Archive of Our Own

It was shot through his eyes under the warm light of the lamp. The shouting filled the room like smoke, like gas, tear gas that made his eyes sting and his stomach twist with dizziness. The air tasted metallic on his tongue. He could hear every word echoing against the walls, ricocheting off corners that appeared to be too distant despite how small the room was. 

He didn’t like the fact that the photo frames hanging on the walls, the couch they bought last year, and the hanging red scarf Nicholas knitted for him were their witnesses. What happened to promises, to the I love yous spoken like an oath, a sacred oath? Sworn beneath the roof and the skies and everything that made them divine under those watchful eyes. The lamp hummed overhead. Somewhere in the kitchen, the refrigerator droned endlessly, indifferent to the disaster unfolding beneath its noise.

You could consider him wrecked, dead and buried. No words described everything flaming inside his body better than that. Heat crawled beneath his skin as if something had been lit inside his ribs and forgotten there. There was no universe where Byun Euijoo or Wang Nicholas needing them to be on their knees begging for each other's love, but there was also no universe where compromising that love would not leave harm behind.

Nicholas never left. He never did. In fact, Nicholas always stayed. Sometimes it felt as though he had become one with the furniture, with the house itself. Like how the wood of the dining table remembered the weight of his elbows or the floorboards that recognized the pattern of his footsteps better than they recognized silence. 

And Euijoo was nothing more than a light that seeped through the window a few times whenever the curtains were tied back. Thin sunlight slipping through a crack. A brief appearance. A temporary warmth. But he wondered if he served the same purpose to Nicholas as that seeping sunlight, or the moon.

Here in the museum made out of their voices that is their skin. Euijoo walked away and turned his head back multiple times, far too often for someone trying so hard to mask his anxiety. Nicholas asked him about it multiple times too. Euijoo, you’re not an actor, you’re not a performer. It sounded mediocre to him. Euijoo wished he were something. But it was a statement spoken with good intentions, the ever kindest Nicholas who always tried to bleed the said kindness through his words whenever he spoke to Euijoo. 

Life is a performance. Euijoo heard it somewhere once, and it stuck inside his head from time to time more than he wanted to admit. Like a song or an audio tape trapped in an empty hallway, replaying itself when nobody asked it to. He never said it to Nicholas. Because Nicholas already knew. He knew Euijoo more than Euijoo knew himself. 

And Euijoo wishes he knows himself far better than Nicholas did. Not because he was disrespecting every effort—or even, no effort at all—that Nicholas had made to get inside his head. Euijoo simply wished he could understand himself. His desires. His dislikes. The parts of himself that shifted shape whenever he tried to name them. That way, none of this would’ve happened. 

He could have stayed in that same house for years. Years of laughter, tears, and arguments. Even better, no arguments. Years of grocery lists left on the refrigerator. Years of cups abandoned on coffee tables. Years of hearing another person's breathing from the opposite side of the bed. He could have avoided hurting Nicholas. He could have had a better life, or maybe not.

But every life Euijoo imagined in which he was happy was a life with Nicholas in it. Nicholas was hurting Euijoo, but if he hadn't made that decision, Nicholas would have hurt himself even more. It was something Euijoo could understand but could never fully grasp on his own. Like looking through frosted glass and recognizing a figure without ever seeing their face.

Euijoo and Nicholas were opposites, after all.

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.

.

“He wasn’t there?”

The lamp flickers, on the brink of stealing Euijoo's attention. For a split second, the room dims before returning to its sickly warmth. His eyes drift back to Yudai, sitting across from him in his usual flimsy, flowy blouse and dress pants that conceal his long legs. The office smells faintly of paper, dust, and old coffee. An air conditioner rattles somewhere above them. Euijoo nods, his fingers fiddle with one another in a desperate attempt to soothe himself. 

“He wasn't. There were packs of letters and packages sitting untouched in the front yard—”

“So you visited him.”

Euijoo gulps at the words, his mouth opening and closing whenever he tries to continue, but nothing comes out. 

His chest heaves hard. He loosens his shoulders after holding them tense since arriving at Yudai's office ten minutes ago. Euijoo doesn't like it when Yudai uses that specific tone and gaze during their sessions. It feels like being dissected. Even though that is exactly the purpose Yudai serves here, Euijoo wishes he could be more subtle about it. In the end, it’s all in his head. At least, that's what Euijoo said during their first meeting in this exact same room.

“Yeah—I did, but…” 

He isn't even sure why he decided to visit the house in the first place. Passing through the street already seemed like a bad idea. But he turned anyway. He parked his car—the car Nicholas had chosen himself when Euijoo said he wanted to buy one for them after finally earning enough money. 

The grass in the yard was long. It didn’t look like it had simply missed a week or two of maintenance, but it looked as though it had been left to grow uninterrupted for months. Thin blades tangled around one another with the edges swallowing the stone pathway leading toward the front door. Some patches leaned heavily against the mailbox, while others crept over the concrete akin to slow-moving water. 

Nicholas was many things, but he wasn't someone who would let it get this bad. Even if he was busy. Even if he was tired. Even if he forgot once or twice.

The packages were worse. Cardboard boxes sat scattered across the porch in different sizes, some stacked awkwardly atop one another as though the delivery workers had run out of places to put them. More packages crowded the mailbox until its small metal door could no longer close properly. White envelopes bent under their own weight, their corners stained yellow from exposure to sunlight and damp air. One package had fallen onto its side and remained there, untouched. It was strange. Nicholas hated clutter.

The curtains behind the windows were drawn shut, pressed together so tightly that not even a thread of light escaped through the gaps. They hung perfectly still despite the wind moving through the neighborhood. 

Euijoo remembered sitting behind those same curtains countless times. He remembered Nicholas pulling them open in the morning, complaining about the sunlight getting into his eyes. He remembered the warm glow of the television leaking through the glass late at night. He remembered shadows moving from room to room whenever one of them got up for water.

He stood there for longer than he should have, staring through the windshield with both hands resting on the steering wheel while the engine had already gone silent. The ticking of cooling metal echoed faintly beneath the quiet. A dog barked somewhere nearby. A lawn mower hummed several houses away. Normal sounds. An ordinary afternoon. And every time his eyes returned to the house, the normalcy seemed to peel away.

The windows reflected the sky too clearly. The curtains looked too motionless. The packages remained exactly where they were. It reminded him of those photographs where something is missing but nobody can immediately identify what it is. A missing chair. A missing shadow. A missing person. The image appears complete until the longer he stared, the more his stomach began to twist.

“It’s… still weird. It’s like an abandoned house.” Euijoo tries to defend himself, not that he cares that much whether Yudai believes him or not. He might argue that this is just one of his desperate measures in getting validation when he doesn’t really have anyone else in his life at this moment. Even that thought irritates him.

He doesn't like imagining himself as someone seeking reassurance from others, doesn't like the possibility that Yudai's opinion matters more than he wants to admit. Yet he can feel himself watching for a reaction anyway, eyes waiting on the therapist's face for a second longer than necessary before looking away.

“Is there any possibility that he is on vacation or something else?”

“I don’t think so…” Euijoo shifts in his seat, rubbing his palm against his jeans. “He won’t order too many items if he’s going on a trip, it was bursting out of the mailbox .”

“Okay…” 

Euijoo sighs, he feels his legs weakening in defeat. The response leaves an unsettling prickle in his chest despite how neutral it is. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you, Euijoo.” Yudai adjusts slightly in his chair, resting his pen against the notebook balanced on his knee. “I believe you should try contacting the police after our session ends.”

He feels like spinning, there’s something weird in his stomach when he registers Yudai’s contrasting idea with the one he has stored in his head. He already has something in mind on what to do in order to find out Nicholas’ whereabouts. 

He doesn’t want to admit it right away, he just lets the thoughts stick around in his mind. They have been sitting there for days now as it grows more detailed each time he revisits them. Sometimes he tells himself he is only being practical. Other times he catches himself replaying routes, entrances, windows, details he shouldn't be thinking about as often as he does. The plans always seem reasonable when they are inside his head. They only begin sounding strange once spoken aloud.

“Let's move on.” Yudai glances down at his notebook, pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. “Did you finish the journal assignment?”

“No.”

“How much did you complete?”

“Not much.”

“Not much means different things depending on who I'm talking to.”

Fingers scratching the back of his head as he tries to remember the light beige color of the page and some scratched ink marks he has seen. His head drifting him back to unnecessary details the last time he opened it, to his square feet room with the flickering lights because the landlord was too lazy to change it and Euijoo doesn’t possess energy to do so. The way he positioned his legs, his back, and the ugly emotion sitting right inside his head.

He remembers staring at the notebook for nearly ten minutes before writing anything at all, eyes moving between the blank page and the opposite wall where the flickering light kept swelling shadows into strange shapes. Every time the bulb dimmed, the room seemed larger for a fraction of a second, as if the corners had shifted farther away. He remembers wondering if apartments could feel lonely. The question had entered his head without invitation and refused to leave. 

“Three sentences.”

“Three sentences.”

“Three and a half.”

“Three and a half?”

“There was a fourth one but I didn't finish it.”

Yudai nods, his eyes wandering around the room for a few seconds before he lands back at Euijoo. “Why not?”

Euijoo shrugs. “Didn't feel like it.”

“Do you want to try that answer again?”

Another sigh before Euijoo answers once again, this one is heavier. “I don't know.”

“You've been saying that a lot today.”

“Because I don't know.”

“Or because you don't want to know?”

Yudai notices. Of course he notices. Euijoo tries not to pay attention to that, lowering his gaze downward to Yudai’s carpeted office. The carpet is gray. Or maybe beige. He has spent enough sessions staring at it that he should know, yet every time he looks at it the color feels slightly different. The room always feels insulated from the rest of the building, sealed away from the outside world. Sometimes that makes him feel safe. Sometimes it reminds him of being trapped.

“Which sentence did you stop at?”

Euijoo still stares at the floor, taking a few seconds before answering. He follows the pattern in the carpet instead, tracing invisible lines with his eyes while trying not to think about the notebook sitting inside his bag.

“I don't remember.”

“You brought the journal.”

His fingers stop, hovering around the air before he sneaks a look to his bag beside him without moving his head for an inch. The bag rests against the chair leg where he left it at the beginning of the session.

“You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“Probably not.”

Euijoo reaches into his bag and it isn’t hard to pull out his notebook. Covered in brown leather and tied with a band that comes from the notebook itself. He opens it, most of the pages are folded, creased, opened and closed too many times. Yudai only waits in his seat, and Euijoo doesn't hand it over, instead he reads. His eyes move across the familiar handwriting.

"'Today I woke up at seven thirty. I ate breakfast. I went to work.'"

He flips the page. The paper brushes against his fingertips with a dry sound. The ink on the page has bled slightly into the fibers, making the handwriting look older than it actually is.

"'I felt tired during lunch.'"

Another page.

"'I drove past our street.'"

The room grows quiet right away and Euijoo knows that they both sense it. A wave of embarrassment strikes him and he immediately regrets reading that part aloud. Yudai stares at him, once again, with that specific gaze that makes Euijoo feel like he is being cut open in half. Not judged, which somehow would be easier, but observed. Carefully and thoroughly.

“Okay.” Yudai says.

The older man remains still, now flipping through his own notebook instead as his eyes leave Euijoo. The pages turn with practiced ease. Yudai always seems to know exactly where to look, exactly what note to revisit. Sometimes Euijoo wonders how much of him exists inside those notebooks. Reduced to observations, dates, behaviors, patterns. He wonders if Nicholas would seem simpler too if someone condensed him into enough pages.

“It is notable that you wrote the last part.”

Euijoo forces his eyes shut as his hand covers his face, pressing against his temple. The pressure helps a little. He asks Yudai back, “Is it really?”

“You wrote three ordinary observations and one emotional one.”

“That wasn't emotional.”

“You don't think driving past your former partner's house is emotional?”

“It was just a street.”

Yudai raises an eyebrow.

“A street.”

“Yeah.”

“The street.”

Euijoo presses his lips together. He doesn’t like how the correction annoys him because it's accurate. What does Yudai—a therapist, his therapist, who has been seeing him for months even before he and Nicholas broke up—know about him? What does he really know? Does the guy really read past Euijoo? Has he really managed to get the gist of everything inside Euijoo’s head in a few months the way Nicholas did after years?

Sometimes he leaves these sessions convinced Yudai barely understands him at all. Other times he catches the therapist noticing something Euijoo himself hadn't noticed yet, and those moments hover for days afterward. He hates them because they make him feel transparent. Worse, they make him feel predictable. As if the things he considers hidden are obvious to everyone except himself.

He gulps, Euijoo’s fingers returning to the hem of his shirt. The fabric bunches between his fingertips. “The point is I was writing facts.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't write 'I drove past a street.'”

Euijoo says nothing.

“You wrote 'our street.'”

Our.

Not his.

Not mine.

Our.

He remembers the street immediately despite not wanting to. The row of houses, the uneven pavement, the convenience store at the corner where Nicholas once insisted on buying snacks despite claiming he wasn't hungry, the traffic light that always seemed to take too long to change. He remembers driving past without planning to, or at least that's what he tells himself. He remembers seeing the familiar turn and taking it before he could think about it. 

Sometimes his body makes decisions before his brain catches up. At least that's the explanation he prefers. And Euijoo just wishes Yudai would stop noticing things.

“That's not a big deal.”

“Then why did you stop writing afterward?”

Euijoo is not even sure why he’s still seeing Yudai when every second of it always makes him want to puke. The nausea isn't entirely metaphorical either. 

He hates that question specifically, not because it's difficult. Because the answer comes too quickly. Because the answer exists. Because it arrives before he can construct something else to hide behind. 

And Euijoo is just like what Nicholas always says about him, he doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge it. He spends so much time circling things that he sometimes forgets how close he already is to them. The truth is rarely hidden. Usually it is standing directly in front of him while he stares everywhere else.

“I got distracted.”

“By?”

“Nicholas.”

There. It's out. Euijoo lets the name hang between them, and Yudai doesn't react. The lack of reaction somehow feels worse than surprise would have. He feels something sour spreading throughout his tongue, almost like the exact same taste from when Nicholas told Euijoo to admit his action that Nicholas believed to be a mistake.

“Tell me about that.”

Euijoo laughs, thin and dry. The sound barely resembles laughter to his own ears.

“That's kind of the problem.”

“What is?”

“Everything becomes Nicholas.”

His voice sounds smaller than he intends. Smaller and more exhausted.

“When I'm trying to write about work, I think about what he would've said about it. When I'm grocery shopping, I end up buying things he likes before realizing I don't live with him anymore. Last week I spent ten minutes standing in front of a coffee shelf because I couldn't remember which coffee I actually drink.”

His fingers tighten around the notebook, the leather cover creaks softly beneath the pressure.

“I only knew which one Nicholas drinks.”

Yudai doesn’t say anything, so Euijoo continues before he can stop himself. “It's stupid.” The word tastes bitter. He hates how pathetic it sounds when spoken aloud. Inside his head it always feels easier to justify and explain. But the moment it leaves his mouth it becomes smaller, stripped down to something embarrassing.

“You seem distressed by it.”

“Wouldn't you be?”

“I asked how you feel, not how I would feel.”

Euijoo groans softly at Yudai’s words. Fingers messing with his hair in distress before it becomes messy, he tugs the hanging glasses that almost slip from his nose. He takes another long breath before he speaks again.

“See? That's exactly what I mean.”

“What?”

“You do that.”

“Do what?”

“You make me answer questions.”

Yudai smiles faintly. “Occupational hazard.”

Euijoo almost smiles back, but the feeling dies quickly.

“I just don't understand him.”

The words leave before he can stop them. Despite claiming himself—and everyone else's testimonies about Euijoo being a very rational person—he actually loses his own control more often than people guess. Or maybe he actually loses his own control more often in front of Nicholas. The person who knows him the most, who knows every angle of Euijoo’s flaws and insecurities. The person who could always identify what was bothering him long before Euijoo himself could put it into words.

And Yudai is the closest person who might reach Nicholas’ level of understanding of Euijoo. He just gets paid for it.

Yudai's expression shifts. Not out of surprise nor judgmental, just attentive. One that Euijoo doesn’t seem to catch on. Instead, he stares at the notebook. His gaze remains fixed on the pages even though he is no longer reading. The lines blur together slightly. The ink marks become shapes rather than words.

“Nicholas isn't someone who disappears.”

Yudai waits.

“He tells people where he's going.”

“He answers messages.”

“Usually.”

“He worries.”

The last word comes out almost fondly. Almost.

“He worries about everything.”

Yudai nods, not a single word trying to interject Euijoo’s monologue. He just lets the poor young guy go on and on with whatever messes with his brain. The silence doesn't feel empty. Like Yudai has learned exactly when to speak and when to leave a space untouched. Euijoo occasionally wonders whether therapists practice that, sitting quietly until people inevitably fill the silence themselves.

“And because of that, his silence doesn't make sense to you.”

“Exactly.”

Euijoo feels the relief of being understood arrive so suddenly it borders on hurting.

“Exactly.”

He feels his chest tightens. “He wouldn't do this.” The certainty arrives immediately, instinctive and absolute. It has lived inside him since the messages stopped. Since the unanswered calls. Since the strange emptiness left behind by Nicholas' absence began expanding into something harder to ignore. The certainty comforts him and disturbs him at the same time. Sometimes he wonders whether he is defending Nicholas or defending his own understanding of Nicholas. He never lets himself sit with that thought for very long.

“You don't know that.”

“I do.”

“You know the Nicholas you were with.”

Euijoo shakes his head.

“No.”

“Why no?”

“Because he's still Nicholas.”

“Is he?”

The question catches him off guard. Yudai leans forward slightly before Euijoo even gets the chance to say anything.

“The Nicholas you knew four months ago. The Nicholas you knew three years ago. The Nicholas before the breakup. The Nicholas after the breakup. Are they all the same person?”

Euijoo opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he doesn't know. He wants to believe that the answer should be yes, when the truth is the answer might be no. Because if the answer is no, then maybe the person he's been trying to understand no longer exists.

He stares at the notebook in his lap, at the familiar handwriting spread across the pages, and finds himself thinking about how strange memory is. A person can disappear without actually disappearing. They can continue existing somewhere beyond your reach while every version of them you carry around slowly becomes outdated. The realization feels wrong. Not impossible, just wrong in the same way a familiar room suddenly feels unfamiliar when all the furniture has been moved overnight. Everything remains technically the same, yet something has shifted.

“Do you think he misses me?”

The question slips out quietly, under the usual volume that it almost slips away beneath the sound of cars passing outside Yudai’s widow. Yudai closes his eyes just for a second. And when he opens them again, there's a tiredness there that wasn't present before.

“Euijoo.”

“I'm just asking.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because that's not what we're talking about.”

“It kind of is.”

“No, it isn't.”

Euijoo laughs.

“If he misses me, maybe he's angry.”

“Okay.”

“If he's angry, then that's understandable.”

“Okay.”

“If he's hurt, that's understandable too.”

“Okay.”

“And if he's ignoring me on purpose, that's understandable.”

“Okay.”

Yudai pauses.

“Notice how every explanation you've offered ends with Nicholas making sense and you being at fault.”

Euijoo freezes.

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

The room feels smaller out of the blue, like clothes that have become too tight after wearing them since seventh grade that if he tries to button up, they might explode. He can feel everything riding up against his skin. The buzzing lamp. The rattling air conditioner. The ticking clock hidden somewhere in the office. The texture of the notebook beneath his fingers. The pressure of his glasses against the bridge of his nose. Everything suddenly becomes too loud and too close.

“Do you think I'm wrong?”

“I think you're trying very hard to solve Nicholas.”

“That's not—”

“You've spent nearly forty minutes discussing what he thinks, what he feels, what he might do, what he wouldn't do.”

Yudai sets his notebook aside, it lands on the side table with a soft thud that somehow sounds louder than it should.

“And you still haven't told me what you're feeling.”

Euijoo stares at him.

“Because I don't know.”

“That's not true.”

“Yes it is.”

“Euijoo.”

His voice softens. Yudai’s voice has always been soft. Something Euijoo notices and is too afraid to admit soothes him during moments when he feels like the whole world hates him. It also feels like a reassurance, a reminder that Yudai is here to help Euijoo, even when he still has his walls up and Yudai patiently asks him to tear them down, even if only for a second. Somehow it always reaches places Euijoo wants hidden.

There is something agitating about that too. Not because Yudai is invasive, but because he isn't. He never forces his way in. He simply waits long enough for Euijoo to accidentally open the door himself. Sometimes Euijoo leaves these sessions feeling as though he has revealed things he never consciously chose to reveal. As though Yudai handed him a flashlight and somehow convinced him to look into corners he had spent years avoiding.

“You know exactly what you're feeling.”

Euijoo looks away, his gaze drifts toward the window. The glass reflects part of the office back at him, and for a brief second he focuses on the reflection instead of the room itself.

“Then tell me.”

Yudai exhales slowly, patiently, like he always does. Not out of exhaustion. He never seems exhausted. But this one feels like somebody counting to ten. Like somebody choosing their next words with carefulness while tiptoeing around the room.

“I'm your therapist.”

“...Okay.”

“I'm not your boyfriend, Euijoo.”

And there is nowhere left to hide.

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.

.

Nicholas once took Euijoo to the sea. He said his family brought him to the open water a lot when he was a kid, often during summer, when the sun shone brightly above everyone’s head and little Nicholas would come home with a tan in the shape of swimming goggles. 

He told the story while walking backward across the sand, arms stretched out dramatically as if presenting the ocean itself to Euijoo. The wind carried his voice away every few seconds, forcing him to repeat himself, though Nicholas never seemed bothered by that. If anything, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed occupying space, enjoyed speaking to the world as if the world had always been willing to listen. 

Euijoo remembers the smell of salt hanging in the air, remembers the distant cries of seagulls somewhere above them, remembers the sunlight reflecting off the water so brightly that it hurt his eyes whenever he looked at the horizon for too long.

It was an effort to make little Nicholas always stay on the move, not restrained and trapped inside his room with minimal sunlight. His parents always let Nicholas do whatever he wanted, so he often returned there, reminiscing. 

But not only that, Nicholas loved the sea. He talked about how the sea was infinite and how most of what it contained remained unexplored. Like a labyrinth, he always said. Yet it also made Nicholas wonder how it could resemble a labyrinth when, at the same time, it was the most open and freeing space he might ever set foot on.

Euijoo remembers Nicholas crouching by the shoreline while saying this, fingers dragging absentmindedly through wet sand as waves repeatedly approached and erased whatever shape he had drawn. Nicholas kept drawing anyway. Circles. Lines. Meaningless patterns. Things that disappeared before they could become anything recognizable. Somehow that felt fitting. Nicholas had always been fascinated by things larger than himself, things impossible to fully understand. The sea. Fate. The future. Other people. Especially other people.

Both Nicholas and Euijoo love to talk in riddles, metaphors, allegories. What simply started as a quick visit to the beach turned into an hour of them sitting on the sand and talking about thoughts as deep as the Mariana Trench. The tide gradually climbed higher without them noticing, stealing more and more of the shoreline while they remained seated. Euijoo said, the sky is also infinite. He was right. That would mean the universe, well, it is incredibly infinite, Nicholas shouted back, tipping his head toward the clouds.

Do you think infinity gets lonely? The question came out of nowhere so casually that Euijoo nearly laughed, he asked Nicholas back. How would infinity get lonely? Nicholas shrugged. If everything exists inside it, then there's nothing outside it. That sounds lonely to me. Euijoo remembers rolling his eyes while Nicholas grinned at him, clearly pleased with himself. He also remembers secretly thinking about the question long after the conversation moved on.

Nicholas wondered about a lot of things. Euijoo did too. He just didn’t say them out loud, unlike Nicholas. When Nicholas believed speaking his thoughts into the world would make the universe grant them, Euijoo believed keeping them to himself was the best option in case he jinxed them by saying them aloud. And Nicholas had always believed in superstition, in ancient myths, in things like fate, destiny, the power of the universe, and things existing beyond human comprehension.

You don't think it's strange? Nicholas asked at one point, tossing a shell into the water. The fact that we're alive at the exact same time? Euijoo remembered looking at him strangely. There are eight billion people alive. Exactly, Nicholas replied immediately, as though that somehow proved his point. And yet you're here annoying me right now. Euijoo had scoffed while Nicholas laughed. The sound carried across the shore and disappeared into the wind.

Looking back, Euijoo sometimes wonders if Nicholas truly believed all those things or if he simply wanted to. There was a difference. Nicholas often treated hope as though it were a decision.

And it’s not like Euijoo wasn't. Euijoo had always been the more realistic one between the two of them, while Nicholas remained an idealist. Euijoo believed more in facts and experiences, but it’s not like he kept a closed mind. He simply preferred believing something after proof existed or after he, or someone else, had witnessed it firsthand. The difference between them revealed itself in small moments. Nicholas saw patterns everywhere. Coincidences became signs. Repeated numbers became messages. A lucky day became evidence that the universe was rewarding him.

Euijoo saw probability instead. Logic. Cause and effect. Yet somehow they always ended up discussing the same questions from opposite directions. Sometimes the conversations lasted hours. Sometimes they became arguments disguised as discussions. Sometimes Nicholas grew frustrated because Euijoo wanted evidence for things Nicholas only felt. Sometimes Euijoo grew frustrated because Nicholas acted as though feelings themselves were evidence.

They always found their way back to each other afterward. At the time, Euijoo believed that meant they balanced each other perfectly. Looking back, he wonders if balance and compromise are not always the same thing.

The weather was cold at that time, and their conversation only made things feel heavier. The warmth of the afternoon had long disappeared, replaced by a chilly breeze rolling in from the water. The sea looked darker now, reflecting less of the sky and more of the approaching evening. Nicholas said the waves always seemed like they were dancing. They're beautiful dancers, he said. 

Euijoo only caught the word beautiful and inevitably connected it with Nicholas. Sitting there with his hair kissed by the wind, loose strands constantly falling into his eyes only for him to push them away seconds later, Nicholas looked almost unreal against the backdrop of the sea. The fading sunlight painted gold across his skin. His laughter blended with the crashing waves. Euijoo’s hand found the cold flesh of Nicholas’ cheek, stroking it beneath the cold air. The skin beneath his fingertips was cool from the wind. You're beautiful, Euijoo said. 

And Nicholas smiled, I know, dummy. Euijoo remembers the way Nicholas leaned into the touch, he remembers the smell of seawater on both of them, he remembers thinking the moment would last forever, which was perhaps the first mistake.

Nicholas loved hard and loud. But ever since Euijoo had known Nicholas, he always tried and tried and tried to return it with the same volume. Because Euijoo knew Nicholas deserved it. But even with everything, there was still a part of Euijoo that was lacking. Parts Euijoo didn’t even realize Nicholas paid attention to, asked him for, begged him for. Euijoo couldn’t help it. He always tried his best but it never seemed enough somehow. It would never be enough.

Nicholas wanted words while Euijoo preferred actions. Nicholas wanted certainty while Euijoo offered assumptions. Nicholas reached for difficult conversations immediately while Euijoo needed time to sit with them, sometimes so much time that the conversation never happened at all.

Back then those differences felt manageable. Small. The kind of flaws couples naturally worked around. Yet even sitting beside him on that beach, Euijoo remembers moments where Nicholas would glance at him for a second too long after asking a question. Moments where Nicholas seemed to wait for something Euijoo didn't realize he was supposed to give.

The dark moon and night swallowed them beneath the evening sky. The beach had gradually emptied around them until only scattered silhouettes remained in the distance. The horizon had become almost impossible to distinguish from the sea. Water and sky blending together into one endless dark expanse. 

Nicholas asked, If I disappeared into the sea, would you look for me? Euijoo thought the question was foolish. Nicholas asked those kinds of questions all the time. Questions wrapped in jokes, in metaphors, in impossible situations. Euijoo smiled, lips reaching for Nicholas’ before he reassured him, Of course I will. And Nicholas smiled against the kiss. 

How long? he asked afterward, voice softer now. Euijoo laughed and nudged his shoulder. Until I find you.

.

.

.

It smells nothing like home.

The living room reeks of disinfectant and dust, sterile and stale at the same time. It possesses the same energy and smell as when you step into your grandma's house that you visit once every two months because no one lives there anymore. It still feels nostalgic, either way. Euijoo had thought that. But the fear from his assumption about Nicholas disappearing only gets proven further.

Beneath the disinfectant lies something older, it might be the scent of furniture left untouched, or fabric collecting months of air, the wood aging in place might also contribute as well. Dust floats through the beams of light, drifting slowly enough that they seem suspended in time. The entire house feels caught between states, neither abandoned nor occupied.

There is a leftover pizza with an open box, rotten, mold finding a home there. Euijoo came here trying to find out where Nicholas is, but he ended up paying attention to the wrong things instead. His eyes dwell on the pizza longer than necessary. Green and white patches spread across the cheese in strange patterns, the crust has gone hard around the edges. 

The smell of decay barely reaches him from where he stands, yet the sight alone makes his stomach tighten. He finds himself wondering when it was ordered. Days? Weeks ago? Why would Nicholas leave food out like this? Nicholas hated wasting food. He used to scold Euijoo for leaving leftovers untouched in the refrigerator for too long.

There are takeout containers everywhere, packed into its usual plastic boxes whenever they decide to order more than they can handle. This time, there are dozens of them, stacked upon one another. Some remain closed while others sit partially open, revealing dried residue of sauces and forgotten side dishes. A few raw ingredients remain in the kitchen that seem untouched. The labels and rubber ties don't appear lifted.

Nicholas has always spoken in food, in dishes. He says something about thinking through organs other than the mind and that his stomach wasn't far, if not more emotional, than his heart. Euijoo learned to love Nicholas and the dining table all at once because loving food came in the same sentence as loving Nicholas.

Stepping into the dining room relieves memories Euijoo doesn’t want to think about right now. Nicholas standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in hand, arguing passionately about the new pastry he bought while music played softly in the background. Nicholas opening the refrigerator every ten minutes despite knowing nothing new had appeared inside. Nicholas insisting people revealed themselves through the meals they cooked and the meals they craved.

The kitchen had once felt like the heart of the house because Nicholas spent so much time there. Now it feels like a museum exhibit left untouched after closing. The refrigerator hums steadily in the silence. The sound feels unnaturally loud. But everything does.

He moves inside the house, more dust on the cabinets, on the stairs, shoes tossed near the racks, bags placed near the door to what once used to be their room, everything everywhere all at once. The floorboards creak beneath his weight and the sound travels farther than it should, echoing faintly through the house. Every room appears exactly as he remembers and completely different at the same time. The familiar layout only makes the unfamiliar feeling stronger. 

He remembers walking these hallways half asleep. Remembers late-night conversations drifting from one room to another. Remembers Nicholas calling his name from upstairs. Yet now every doorway seems deeper. Every corner is darker. The staircase lengthens upward into shadow, and for a brief moment Euijoo experiences the uncomfortable sensation that the second floor is farther away than it used to be. The feeling vanishes immediately. He knows it is ridiculous. The house hasn't changed. Houses don't change. Yet his eyes continue nagging on the stairs anyway.

The place feels like Nicholas unpacked his chaos, walked out the door, and never planned on coming back. No sign of other people living or trespassing here. Just remnants of Nicholas and it’s everywhere. A jacket draped carelessly over a chair. A charging cable hanging beside an outlet. Books left open with bookmarks tucked halfway through. Tiny pieces of evidence that suggest continuation rather than ending. 

He steps inside their room and it feels like he is violating someone's privacy. He has been feeling that since he remembered the second key he forgot to return to Nicholas. It’s weird when not even half a year ago he still came in and out of this room whenever he wanted. Where Nicholas' belongings used to sit beside his. This room was built for two. Euijoo thought about what Nicholas felt after he left. Was it easier for Nicholas? Did Nicholas, ever so far more emotional than Euijoo, miss and yearn for him as deeply as Euijoo did? Talk about regret. The bedroom feels colder than the rest of the house.

Euijoo's gaze catches on empty spaces where his own belongings used to be. A section of shelf. A corner of the closet. Small gaps in the room's composition. He finds himself imagining Nicholas existing inside those empty spaces afterward, moving around them, adapting to them. Did he stare at them too? Did he avoid looking at them?

Byun Euijoo regrets a lot, another comparison between him and Nicholas. Nicholas believes every decision he makes comes from the deepest part of himself and always brings something Nicholas will be thankful for in the future. Euijoo has never understood how Nicholas does that. How he commits to decisions without dissecting them afterward. Euijoo revisits everything. Conversations. Arguments. Small mistakes. Forgotten opportunities. 

Sometimes he replays memories so often they lose their original shape. He cannot tell whether he remembers events or merely remembers remembering them. The room around him seems to encourage that feeling. Every object here functions like a trigger. Every corner contains another version of the past. The house doesn't feel haunted by ghosts. It feels haunted by possibilities. By alternate versions of events. By things left unsaid. Somehow that feels worse.

He goes back into the living room with disappointment. Finding nothing but glimpses of their past and Nicholas nowhere near his sight. The feeling follows him from room to room. 

Euijoo walks toward the front door when a light catches the edge of his vision. The movement is so subtle that at first he thinks he imagined it. A reflection. Sunlight glancing off glass. A passing car outside. He immediately looks back into the living room but finds nothing. The room appears exactly the same as it did a second ago. Yet something prickles beneath his skin.

He gulps, slowly turning his head, his heartbeat seems louder now. Then he sees it. At first, Euijoo thinks it is merely another trick of the light. The afternoon sun has been filtering through the curtains all day, breaking itself apart against dusty glass and old furniture, creating strange reflections that disappear the moment he tries to focus on them. But this one remains. 

The light appears impossibly thin, no wider than a crack. A narrow vertical seam of pale brightness cutting through the dimness of the living room. His eyes drift back toward the far side of the living room, and there, against the empty wall that he knows should be solid, something glimmers.

He knows every part of this room.

He remembers standing in this exact spot before. The wall has always been a wall.

It does not resemble sunlight spilling through a window, nor a reflection from a passing car. The brightness feels oddly contained, confined neatly within its own shape as if it belongs somewhere else and has accidentally leaked through. The longer he stares, the more difficult it becomes to determine where the light is coming from. 

The wall around it stays dim and dust-covered. The faded paint carries the same imperfections he remembers from years ago, the same tiny cracks and scratches that Nicholas once promised he would repaint someday. Yet that narrow strip of brightness cuts through the familiar surface Euijoo swears he once knew.

.

.

.

It’s hard.

I know, Joo.

You make it sound like I can just wake up one day and stop being afraid.

I don’t.

Then why do you keep asking?

Do you think I don't understand?

Sometimes.

That's funny.

What's funny?

That you think anybody understands this better than I do.

…

I know what it's like to look at a room before walking into it.

Nicholas—

I know what it's like to rehearse conversations in your head.

…

I know what it's like to wonder whether people will still look at you the same afterward.

I understand why you're scared.

Then understand that I'm trying.

I know you're trying.

Do you?

Yes.

Did love kill them both?

Did they walk into the room, finding each other in a pool of strangers, holding hands for the first time, knowing that to love means to hurt. Not because love is cruel, but because love asks for things. It asks for space. It asks for honesty. It asks for the terrifying act of allowing another person to witness all the rooms inside you.

Euijoo remembers the sound of waves when Nicholas kissed him, when when his fingers wandered across the man's torso beneath tangled blankets and dim apartment lights, when Nicholas whined his name, when Nicholas screamed his name. Maybe because loving Nicholas always felt like standing at the shoreline. Beautiful. Vast. It’s impossible to fully grasp. 

To love Nicholas was to understand that there would always be parts of him stretching beyond the horizon. To be loved by Nicholas was even stranger. It was to discover that being understood could feel frightening. Nicholas learned quickly that unraveling Euijoo was not like solving a puzzle. It was like walking toward the unknown. What happened when Nicholas realized he cannot keep standing at the entrance forever, waiting for Euijoo to follow. 

To be loved is to be seen. Everyone says that. It sounds simple when spoken aloud. Euijoo sees Nicholas all the time, but what happens if Euijoo does not want to be seen in return?

The way he believes in impossible things. The way he leaves lights on in empty rooms and talks to the universe as though it might answer back. Euijoo sees the freckles scattered across Nicholas' skin during summer. The way his laughter arrives before he can stop it. The way his heart always seems too large for his body. Euijoo sees all of it. 

But what happens when he is hidden, not out of Nicholas’ peripheral vision, but somewhere out of his space to reach. Somewhere around the room that is unattainable, but there isn’t really an explanation of how big the room is. The cruel thing about labyrinths is that they rarely announce themselves as labyrinths.

Then what do you want from me?

I don't know anymore.

…

Some days I think I want patience.

And?

Some days I think I've already given all of it away.

Do you know what I pray for?

You pray?

Sometimes.

For what?

A boring life.

What?

A really boring life.

That's stupid.

I know.

I pray for a life where nobody has to be brave.

A life where I don't have to think before I hold your hand.

Nicholas.

A life where you don't have to be afraid.

…

A life where we can be loud.

I want that too.

I know that too.

Then why does it sound like you're blaming me?

Because I'm not.

It feels like it.

I'm not blaming you for being scared.

I'm just tired of pretending the fear only belongs to you.

Sometimes it feels like you're the only one allowed to hurt.

And I know that's not what you mean.

It's not.

I know.

I love you, Euijoo.

I know.

That's the problem.

What does that mean?

It means I love you.

And sometimes I don't understand why loving you feels this hard.

Nicholas loves loudly.

It has always been louder than the waves, louder than the wind, louder than every single sound in the world combined that feels foreign. Let it last for years, hand in hand, until the sun sinks, until the skies bend, does he want to count sheep? The land seems larger than what love has become for him now. Larger than memory. Larger than grief.

I love you too, Euijoo wishes he had said it. He had, multiple times, until his lips dry. It had passed. Words existed, but they never seemed to travel far enough. They both wanted to believe it had been carried somewhere beyond their existence and whatever made them afraid. Euijoo should have said yes. He too wishes for a boring life. Let’s not think about anything else, Nichol. What about letting love exist? Not survive. Not hide. Not wait. Just exist. The way the sea exists. The way the sky exists.

The sun sinks faster than usual that day. It was the last time Euijoo had seen the sea. It was the last time Euijoo saw Nicholas. Memory bends around grief, light bends through glass. Perhaps Euijoo is only noticing how things disappear once they begin leaving. Nicholas with everything that resembled him despite being something dead, something still, still and discreet. The sea inhabits where it has always been. And Euijoo doesn’t want to be trapped inside those rooms anymore, he wants to visit the sea. Euijoo wants to be near the sea.

.

.

.

Sometimes he wonders whether the ‘in-between’ exists.

Euijoo can’t say he’s religious, but the in-between he carries within his mind is nothing like the ones written in religious books, something you pass through while waiting to enter the afterlife. It is more like a place where nothing really happens, where someone or something could simply exist without needing to arrive or leave. Something between ‘what was’ and ‘what comes next.’ 

Euijoo doesn’t think of it the way Nicholas believes in soulmates or the red string theory. Nicholas always believed there was something waiting at the other end. Euijoo only believes in what it feels like to remain somewhere where nothing happens. Somewhere that asks for nothing. Somewhere that promises nothing. Somewhere that continues existing whether someone is there to witness it or not.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

It never ends. 

It’s multiplying. 

It’s a labyrinth. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

Nothing ever makes sense. 

There’s a chair. 

There’s another chair.

There’s a cabinet. 

There’s a table.

A lamp.

A stain on the carpet.

A stop sign.

A door. 

The wall is too tall. 

The wall is too wide. 

The ceiling is too low. 

The floor is too flat.

What was it? 

What was the last thing he saw before this turn? 

Another turn. 

Another turn. 

Don’t turn again. 

Do turn away.

Go back.

There is no going back.

Keep walking.

Stop walking.

He is a mortal. Ragged breathing. Cold sweat. Eyes spinning. The bruises on his feet. The oil on his face. The smell of his own hair. The taste of metal at the back of his tongue. For once he is reminded that he is mortal. Not through mirrors or birthdays or aching bones, but through fear. A fear so physical it sits beneath his skin like another organ. 

For once he feels himself turning into something. The farther he strays. The deeper he goes. What sunlight felt like against his skin. Whether the sound inside his ears is his own heartbeat or the fluorescent lights above him. He can no longer tell where his body ends and the place begins.

He stops. For the first time, he stops.

Euijoo looks back toward the previous hallway he had just passed, forcing himself to steady his breathing. It comes unevenly anyway, catching somewhere inside his chest before escaping in shallow bursts. His shoulders rise and fall too fast. His pulse pounds against his temples until the edges of his vision begin to blur. In what kind of consciousness inside him keeps asking him to move deeper into a place so clearly built to unravel the mind. 

Euijoo feels like he is going to throw up. His stomach warp painfully. Acid burns the back of his throat. His head grows heavier with every breath he takes. He remembers Nicholas. He remembers Yudai. He remembers the sea. The apartment. His mother's voice. The warmth of a coffee cup. The smell of laundry dried beneath the sun. He remembers traffic. Birds. The inconvenience of waiting for trains. Anything. Anyone. Everything that exists outside these walls. Except himself. Himself becomes strangely difficult to picture.

He walks back toward where he started, deciding he has had enough of trying to understand what is happening. He forces himself to move even though each step sends another dull ache through the swelling on his feet. The carpet gives way softly beneath every footfall, swallowing the sound before it has the chance to echo. His legs feel heavier now, as though something invisible has begun hanging from them. His shoulders remain tense. Every few steps he looks behind him without realizing he has done so. Nothing changes. Nothing follows. Somehow that frightens him more.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Hallway.

Euijoo passes the door he had seen earlier. It is still the only door he has encountered. Every other room had been left open, nothing separating one space from another except moldy yellow walls patterned with stains that resemble arrows until he stares too long. No hinges. No handles. No locks. Just entrances. Empty mouths waiting for someone to walk inside. 

He knows it would be best to avoid it. To leave it untouched. Not to open something in a place where nothing should be opened. Every horror begins with curiosity. Every warning begins after someone ignores it. Damn the human brain. Because some part of him wants to know what’s inside, what goes on in this place, behind the wreckage and ruins. 

He doesn't stop. He tears his gaze away from the door and continues walking until another hallway branches off to his right. At the very end sits a patch of darkness, darker than the rest of the corridor where the lights seem unwilling to reach. There is a hand there.

His breath catches somewhere between his lungs and throat, refusing to move either way. His heart pounds so violently he becomes convinced the sound must be echoing through the hallway. His fingers twitch instinctively, searching for something to hold onto before remembering there is nothing. His eyes refuse to blink. They remain fixed upon the pale hand emerging from the darkness, impossibly still, the fingers relaxed as though whoever it belonged to had simply fallen asleep. Or worse.

He searches for the rest of the body, but the darkness swallows everything beyond the wrist. It is too close to ignore. Too human. Every instinct tells him to run. Every instinct tells him not to look away in parallel. Euijoo takes one careful step forward. Then another. His shoes scrape softly against the carpet. He swallows hard. Another step. Close enough now that the outline begins losing its shape. There is nothing there.

Nothing except a hole.

A hole leading somewhere beneath the floor.

Euijoo crouches carefully beside it, one hand pressed against the carpet to steady himself as the room tilts unpleasantly around him. The opening is wider than he first expected, its edges uneven, as though the floor had simply given up and collapsed inward. Cold air drifts upward from below, carrying the damp smell of earth, mildew, and something else he cannot identify. Something faintly sweet. Something that has been left untouched for too long. He leans forward despite himself, careful not to let his weight shift too far. His heartbeat drums loudly inside his ears as he peers into the darkness below.

The hole is deep, deeper than he can comfortably judge, but not deep enough to hide what rests at the bottom. There is a pile of what appears to be clothes. Euijoo shifts his stance while remaining crouched, one knee beginning to ache beneath his own weight. His eyes move slowly across the heap as though afraid it might suddenly breathe.

T-shirts. 

Trousers. 

Pajamas. 

A half pair of shoes.

Cardigans. 

Hoodies. 

Dresses. 

A red knitted scarf.

Euijoo feels something stacking up from the bottom of his stomach branching to his throat and right under his tongue. He makes a troubled sound as a rotting smell unfurl around the space. He need to take a second glance. He need to take a second glance.

A red knitted scarf.

Before he gets the chance to steady himself, he feels the gravity shift beneath his shoe, his balance disappears before his body understands what is happening. 

His hand reaches for the edge, fingertips scraping against coarse fabric of the carpet and splintered concrete before finding nothing at all. Then he slips straight through the hole. 

The air rushes past his ears in a muffled roar that sounds strangely distant, as though someone has submerged his head underwater. The fluorescent lights above bloat into pale lines before disappearing. His stomach lurches violently. His limbs flail without direction, desperately searching for something solid to stop himself against, but there is only empty space surrounding him.

Then his back slams against the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs as the pain explodes along his spine, sharp and blinding, before radiating through his ribs and shoulders. His skull narrowly misses the concrete, the impact rattling through every bone in his body until his vision blooms white around the edges. A broken gasp tears itself from his mouth. He curls around the pain, one trembling hand pressing against the floor while the other clutches at his side from the impending dread. 

His breathing refuses to return properly. Every attempt catches somewhere inside his chest before collapsing into another ragged inhale. Tears gather heavily along his eyelids that it blurs everything in front of him until the world melts into patches of yellow and gray.

He braces himself against the floor and forces his head upward, taking another glance at the pile of clothes instead of allowing himself to acknowledge the pain spreading across his body. Looking at the bruises would make them real. Looking at the clothes somehow feels easier.

Mind struggling to process his burning body, the place surrounding him, the red knitted scarf lying carelessly over the heap, and the terrible realization settling inside him. What he had mistaken for a random pile of abandoned clothing is not random at all. They are belongings. Familiar belongings. 

Ones scattered across Nicholas' side of the bedroom whenever laundry day arrived too late. Pajamas thrown carelessly onto the floor before bed. Cardigans folded over the back of dining chairs. Hoodies abandoned beside the couch after late-night movies. A red knitted scarf hanging by the front door every winter because Nicholas always forgot to put it back inside the closet. They lie here discarded as though they had been peeled away from invisible bodies. Thrown aside like trash waiting to be burned until nothing remains except gray ash drifting somewhere no one bothers to remember.

He can't wrap his mind around any of it. His thoughts collide against one another until none of them remain whole. Is this a dream? A hallucination? Did he hit his head harder than he thought? Is he lying unconscious inside Nicholas' living room, imagining corridors and impossible spaces while his body waits to wake up? What does this place want from him? Why him? Why Nicholas? What is it trying to tell him? Is it trying to tell him anything at all, or is he the one desperately forcing meaning into walls that have never spoken. 

The questions multiply faster than he can answer them. Every explanation gives birth to another contradiction. Every conclusion immediately folds back into uncertainty. 

His therapist would probably tell him to breathe. To ground himself. Name five things he can see. Four things he can touch. Three things he can hear. Two things he can smell. One thing he can taste. Euijoo almost laughs. Everything he sees is impossible. Everything he touches feels wrong. The lights never stop humming. The air smells like a place that should not exist. His mouth tastes of blood and dust.

He can smell him, Euijoo can smell him, white flowers mixed with something sweet and something spicy. He misses it more than he thought he did. More than the afternoon he found the last hoodie Nicholas had stolen from him still carrying traces of the same scent. 

He is no longer able to separate what exists only within his mind from what is actually happening inside this room. The boundary has become so thin it may never have existed at all. He presses shaking fingers against the cold floor, desperate for something undeniable, something that belongs to the ordinary world, but the rough concrete beneath his palm feels just as unreal as everything else.

The place doesn’t give Euijoo any moment to process further as he hears footsteps echoing through another hallway hidden behind the walls. Big, heavy, huge steps. It’s not human, it doesn’t sound humanly possible. The sound rolls through the corridors instead of simply traveling across them, bouncing from one hallway into another until Euijoo cannot tell where it truly originates. His breathing immediately catches in his throat. Every muscle in his body locks before he consciously tells it to.

One step. Another. Another. The footsteps continue approaching, yet, the closer they seem to come, the stranger they become. The impact gradually softens. The distance shrinks, but so do the footsteps themselves. What began sounding like something towering several meters high slowly transforms into something lighter, smaller, almost ordinary. As though whatever is approaching is shedding pieces of itself while walking. Until the sound resembles the footsteps of an average person. Then lighter than that. Then barely audible. Then—

Nothing. 

The silence afterward is somehow louder than the footsteps had been.

Euijoo doesn't allow himself another second. He pushes himself upright and runs in the opposite direction before curiosity can betray him once again. The sudden movement sends pain tearing through his spine that it force a broken gasp from his mouth. His hand flies toward his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt until his nails dig through it. 

Every breath hurts. Every step jars the bruises blooming beneath his feet. His lungs burn with cold, recycled air that smells faintly of mildew, damp carpet, and old wallpaper. He nearly stumbles after only a few strides, catching himself against the wall before forcing his legs to move again. His body begs him to stop. His mind screams louder. Don't stop. Don't look back. Whatever made those footsteps does not need to be seen to exist.

He's not stupid. It can't be him. Whether this is a dream or reality, whether he is unconscious beneath the hole or trapped somewhere beyond reason itself, it can't be him. His thoughts chase each other until they blur together.

Nicholas doesn't walk like that. Nicholas laughs when he walks because he is always distracted by something. Nicholas drags his slippers across the floor every morning until Euijoo tells him to lift his feet properly. Nicholas hums absentmindedly while carrying groceries.

Euijoo repeats the thought over and over until it becomes a prayer. It can't be him. It can't be him. It can't be him. He isn't sure whether he is trying to convince himself that Nicholas isn't here, or that whatever is here cannot possibly become Nicholas.

He continues running, room after room, hallway after hallway, wall after wall. The fluorescent lights never change. The stale air never changes. Even the humming remains exactly the same, as though the place has memorized a single moment and refuses to move beyond it. His breathing grows ragged. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck despite the cold air surrounding him. He recognizes the pile of clothes. He recognizes the dining table. He recognizes the refrigerator. He recognizes the cabinets. 

Recognition arrives in violent flashes before he tears his gaze away each time, forcing himself to look only at the floor beneath him. He refuses to lift his head. Refuses to acknowledge what the corners of his vision insist on showing him. Because recognition means memory. Memory means Nicholas. Nicholas means stopping. And stopping means the place has won something Euijoo cannot afford to lose.

He guides himself by the rhythm of his own footsteps instead, counting silently beneath his breath, left, right, left, right, as though reducing movement to numbers might somehow return the world to something understandable. His therapist once told him grounding techniques worked by reminding the body where it was. Euijoo wonders what happens when the place itself refuses to answer.

He takes another turn and is met with a dead end.

Not just a mere dead end. A dead end with objects. Objects resting exactly where memory insists they belong. Nothing is missing. Nothing is disturbed. That is what terrifies him most. A king-sized bed, a sliding-door closet, tables, belongings, everything he recognizes. His body stops before his mind does, momentum forcing him one step closer before he catches himself. His heartbeat stutters against his ribs. 

And the backdrop of the wall is a beach, facing toward the ocean.

.

.

.

Do you know what it's like talking to you sometimes?

It's like walking through hallways.

Every time I think I've reached you, there's another door.

Another room.

Another excuse.

I don’t even know where you are anymore.