Someone mentioned his smile.

Someone called him irreplaceable.

They were all right.

None of it felt big enough.

When they asked if anyone else wanted to speak...

Nobody moved.

 

Then...

Mingi stood.

Slowly.

The microphone looked absurdly small.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then said,

“...He finally learned.”

The room went silent.

Mingi smiled through eyes that hadn’t cried since Wednesday.

“He spent so long trying to save me...”

A breath.

“...that I don’t think he noticed...”

His voice cracked for the first time.

“...that he’d already done it.”

Silence.

“He taught me...”

Another breath.

“...how to stay.”

Mingi looked at the photograph.

Yunho smiling.

Caught mid-laugh.

“So...”

His hands trembled.

“...I’m going to.”

That was all.

He stepped away.

 

That evening...

The dorm felt impossible.

Yunho’s shoes still sat by the door.

His favourite mug was in the drying rack.

His hoodie hung over the back of the sofa.

Wooyoung walked into the living room.

Saw it.

Collapsed.

Actually collapsed.

Onto the floor.

“I can’t.”

Nobody told him to get up.

Because none of them could.

Mingi walked past his bedroom.

Stopped.

Turned around.

Opened the top drawer.

The notebook lay exactly where he’d left it.

He picked it up.

Carried it to the kitchen.

Sat down.

Opened to the last page.

The final thing he’d written.

Today was ordinary.

We burned pancakes.

We talked about Ireland.

I laughed.

I think this is what living feels like.

Tomorrow is Wednesday.

He stared at those words until they blurred.

His pen hovered over the empty page.

It shook.

He wanted to write:

Yunho died.

He wanted to write:

I can’t breathe.

He wanted to write:

None of this matters.

Instead...

He remembered a hospital room.

 

Yunho saying,

“Then tomorrow... we’re going to figure out who Song Mingi is.”

 

He remembered another night.

“If it disappears... we’ll build it again.”

 

His hand steadied.

He wrote.

Thursday.

A long pause.

Then...

My name is Song Mingi.

His vision blurred.

Another line.

I got out of bed.

His chest hurt so badly he thought it might split open.

Another line.

I brushed my teeth.

He stopped.

His tears finally came.

Silent.

Endless.

Falling onto the page.

He wiped them away carefully so the ink wouldn’t run.

Then wrote one last sentence.

Today, staying alive is enough.

He closed the notebook.

 

Pressed both hands over it.

And sobbed.

Not because he had forgotten Yunho.

Not because he was trying to leave him behind.

But because for the first time...

He understood exactly what Yunho had spent centuries failing to do.

Living after the person you loved was not betrayal.

It was the hardest promise love could ask you to keep.

And on that first unbearable Thursday...

Song Mingi chose to keep it.

 

Friday

 

Nobody knew what to do with Yunho’s room.

 

So they didn’t.

 

The door stayed exactly as he’d left it.

 

His bed remained unmade.

 

His charger was still plugged into the wall.

 

A hoodie hung over the desk chair.

 

His headphones rested beside an unfinished crossword he’d been attempting for three weeks.

 

Life had stopped in there.

 

The rest of the dorm kept moving around it.

 

Like a river splitting around a stone.

 

Friday morning...

 

Mingi woke before sunrise.

 

Not because of a nightmare.

 

Because he expected to hear Yunho’s alarm.

 

7:00 a.m.

 

The same soft piano ringtone.

 

Every morning.

 

Without fail.

 

He waited.

 

Silence.

 

His body still got out of bed at seven.

 

Habit.

 

Hope.

 

Grief.

 

He couldn’t tell which.

 

The kitchen felt enormous.

 

He made coffee.

 

Automatically.

 

Two mugs.

 

He stared at them.

 

One in each hand.

 

For almost a minute.

 

Then...

 

He quietly poured the second one back into the pot.

 

Nobody saw.

 

When the others woke up...

 

Nobody commented on how pale he looked.

 

Or how he hadn’t slept.

 

Or how his eyes were swollen.

 

Because they looked exactly the same.

 

Wooyoung wandered into the kitchen.

 

Stopped.

 

“...You made coffee.”

 

Mingi nodded.

 

“...Thanks.”

 

He took the mug.

 

Raised it to his lips.

 

Made a face immediately.

 

“...This is terrible.”

 

Mingi looked down.

 

“I forgot to put coffee in.”

 

Silence.

 

They both stared at the mug.

 

Hot water.

 

Milk.

 

Sugar.

 

No coffee.

 

Wooyoung let out one broken laugh.

 

Then another.

 

Then suddenly he was crying so hard he couldn’t stand.

 

He slid down the cupboard until he was sitting on the floor.

 

Still holding the mug.

 

“It’s not funny,” he sobbed.

 

“I know.”

 

“It isn’t funny.”

 

“I know.”

 

“But...”

 

Wooyoung wiped his face angrily.

 

“...Yunho would’ve laughed.”

 

Mingi’s throat closed.

 

“...Yeah.”

 

“He would’ve called you an idiot.”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

Wooyoung laughed again.

 

A horrible sound.

 

“He would’ve made another pot.”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

They sat on the kitchen floor together.

 

The untouched mug cooling between them.

 

Practice was cancelled indefinitely.

 

The company called it bereavement leave.

 

Hongjoong called it survival.

 

Fans waited outside the dorm anyway.

 

Not shouting.

 

Not filming.

 

Just...

 

Leaving flowers.

 

Letters.

 

Origami cranes.

 

Small stuffed animals.

 

Someone had left a carton of milk with a handwritten note.

 

«For Wednesday.»

 

Mingi couldn’t breathe.

 

That afternoon...

 

Seonghwa quietly knocked on his bedroom door.

 

“I found something.”

 

Mingi looked up.

 

Seonghwa held out a notebook.

 

Not black.

 

Blue.

 

Smaller.

 

The cover was worn around the edges.

 

“...What’s that?”

 

“It was in Yunho’s room.”

 

Mingi’s heart skipped.

 

“I didn’t read it.”

 

Seonghwa swallowed.

 

“I thought...”

 

He couldn’t finish.

 

Mingi took it carefully.

 

As though it might break.

 

Or he might.

 

He waited until evening.

 

Until the dorm was quiet.

 

Until everyone else had retreated into their own grief.

 

Then...

 

He opened it.

 

The first page contained only one sentence.

 

«I want to love him better than I did yesterday.»

 

Mingi stared.

 

Turned the page.

 

Tuesday.

 

Interrupted him during breakfast.

 

Answered for him.

 

Need to stop.

 

Another page.

 

Forgot to ask what he wanted for lunch.

 

Asked next time.

 

Another.

 

He laughed today.

 

From yesterday.

 

Not from another lifetime.

 

I remembered to notice.

 

Another.

 

He said he likes rain.

 

Not the sailor.

 

Song Mingi.

 

Don’t confuse them.

 

Another.

 

He discovered he hates pears.

 

I laughed.

 

Shouldn’t have.

 

Apologised.

 

Mingi’s vision blurred.

 

Every page.

 

Every single page.

 

Wasn’t about being loved.

 

It was about learning how to love.

 

There wasn’t a single entry that blamed Mingi.

 

Or the curse.

 

Or fate.

 

Only...

 

Yunho.

 

Trying.

 

Again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

Near the back...

 

The handwriting changed.

 

Less frantic.

 

Steadier.

 

The entries became shorter.

 

Today I listened more.

 

Today I let him answer first.

 

Today I trusted him.

 

Today he didn’t need me.

 

I think that’s beautiful.

 

Mingi covered his mouth.

 

A sob escaped before he could stop it.

 

He turned one more page.

 

The date.

 

Wednesday.

 

Only half the page was filled.

 

He stole my chips again.

 

Worth it.

 

He said—

 

The sentence stopped there.

 

The pen line trailed off.

 

Nothing else.

 

He had never finished writing it.

 

Mingi stared at the unfinished sentence until midnight.

 

Then he reached for his own notebook.

 

He opened to Friday’s page.

 

Read it once.

 

Closed it again.

 

Opened Yunho’s notebook.

 

Turned to the blank page after Wednesday.

 

He uncapped his pen.

 

Then...

 

Stopped.

 

His hand hovered over the paper.

 

A year ago...

 

He would’ve finished it.

 

He would’ve completed Yunho’s thought.

 

He would’ve tried to become the ending Yunho never got to write.

 

Instead...

 

He slowly closed the notebook.

 

Rested his palm on the cover.

 

And whispered into the empty room,

 

“No.”

 

His voice broke.

 

“But only because you taught me not to.”

 

He carried the blue notebook back to Yunho’s room.

 

Placed it exactly where Seonghwa had found it.

 

Untouched.

 

Unfinished.

 

Some stories...

 

Were allowed to end mid-sentence.

 

Back in his own room...

 

Mingi opened his notebook instead.

 

He wrote:

 

«Friday.

 

I accidentally made hot milk instead of coffee.

 

Wooyoung cried.

 

I cried too.»

 

He paused.

 

His pen hovered.

 

Then...

 

Very slowly...

 

He added one more line.

 

«I wanted to write about Yunho.

 

Instead, I made coffee.

 

I think he’d understand.»

 

He closed the notebook.

 

Outside his bedroom window, rain began to fall.

 

For the first time since Wednesday...

 

Mingi walked over.

 

Opened the window.

 

And let the rain in.

 

Not because it reminded him of Yunho.

 

Because...

 

Song Mingi still liked the rain.

 

The notebook stopped being a diary.

It became a witness.

 

Year One

Today I got out of bed.

That was enough.

I cooked.

Nobody died.

I saw a cat.

He ignored me.

I respected his decision.

I laughed.

I apologised afterwards.

I don’t know why.

Ireland still exists.

I checked.

 

Year Two

Hongjoong got married first.

It felt impossible.

Then inevitable.

Wooyoung cried louder than the bride.

Jongho denied crying while actively crying.

San somehow lost the rings for fourteen minutes because he’d put them in a plant pot “for safekeeping.”

Seonghwa threatened to murder all of them.

Mingi laughed until his stomach hurt.

That night, he wrote:

Today love looked ordinary.

I think that’s beautiful.

 

Year Three

Went to Ireland.

There are, in fact, too many sheep.

It rained every day.

I loved every second.

He stood on the Cliffs of Moher.

Wind pulling at his coat.

Ocean roaring beneath him.

He stayed until sunset.

Not because he was looking for Yunho.

Because he had always wanted to come.

When he got back to the hotel, he wrote:

Promise kept.

Nothing else.

Nothing more was needed.

 

Year Five

Wooyoung showed up carrying a cardboard box.

“I found him.”

Inside...

A scruffy golden puppy with enormous paws.

“He kept following me.”

Hongjoong sighed.

“No.”

Wooyoung looked at Mingi.

“Please.”

Mingi looked at the puppy.

The puppy sneezed directly into his face.

“...Fine.”

Wooyoung celebrated like he’d won the lottery.

The dog slept on Mingi’s feet that night.

The notebook said:

His name is Toast.

He snores louder than Wooyoung.

 

Year Eight

I finally moved.

The garden is awful.

Toast has already dug three holes.

 

Year Twelve

Wooyoung still couldn’t cook.

San still rescued every injured bird he found.

Jongho still argued about money.

Hongjoong still worked too much.

Seonghwa still mothered all of them.

Some things, thankfully, never changed.

 

Year Fifteen

Toast died.

Mingi buried him beneath an apple tree.

He cried for hours.

The notebook read:

Loving something knowing it’ll end...

Is still worth it.

 

Year Seventeen

He found himself laughing in the supermarket.

Completely alone.

Because he’d accidentally bought pears.

Again.

He stood in aisle six holding the fruit.

Shook his head.

Put them back.

Bought oranges instead.

That evening he wrote:

Still hate pears.

Definitely me.

 

Year Twenty-One

He finally learned pancakes.

Perfectly golden.

Soft.

Light.

Not burned.

He stared at them for a very long time.

Then smiled.

The notebook simply read:

Took long enough.

 

Year Twenty-Six

His hair had started turning silver.

He liked it.

The children next door called him “Grandad” despite not being related.

He never corrected them.

One little girl asked,

“Why do you always put your shoes on before your coat?”

He laughed.

“I honestly don’t know.”

 

Year Thirty-Two

The notebook stayed closed for eleven months.

When he finally opened it...

He couldn’t remember why he’d felt the need to write every day.

That frightened him.

Then...

It didn’t.

He wrote:

Living is very distracting.

I’m glad.

 

Year Thirty-Seven

Hongjoong died peacefully.

Surrounded by family.

The seven remaining members sat together afterwards.

Older now.

Grey-haired.

Slower.

Still family.

Wooyoung leaned against Mingi.

“...We’re getting old.”

Mingi looked at his own hands.

Wrinkled.

Warm.

Alive.

“...Yeah.”

 

Year Forty-One

Wooyoung followed.

Still dramatic.

Still complaining about hospital food.

His last coherent sentence was,

“Don’t let Jongho keep my plants.”

He didn’t.

The notebook became quieter.

Not because there was less to say.

Because life had become too full to fit inside it.

 

Year Forty-Seven

Today it rained.

I opened the windows.

 

Year Fifty-One

My knees hurt.

 

Year Fifty-Four

Still don’t like pears.

 

Year Fifty-Nine

Today I remembered his laugh.

I smiled first.

He cried afterwards.

Not because remembering hurt.

Because...

It didn’t.

Not anymore.

It felt warm.

Like sunshine through old curtains.

Like hearing a favourite song after many years.

Like missing someone without being broken by the missing.

 

Year Sixty-Three

The notebook had only one page left.

Mingi noticed while drinking tea.

He smiled.

“...Already?”

The house was quiet.

Toast had been gone for decades.

Most of the members too.

The silence wasn’t lonely anymore.

Just...

Peaceful.

He took his time.

Made another cup of tea.

Sat by the window while rain tapped gently against the glass.

Then opened the notebook one final time.

He turned back to the first page.

My name is Song Mingi.

He traced the letters with a weathered fingertip.

He remembered writing them.

Terrified.

Convinced he’d disappear.

He smiled softly.

Then turned to the last blank page.

He wrote slowly now.

His hands weren’t as steady.

My name is Song Mingi.

A pause.

A smile.

Another line.

I still know.

His eyes filled with tears.

Not grief.

Gratitude.

He looked around his little house.

The muddy boots by the door.

The postcards from Ireland.

The framed photograph of eight young men laughing so hard none of them had looked at the camera.

He picked up his pen again.

One final sentence.

Thank you for teaching me how to stay.

He closed the notebook.

And for the first time in over sixty years...

He put it back on the shelf.

Not beside his bed.

Not within reach.

Just...

On the shelf.

Its work was done.

 

Three mornings later...

It was raining.

Of course it was.

Mingi smiled when he heard it against the roof.

He made tea.

Forgot where he’d left his glasses.

Found them on his head.

Laughed to himself.

He opened the front door.

Stepped onto the porch.

The rain smelled like earth.

Like summer ending.

Like another ordinary Tuesday.

He sat in the old wooden chair.

Closed his eyes.

And somewhere between one breath...

And the next...

Song Mingi quietly stopped breathing.

There was no pain.

No fear.

No curse.

Only a life.

A long, beautiful, ordinary life.

Exactly as Yunho had wanted.

 

Epilogue

The playground was noisy.

Children ran in every direction.

Someone was crying because they’d lost a football.

Someone else was convinced worms were dragons.

A little boy sat alone beneath a tree.

He was drawing a cat.

It looked terrible.

He seemed pleased anyway.

A football rolled to a stop beside him.

Another little boy ran over.

He picked it up.

Then noticed the drawing.

“That’s a weird cat.”

The first boy looked up.

“It is a weird cat.”

A pause.

Then they both laughed.

“You wanna play?”

The boy looked at the half-finished drawing.

Then at the football.

“...Okay.”

He stood.

They ran off together.

Neither of them remembered arrows.

Or storms.

Or hospitals.

Or notebooks.

Or promises.

Or curses.

They didn’t remember loving each other.

They didn’t remember losing each other.

They remembered nothing.

And because they remembered nothing...

For the very first time...

Whatever happened next...

Would belong entirely to them.

The End.