Archive of Our Own

Change is an unsettling concept.

Not because it is particularly difficult to understand, but because people insist on treating it as though it were an event. As though there is a precise moment at which something becomes different, a clean division between what was and what is, when in reality most things change so gradually that by the time you notice, the distinction is almost useless.

A room does not become unfamiliar because someone moves the furniture once. A person does not become a stranger because they say something you have never heard them say before. It happens through accumulation. A hundred insignificant alterations, each too small to warrant concern, eventually producing something that would have been unrecognisable a year ago.

Perhaps that is why people are so bad at noticing change.

They search for the moment change becomes visible, forgetting that it is usually made of things too insignificant to notice individually.

The friend who begins answering a little later. The conversation that becomes slightly easier to avoid. The joke that stops being funny, though everyone still laughs because admitting otherwise would require acknowledging that something has changed. Even one's own reflection changes so imperceptibly that it is possible to spend years looking at the same face without realising that the person behind it has become someone else.

And yet, strangely, we expect permanence.

We build entire lives around the assumption that certain things will remain where we left them. That people will continue loving us in the same language, that familiar places will retain their meaning, that the person we were at eighteen will somehow remain available to us whenever we become tired of whoever we are now.

It is a rather absurd expectation.

Nothing is static. Not people, not relationships, not memory, not even grief. We simply become accustomed to a particular version of them and mistake familiarity for permanence.

Perhaps growing up is nothing more than becoming acquainted with the discomfort of being wrong about what will stay.

He used to think change was something to resist. Now he suspects resistance is only another form of attachment—the slightly more respectable kind, perhaps, because it disguises itself as loyalty.

Still, knowing something intellectually does not make it easier to accept.

There are things he would keep exactly as they were if he were given the choice but he knows better than to believe that.

That does not mean he has stopped wanting to.

With all that being said, Seungkwan is fairly certain he is about to be buried alive in the very near future by his angelic employers, his very beloved and exceptionally kind leader, Seungcheol hyung, and, last but certainly not least, the subject of all these thoughts, Hansol Vernon Chwe.

But could one really blame him for feeling exceptionally melancholic tonight, knowing what awaited him the following morning? So what if he had gone live after a glass of wine? And so what if he had decided to divulge his innermost feelings in front of a few hundred thousand people?

“Ughhhhh,” he groans in frustration. Only yesterday had his week long social media and live streaming ban finally come to an end after he had decided to take matters into his own hands and inform Carats of the kind of predators existing in society who feigned friendship only to scam others out of their money.

After his crisis evaluation, he gets up and places his empty wine glass in the sink. One of the perks of living alone, he supposes, is that there is no one around to nag him about the dishes—or any household chore, for that matter. He then grabs a damp kitchen towel and wipes down the surface where he had previously wined and dined, rubbing at the counter with unnecessary determination, as though he were attempting to erase every last trace of the crimes he had committed that evening.

In the corner of his eye, he catches a spot of red on the carpet. To his horror, some of the red wine has spilled onto his extremely expensive rug.

He immediately grabs the stain remover from the laundry room and begins rubbing at the stain, scrubbing with considerably more force than the situation probably warrants.

He had once watched a true crime documentary, courtesy of their maknae.

The resemblance is unfortunate.

He feels restless and knows, with some certainty, that sleep is not going to be an option anytime soon. Which leaves him with nothing to do and far too much to think about. He has firsthand experience with the latter and would, given the choice, take almost anything else.

So he gets on his treadmill and, much like he had done on live, begins shouting out the fanchant for Sumicha.

Yes, this is undoubtedly a productive way to waste time.

Two hours have passed since the treadmill, three since the live, and one since he left his apartment for a run. 

Becoming a trending topic on Naver for being a noisy neighbour is hardly the sort of publicity he needs right now. Besides, the Han River is quieter at this hour, which is precisely what he needs. 

Seungkwan walks along the bank with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, letting the cool air do what an hour of treadmill running apparently failed to accomplish. There are still people around—couples walking side by side, runners passing him with considerably more purpose, the occasional cyclist ringing a bell as a warning—but nobody seems interested in him and he is grateful for the anonymity.

He slows down near the railing and looks out over the water. Seoul is still wide awake around him, its lights scattered across the skyline and breaking unevenly across the surface of the river, but from here it feels sufficiently distant to be someone else's problem.

Nostalgia's a bitch when you're all sad and mopey.

His mind wanders off to a badly lit practice room, convenience store dinners eaten at ridiculous hours and two teenagers sitting on the floor because neither of them had the energy to find a chair. The sort of memories that had seemed entirely insignificant when they were happening, only to acquire an unreasonable amount of importance years later.

Seungkwan remembers Hansol being there for most of it.

Back then, there had been very little ceremony to their friendship. They were simply two kids who had ended up spending an absurd amount of time together, thrown into the same unfamiliar routine and expected to figure out how to survive it. They ate together because they were hungry at the same time. Practised together because there was nowhere else to go. Stayed up talking because neither of them particularly wanted to sleep yet.

There had been no need to make plans to see each other because they were already there.

That was probably what he misses most.

Not any particular conversation or some spectacular moment that could be neatly filed away as a cherished memory, but the sheer frequency of it. The certainty that if Seungkwan turned his head, Hansol would probably be somewhere within reach. Close enough to annoy him, borrow something without asking, say something completely unnecessary, or simply sit beside him without either of them feeling compelled to fill the silence.

They had been young enough then to believe proximity was permanent.

Which is, in hindsight, rather stupid.

He can't remember when they stopped simply showing up in each other's lives.

When did it become normal for the two of them to only meet for work? Why had neither of them questioned it when the only times they saw each other were at practice, shoots, concerts or those compulsory monthly meetings? When did spending time together stop being something that happened naturally and become something that required a reason?

When did their friendship become something that had to be accommodated rather than something that simply happened?

He tries to think of the last time they had been the first person to tell each other something. Not something important enough to warrant a phone call, but some insignificant piece of information that would once have been shared without thought.

When did they stop being the keepers of each other's secrets?

When did Seungkwan become someone who had to hear about Hansol's life from conversations that had already happened, rather than being the person Hansol told first?

Now they could go weeks without speaking.

It isn't anyone's fault.

That might be the most frustrating part and perhaps nostalgia was cruel enough to remind him of it.

He exhales slowly.

Of course his brain would choose tonight of all nights to remind him of this. As if he wasn't already in enough trouble.

He starts making his way back. His plan to tire himself out enough to achieve at least a few hours of sleep seems to have worked against him. Instead, he now has enough adrenaline coursing through his cardiovascular system to ensure that sleep remains a distant and increasingly unlikely possibility.

Back in the warmth of his cosy yet lonely apartment, Seungkwan does the one thing an idol probably should not do when he is trending for something that has absolutely nothing to do with his vocal abilities.

He opens Twitter.

Twitter is a fascinating place. It allows millions of people to convene for the sole purpose of forming opinions, exchanging speculation, and arguing with strangers over matters about which none of them possess any actual authority.

And, to absolutely no one's surprise—least of all his own—there are hundreds, if not thousands, of posts discussing their relationship. Most of them are speculation, naturally, though that has never stopped people from speaking with the confidence of those who had somehow been present for every conversation Seungkwan and Vernon had ever had.

Some are going particularly hard with their opinions and perceptions of the two of them. Their ship name is SolBoo or VerKwan, if he remembers correctly. 

SeungSol? Well, that's new.

The more he reads, the more he regrets his choice of words.

There are plenty of posts about him too, but it is Hansol who seems to be receiving the majority of the criticism. One person describes their relationship as a constant game of tug-of-war in which Hansol no longer seems interested in participating, leaving Seungkwan to pull at a rope the other person has already let go of.

That's quite the analogy.

He scrolls further and comes across translations of his words in various languages, presumably for the benefit of international Carats.

I wrote a really long Instagram story, remember? I mean, well... while watching that concert... I don't know, I think my love for Vernon went on max again. I know so well how hard Vernon worked on his music and put effort into their album. We talked a lot. But Vernon looked so happy on that stage, you know that feeling, right? It's the Vernon I knew, but he felt so new. That means Vernon worked incredibly hard for himself. And somehow I can't find the right words to describe it. Anyway, watching him like that, I felt really unfamiliar but also proud and impressed, so I practically wrote a love letter on my story. Even if I can't be the kind of friend who inspires you or even if I can't help you when you're working, I can listen to your songs. But because now our interests are... we are quite different, but as a friend, I will always be on your side. Actually, I'm not sulking. I wasn't expecting a reply. I wasn't expecting a reply. That's not it. But Chwe Vernon doesn't like it if I act like this too much. Anyway, Vernon... let's grab a meal before you go to the military. I'll contact you first, let's grab a meal.

He continues scrolling.

If Seungkwan is really genuine about whatever feelings he has for Vernon, he would talk to him, not to strangers lol. And everyone's praising him for being a good communicator while shitting on Vernon?

That is, unfortunately, a fair point.

Seungkwan really loves asking for sympathy from people and it's actually so immature he couldn't just talk to Vernon personally and instead had to let the whole world know that he feels like their friendship is one-sided and that he's the only one putting in effort. Now look at all the people dragging Vernon while he's getting the “I feel so bad for our Seungkwannie he's so full of love” treatment.

Fuck. He messed up bad.

If sb really had serious issues I doubt they'd be talking about each other at all...like what...I feel like people try to turn solboo's very nuanced and complex relationship into something that's black and white.

That's surprisingly reasonable.

Maybe I'm just being anxious because that's how the death of a friendship started for me. Differences in interests which led to less and less time together and then the gradual eventual end. It hurts more than a breakup. Like it's not even about shipping. It's just sad to think that they were the closest as kids and young adults and that there's a possibility of them drifting apart because of their differences despite the hard work they've put into this friendship for a decade.

Is this the death of their friendship?

Before he can continue his doomscrolling, a KakaoTalk notification appears at the top of his screen and promptly redirects his attention to an onslaught of messages from Jeonghan hyung.

The man should have been fast asleep by now.

Which makes the fact that he is sending multiple messages at nearly four in the morning rather concerning.

Yah why would you say all that on a live stream?

That is a very good question

Sometimes he thinks he has too much love in him.

It is an inconvenient amount, really. Far more than seems necessary for any one person to carry around quietly. It accumulates without permission, attaching itself to small things and before he knows it, there is so much of it sitting somewhere inside his chest that keeping it there begins to feel almost physically impossible.

He has never been particularly good at quiet affection.

Some people seem perfectly capable of loving someone privately, of carrying it around with them as though it were an ordinary, manageable thing. Seungkwan has always found that incomprehensible. When he loves someone, he wants to tell them. He wants to tell other people too. He wants to point at them and say, Look. Look at this person. Do you understand how incredible they are?

Sometimes the feeling becomes so overwhelming that he wants to scream.

There are moments when someone is simply standing there, existing exactly as they always have, and Seungkwan suddenly feels an almost ridiculous surge of affection for them. It arrives without warning and with nowhere obvious to go. He wants to put it into words, but words seem inadequate; he wants to hug them, but even that feels insufficient; he wants to somehow make the entire world understand what he sees in them, as though recognition from everyone else might finally give the feeling somewhere to settle.

Perhaps that is why he talks so much.

Perhaps all those words simply overflow.

He knows it can be excessive. He knows there are times when he should probably keep some things to himself, and he is perfectly capable of understanding that in theory.

In practice, however, there are certain people he looks at and thinks, with complete sincerity and absolutely no sense of self-preservation:

How am I supposed to keep all of this to myself?

I had a glass of wine.

Do you understand the implications of what you just said?

You just told the entire world that the relationship between you and Hansol feels one-sided. Everyone already thinks you do everything for content. Now they're going to think all of this was fan service from the beginning.

I am begging you to think before you speak.

He did see a post calling his affection for Hansol fake and how Hansol after years of tolerating it has finally decided not to interact with all that. He is after all someone known for being genuine.

Why can’t anyone take him genuinely? Not everything is content or fan service. He wasn’t trying to guilt trip him or play the victim card.

He can't help it. It gets so suffocating sometimes. If he doesn't say it, he thinks he'll drown in his own love.

He chooses not to reply to the older. Three people are already in line waiting to give him an earful, another addition to that makes no difference.

Around five, he gets out of bed, having not slept a wink. He can't seem to think about anything except the past.

Can you mourn someone who isn't dead?

Apparently, Seungkwan is about to find out.

He then does something that will almost certainly ruin his mood for the remainder of the day. He settles onto the sofa, wraps the blanket around himself like a shawl, switches on the television and opens YouTube.

He types “VerKwan pre-debut moments” into the search bar.

The first result is a compilation.

The thumbnail alone is enough to make Seungkwan question several of his life choices. There is Vernon looking impossibly young, Seungkwan looking even younger, and a collection of photographs and clips that have clearly been excavated from the deepest and least flattering corners of the internet.

He clicks on it anyway. The footage is terrible.

Not merely old, but old in the particular way that makes everything look as though it was filmed through a potato and then uploaded through a second potato. The colours are strange, the resolution is questionable and the two people on screen look like children who have somehow wandered into a documentary about their own future.

There is Vernon and there is Seungkwan.

He watches himself being loud. That part, at least, is reassuring.

He watches Vernon being quieter, younger, less polished. There is something almost strange about seeing him without the familiarity of the person Seungkwan knows now. The person on the screen seems to belong to a period of his life that Seungkwan can no longer access except through recordings like this.

Another clip—the infamous “Best Quality” exchange—appears. Seungkwan almost groans before it even happens. He remembers this one.

Vernon had apparently decided that his English was of questionable quality. Seungkwan, naturally, had taken this as a personal attack on his dignity and corrected the matter with the only reasonable response available to him.

“Best quality.”

He laughs despite himself. It is such a stupid memory. He pauses the video and mutters, “Idiot.”

He isn't entirely sure whether he means himself or Vernon. Probably both.

The next few clips are much the same. Old performances, interviews and footage of Vernon doing what Vernon has apparently always done best: quietly existing while Seungkwan makes enough noise for the both of them.

Then he finds something else.

Vernon copying him, more specifically, his singing and ad-libs. Little pieces of Seungkwan's voice reproduced by someone else's mouth with varying degrees of accuracy.

He watches the clip twice and then again.

There is something deeply strange about hearing an old version of himself coming back through Vernon.

He keeps scrolling and eventually finds the pre-debut film. The title is almost offensively simple.

Vernon & Seungkwan. 

There they are again—Mr. Headphones and Mr. Mic.

Two names from a period when they were still trainees, still being introduced to people who were beginning to watch them, still far enough from debut that the future remained theoretical.

Seungkwan watches himself on the screen and wonders when exactly those two boys stopped existing.

They didn't, obviously. That would be ridiculous.

They grew up. They debuted. They became the people everyone knows now. Their names changed from trainee nicknames to stage names, their schedules became crowded, their lives became considerably less private and the amount of time they had to simply exist beside one another diminished accordingly.

Seungkwan pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

Can you mourn someone who isn't dead?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps what he is mourning is considerably less dignified.

A version of Hansol that exists now only in old footage and in the unreliable archive of his own memory.

Can you keep the person and still lose a version of them?

Can you remain close and still remember a time when you had been closer?

He presses play again and the boy on the screen laughs. Seungkwan smiles before he can stop himself.

Early debut videos autoplayed one after another as he lived through the journey of youth.

At six in the morning, he is still sitting there watching something on his phone. But this time it's the v8 content—v8 archives, music shows and v8 live.

There are dried tear tracks on his cheeks but he doesn't remember crying. He isn't even entirely sure what the tears had been for.

Perhaps they were sad tears. Perhaps they were happy ones. Perhaps, after several hours of insufficient sleep, too much wine and an entirely unreasonable amount of emotional reflection, his body had simply decided that distinguishing between the two was no longer necessary.

He watches Vernon laugh with the others, watches him speak with the same quiet confidence he had somehow acquired over the years, watches the way he carries himself now without seeming to question whether he belongs there.

Vernon had never been particularly good at explaining himself, and Seungkwan had spent years learning to understand the pauses between his words, the changes in his expression, the things he would say only when he was certain no one would make a big deal out of them.

And now he was watching that same person stand on stages in front of thousands of people, talking about music he had made, laughing without restraint, moving through the world with a freedom Seungkwan had once worried he would never have.

He remembers his own words 

If there's someone in this world I can proudly boast about to everyone, I'd want it to be you.

I pride myself on knowing you well after having known you for so long, yet you always show me a new side and charm of yourself that goes far beyond what I expect.

Even though I may not be the kind of friend who inspires you, I promised to be the kind of friend who gives you endless support.

I'll cheer louder than anyone else for who you are, the music you share, and the freedom you possess!

Hansol Vernon Chwe, the best.

He might miss the old Hansol but that doesn't mean he doesn't love the current Vernon.

He is proud because Vernon became someone who could stand comfortably in his own life.

Someone who could make music because he wanted to. Someone who could speak his mind. Someone who could be strange and thoughtful and quiet and loud without having to apologise for any of it.

Seungkwan smiles at the screen.

His own life flashes through his mind in pieces again. He thinks about how much he has changed too.

He had spent so long measuring himself against what he thought he was supposed to become that he had forgotten to notice the person he had actually become.

He is still sensitive, still worries too much, still gets embarrassed easily and still has days when one careless comment can stay in his head far longer than it should.

But he knows how to stand beside someone without needing to be the reason they shine. He knows how to cheer for someone else's happiness without wondering whether there is enough happiness left for him. He knows that being a good friend does not mean having all the answers or being the person who saves someone every time.

Sometimes it means simply being there.

Sometimes it means knowing someone for years and still allowing yourself to be surprised by them.

And sometimes it means looking at the person you love and thinking, with no jealousy or bitterness attached to it at all—

I'm so proud of you.

He meant every word.

It isn’t simply that Vernon had grown, but rather that he had grown alongside him.

That somewhere between the uncertainty of their younger years and the people they had become, Seungkwan had learned how to love someone without trying to hold them in place.

He had become the kind of friend who could say, without hesitation, I'll cheer louder than anyone else for who you are, the music you share, and the freedom you possess.

And maybe, just this once, he could say the same thing about himself. He had made it this far. He had become someone worth being proud of too.

Seungkwan looks down at the phone again. Vernon is laughing at something someone off camera said. Seungkwan too smiles.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “You really are the best.”

We should probably grab that meal.

Vernon's text had come through at eight, which was surprisingly early for a message from any of his members, let alone someone who had apparently spent the previous night being discussed by half the internet.

Had he not slept either?

Seungkwan stares at the message for a while, then sends out a reply before placing his phone face down on the sofa.

Okay. What do you want to eat?

The response comes several minutes later.

Anything is fine.

Of course it is.

Seungkwan gets up and his body protests the decision immediately. His legs ache from the treadmill and the walk, his eyes feel dry and heavy, and his head has the dull, unpleasant sensation of having been filled with cotton. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and decides that, objectively speaking, he looks terrible.

He gets in shower immediately.

By the time he is standing in front of his wardrobe, he has reached the point of exhaustion where every article of clothing seems to possess an unnecessarily complicated set of requirements. Too formal or too casual. Too recognisable. Too warm. And all of them require too much effort.

Eventually, he settles on something ordinary—that seems appropriate. He catches his reflection again while adjusting his hair and pauses.

The person looking back at him is obviously older than the boy in the videos.

There is no revelation in that or a sudden understanding. Just a fact he has spent the entire night attempting to turn into a philosophical problem.

The Hansol of the past will forever hold a place in his heart but he thinks about the person Hansol is now.

Seungkwan doesn't always understand this version or the parts of his life that Seungkwan is no longer automatically included in. And, for the first time in a really long time, the thought doesn't hurt quite as much.

Perhaps this is what he had been getting wrong.

He had been treating change like an erasure of the past. As though the newer version of Hansol had somehow taken something from him by existing.

But Hansol hadn't taken anything and neither had Seungkwan.

They had simply grown.

That didn't mean the years before were less real. It didn't make the old friendship an embarrassing relic, and it certainly didn't mean that everything they had shared had somehow expired because they no longer spent every waking hour together.

Maybe some friendships were not meant to remain identical and expecting them to was the unreasonable part.

His phone buzzes again.

Where are you?

Getting ready.

Take your time.

Seungkwan picks up his wallet and keys.

He has spent the entire night lost in his own head, drowning and suffocating in his thoughts—but he regrets nothing.

He slips his shoes on, checks his reflection one last time and heads for the door.

It takes him ten minutes to get there. Public transportation in Seoul is exceptionally efficient, which is fortunate because Seungkwan is in no condition to spend any longer than necessary navigating the city before breakfast.

He finds Hansol already inside, sitting in a private room and skimming through the menu with an expression of mild concentration.

They cannot, at any cost, be seen together. Caratland has already been turned upside down enough as it is.

“Hey,” Hansol greets, looking up and handing him the menu. “Take your time. Order whatever you want.”

Seungkwan gives him a small smile. “Did you decide what you're having?”

“Yeah. Just waiting for you.”

“I'll have the same thing.”

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

Hansol gives him a doubtful look but doesn't argue. They place their order and settle back into their seats.

It isn't an uncomfortable silence, exactly. They have known each other for too long for silence to be particularly threatening, but there is an awareness between them now that wasn't there the last time they had sat across from each other. Too many things have been said publicly. Too many things have been interpreted by people who were not in this room.

Seungkwan decides he should probably be the one to address it. And at precisely the same moment, Hansol seems to reach the same conclusion. They start speaking over each other.

“Sorry, I—”

“About yesterday—”

They stop and Hansol gestures for him to continue.

Seungkwan exhales.

“Ugh. I want to apologise first. I shouldn't have talked about those things on live. I should've talked to you first. That was stupid of me.” He looks down at his hands. “I caused a lot of problems for the two of us. And for the team.”

Hansol nods, “Okay.”

Seungkwan looks up, “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay…”

There is a pause and Seungkwan isn't sure whether that means ‘apology accepted’ or ‘I have absolutely no idea what else I'm supposed to say to that’, and with Hansol, either interpretation is equally plausible.

Hansol takes a breath.

“Do…” He stops, swallows and tries again. “Do you really think it's one-sided? Our relationship?”

Seungkwan doesn't answer immediately.

“To be honest,” he says eventually, “sometimes I get frustrated. I know not everyone expresses love the same way. I know I can't expect you to give affection in exactly the way I do.” Hansol pauses, searching for the right words. “And I know you love me. I know that. I know how you show it.”

He looks down at the table.

“But sometimes the lack of reciprocation still gets to me.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way.” Hansol looks back at him. “You should've told me.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn't lie and say I'll suddenly become you.”

That gets a small laugh out of Seungkwan.

“I don't think the world could survive two of me.”

“Exactly.”

For a moment, the tension eases and Hansol continues, “I'm not going to change myself to fit your version of affection. But I can probably make it a little easier on you.”

Seungkwan looks at him.

“I won't profess my love to you on social media,” Hansol says, completely straight-faced. “But from time to time, I'll tell you privately that you matter to me too.”

There is something about the simplicity of it that gets him.

“Thank you, Hansol,” Seungkwan says, softer than he intended.

Hansol nods.

“And Seungkwan?”

“Hmm?”

“If you're ever having a hard time, call me. I'll come.”

Seungkwan blinks, “Really?”

“Is that even something to question? Of course.”

He smiles despite himself.

“Okay. I'll make sure to add you to my list of people to call when I'm having a hard time.”

“Great.”

“You'll be number two.”

Hansol's expression immediately changes, “Why am I number two?”

“Right below Jeonghan hyung.”

“Why am I not number one?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

Hansol rolls his eyes and Seungkwan grins. The food arrives before either of them can argue about it further, which is probably for the best.

After that, they talk.

About the food. About music. About schedules. About people they haven't seen in too long. About things that matter and things that don't. Some topics last thirty seconds and others stretch considerably longer.

Change is still an unsettling concept.

Seungkwan doesn't think that will ever change and perhaps that is the point.

He used to think accepting change meant learning not to miss what came before. As though growing accustomed to something new required him to stop wanting the old version back. As though moving forward meant admitting that whatever had existed before was no longer important.

He knows better now.

You can miss something without wanting it back.

You can remember a version of someone with affection without resenting the person they have become. You can acknowledge that a friendship has changed without deciding that it has ended.

Perhaps change does not take things away as often as he once thought.

Seungkwan thinks about the boy in the old videos, the one who had no idea how many years were waiting for him. He thinks about the person sitting across from him, older and quieter and different in ways Seungkwan still doesn't entirely understand.

They are both Hansol.

Neither one has replaced the other.

Some things are meant to be remembered. Some are meant to be lived. And some, if you're lucky, are allowed to become something new without ever becoming something less.

“Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day? What are you going to do now?” Hansol asks when they get up to leave.

“Sleep I guess.”

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