What if I miss you for the rest of my life?

Five years after losing Lee Chaeha, Ju Taeseon has learned how to live with the absence— but never how to live without him. Time has softened nothing; Chaeha's laughter, kindness, and the words Taeseon was too late to return remain as vivid as ever. And perhaps the cruelest part is realizing that he never stopped waiting for someone who could never come back. What if he misses Chaeha for the rest of his life?

Or, Ju Taeseon never moved on from Lee Chaeha's tragic death.

Notes:

no beta :p

I RECOMMEND listening to : What if I miss you for the rest of my life by Janine Berdin while reading this sequel, the song speaks so much for this one so please listen ><

REMEMBER : this is a sequel to my au, When Irises Bloom so it is advisable if you read it first before continuing ! also this story does not follow the original story line, it is completely based off of the author's imagination 🐼 ps. english is not my first language so pls bare with me ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

It had been five years since Lee Chaeha died.

Five. Long. Unforgiving years.

Five years since Hanahaki had taken the life of the man who had once sat across from Ju Taeseon every morning.

Five years since purple iris petals had become something Taeseon could no longer look at without remembering him.

And five years since researchers had finally developed a treatment for Hanahaki— one that could save a person's life without requiring to take away their memories of the person they loved.

The news had spread quickly. People celebrated it as a medical breakthrough.

For families who had feared losing someone, it was a miracle.

For Taeseon, it was something else entirely.

A cure had come. Just too late.

Five years should have been enough time to forget someone.

At least, that was what people said.

Time heals. Time softens memories. Time makes the pain easier to carry.

Perhaps that was true for some people.

But Taeseon had never forgotten. Not even once.

It had been five years since Ju Taeseon had an investigator by his side.

And it had been five years since he had allowed anyone to take Chaeha's place.

Not because the prosecution office hadn't offered.

They had. Several times.

“Prosecutor, you can't keep handling everything alone.”

“You should have an investigator assigned to you.”

“At least consider someone temporary.”

Taeseon's answer had always been the same.

“No.”

It wasn't that he didn't need an investigator. He knew he did.

There were cases that demanded more people than one man could reasonably handle. There were nights when he stayed until the building was almost empty, surrounded by files and evidence that would have been easier to organize with someone beside him.

But every time someone mentioned assigning another investigator, one thought immediately came to mind.

It should be Chaeha.

And because it couldn't be Chaeha, Taeseon didn't want anyone.

His investigator's desk remained empty.

It had been five years, yet no one had touched it.

The chair remained pushed beneath the table exactly where Chaeha used to leave it.

The drawers still contained old office supplies.

There were faint marks on the desk from years of use.

Dust had gathered along the edges. No one dared to clean it.

At first, people asked. Eventually, they stopped.

The younger staff members who joined the office years after Chaeha's death learned about the empty desk through quiet conversations.

That's Investigator Lee's desk.
Don't touch it.
Prosecutor Ju doesn't want anyone assigned there.

And that was all.

No one questioned it anymore.

Taeseon continued working.

He solved cases. He prosecuted criminals.

He stood in courtrooms and spoke with the same steady voice he had always possessed.

He won case after case. His reputation only grew.

From the outside, nothing had changed.

Perhaps he had even become more composed.

More distant. More difficult to approach.

But the outside world didn't see everything.

They didn't see the nights when Taeseon returned to his apartment and sat alone in the darkness.

They didn't hear the quiet sobs he tried to swallow into his pillow.

They didn't see him waking at three in the morning because he'd dreamed of a familiar voice calling his name.

They didn't know how many times he had reached for his phone before remembering there was no one left to call.

They didn't know that sometimes, even after five years, he still instinctively bought two cups of coffee.

Taeseon had been given one week to grieve.

One week.

And then he returned to work.

Because grief was something a person could have privately.

But Prosecutor Ju couldn't.

Prosecutor Ju had responsibilities.

Cases. Deadlines. Court hearings. People who expected him to remain composed.

So he did.

He became the same cold, controlled man everyone knew.

And no one saw what happened after the office lights went out.

Visiting Chaeha's grave became a routine.

Nobody talked about it. Nobody needed to.

They simply knew.

Every morning, Taeseon went to work.

Every evening, when he could, he visited the cemetery.

Sometimes he brought flowers. Sometimes he brought nothing.

Sometimes he spoke.

Sometimes he simply sat there in silence.

It didn't matter.

He always went.

Today wasn't different. At least, not yet.

Taeseon arrived at the office early that morning. He still had a meeting before he could visit Chaeha.

The morning passed normally.

Until a client spoke up.

“Prosecutor, respectfully, shouldn't we find you an investigator to help with this case—”

“Sir.” Assistant Song Haneul's voice cut in before the client could continue.

“I'm sorry, but you shouldn't be making decisions about how our office handles its personnel. We'll decide how we proceed with the case.”

The client looked slightly embarrassed.

Taeseon didn't react.

“No.” His answer was simple.

“I don't need an investigator.”

It wasn't entirely true.

He needed one.

He simply didn't need another one.

Because no matter how competent the person was, no matter how kind or intelligent they might be, Taeseon knew he would eventually compare them to someone who wasn't there anymore.

No one would know his coffee order without asking. No one would quietly leave lunch on his desk. No one would tell him to eat when he forgot.

No one would sit across from him late at night simply because they didn't want him to work alone.

No one would call him Taeseon with that same quiet voice.

No one would be Chaeha.

And Taeseon had long ago accepted that there was no replacement for someone who was never meant to be replaced.

“You may leave now, Mr. Kim.”

The client bowed and left. The door closed.

Haneul looked toward Taeseon.

He knew. He always knew.

“Prosecutor, I'll just get something from Prosecutor Yoon's office.”

Taeseon didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Haneul quietly left.

The office became silent.

Taeseon walked toward his desk.

Everything remained exactly as it always was.

Pens arranged neatly. Case files stacked in precise piles. Documents waiting to be reviewed.

His desk was clean.

Controlled. Organized. Just like him.

But one drawer remained different.

He opened it.

Inside, tucked carefully into the corner, were three small purple petals.

They had dried years ago.

Their edges were delicate and slightly curled.

Yet their purple pigment had somehow remained.

Taeseon stared at them.

Five years.

He had kept them for five years. He had never asked himself why.

Perhaps because they were the last physical pieces of Chaeha he could still hold.

Perhaps because throwing them away had felt like throwing away part of him.

Or perhaps because, despite everything, Taeseon was still a man who couldn't bring himself to let go.

He picked up one petal between his fingers.

It was unbelievably light. Fragile. Almost weightless.

And somehow, holding it made five years disappear.

He didn't remember the hospital first. He didn't remember the funeral. He didn't remember the grave.

He remembered Chaeha alive.

He remembered a cup of coffee being placed on his desk.

“Good morning, Prosecutor.”

He remembered Chaeha sitting across from him during late nights.

He remembered being told to eat. He remembered the quiet laughter.

The sleepy voice.

The first time Chaeha had called him Taeseon.

The smile he'd tried to hide.

The way Chaeha had looked at him.

Five years later, Taeseon still remembered all of it.

Perhaps that was why he kept the petals.

They weren't reminders of how Chaeha died.

They were reminders that Chaeha had lived.

The following morning, Taeseon stopped by the café before work.

It was routine.

Or at least, it had become one.

He stepped up to the counter.

“Two coffees.” He said it without thinking.

The words were already out before his mind caught up.

He stared at the order.

Two.

For five years, he'd occasionally done this.

He would take both cups. He would walk into the office.

And one of them would sit untouched on his desk.

Today was no different.

He carried both cups into the prosecution office.

Yoon Gyuho noticed immediately. He always did.

Gyuho looked at the second cup.

Then at Taeseon.

He didn't smile. He didn't tease him.

He simply said, “You're still waiting for him.”

Taeseon stopped walking.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he looked at the coffee in his hand.

“I know he's not coming back.”

The words were quiet.

But saying them aloud hurt more than he expected.

Gyuho's expression softened.

“That's not what I meant, Ju.”

Taeseon looked at him. Gyuho continued.

“You're not waiting for him to walk through the door.”

He nodded toward the second coffee.

“You're just still living like he should be there.”

Taeseon looked away.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe some part of him had simply refused to move forward.

Not because he believed Chaeha would return.

But because moving forward sometimes felt too much like leaving him behind.

A week later, it was Chaeha's fifth death anniversary.

Taeseon woke earlier than usual. He dressed in silence.

Before leaving, he picked up a bouquet of white lilies.

Chaeha had always liked them.

It was almost ironic. He had loved lilies.

Yet it was iris petals that had come from his lungs.

Taeseon drove to the cemetery.

The morning was quiet.

He placed the lilies beside the grave and stood there for a long moment.

Then he sat down.

“You know…”

He stared at the name engraved on the stone.

“I still remember your coffee order.” A small smile appeared.

“You'd probably laugh at me for that.”

Silence.

“I still buy two sometimes.”

He looked down.

“Actually…” He sighed.

“More than sometimes.”

The smile disappeared.

“I don't know why I keep doing it.”

He paused.

“Maybe because I got used to you being there.”

The wind moved gently through the trees.

Taeseon looked at the flowers.

“Researchers found a cure.”

His voice became quieter.

“Five years ago, it would've saved you.”

He laughed once, without humor.

“Funny, isn't it?” His eyes lowered.

“Everyone was so happy when they announced it.”

“I was happy too.”

He swallowed.

“Just not for the reason they thought.”

He stayed there for a long time. Eventually, he spoke again.

“I hope you would have liked it.”

Another pause.

“I think you would've.”

Taeseon stood.

“I'll come again tomorrow.”

He hesitated. Then corrected himself.

“...I'll see you tomorrow.”

As though Chaeha were still there. As though he could hear him.

That night, Taeseon stopped by the restaurant they used to visit after particularly long days at the office.

The place looked almost exactly the same.

He sat at their usual table.

For a moment, he almost expected Chaeha to sit across from him.

He ordered. Then, without thinking, ordered the dish Chaeha used to like.

He stared at the empty chair.

“You'd probably tell me I'm ordering too much.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. The table remained empty.

He finished his meal alone.

By the time Taeseon returned to Chaeha's apartment, it was late.

He entered quietly.

The familiar scent of iris remained.

Five years had passed.

And somehow, it was still there.

He set the food he had brought on the kitchen counter.

Then walked straight toward the bedroom.

The room had remained almost untouched.

The shelves. The books. The bed.

The quiet.

He sat down and reached for the picture frame beside the bed.

A photograph of the two of them.

Chaeha was smiling. Taeseon wasn't.

Not properly, anyway.

But there was something soft in his expression.

Something he hadn't understood back then.

Taeseon traced his thumb along the edge of the frame.

“I miss you.”

The words were quiet. There was no one to hear them.

“It's been five years.”

His eyes began to sting.

“And somehow…”

He looked at Chaeha's face in the photograph.

“...everything still hurts.”

He laughed quietly.

“People say five years is a long time.” He shook his head.

“It doesn't feel long.”

“It feels like yesterday.”

His voice became softer.

“Sometimes I still think I'll hear you knocking on my office door.”

He closed his eyes.

“I still expect coffee on my desk.”

“I still expect you to tell me to eat.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“And sometimes…” He looked back at the photograph.

“I forget you're gone.”