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Under the dark canvas coat, Jisung was sweating. His heart hammered against his ribs in despair, a suffocating tightness. Short of breath, he stared at the horizon, wondering how much longer he would have to wait. The sun had already set, leaving only the gray sky above his head, burying any hope of a relieved smile.
He sat on the edge of the pier's wooden bridge, too exhausted to keep his legs outstretched. He hadn’t wanted to run all the way there, but the instinct had become so powerful it was now a habit. Running had turned into the only way to relieve the unbearable sensation dwelling in his chest. Relieve was the right word; after all, it didn't matter that he completed the circuit every morning and night, repeatedly and incessantly: that feeling of abandonment never left his heart.
He ignored the stitch in his left side and gulped down air, his eyes scanning the vast, dark blue ocean. He was looking for traces of something he couldn't even name. Just looking. It might be useless, it might be in vain, but it was the only way to dull the suffering. If he didn't go there, he wouldn't find even a shred of peace. He needed the certainty of having been there, seeking a piece of comfort, even if it didn't materialize.
How long had he been repeating this ritual? He didn't remember anymore. It felt as if he had been born with that single purpose. He didn't even lament the routine; he was so absorbed in satiating the yearning to return to that deep-water monster that the thought of giving up found no room in his corrupted mind. Corrupted by longing, by pain. Stunned by images that rose to the surface, displaying that smile, those eyes, those hands cupping his face.
He closed his eyes as he felt the breeze brush against his skin, as if the wind had heard the sound of his thoughts. He inhaled the brackish smell with difficulty, unable to avoid the memory that this was the very scent that clung to Bang Chan’s coat. The smell of water and salt. On his fingertips, he could feel the texture of sandy skin; on his lips, the salty taste of a kiss. On his entire body, the warmth of a post-swim embrace on a sunny day. The sea awakened so many small memories that Jisung felt the urge to fall asleep right there, just to gather all the scattered pieces and have the complete image back.
Jisung refused to accept that the love of his life wouldn't return. Chan always came back, didn't he? That was the promise he made before walking out the door. But this time, he had left so hurt and resolute that it was hard to believe he wished to return to Jisung's arms.
The wind intensified. High above, the clouds clustered, heavy and dark. The ocean blackened in response, mirroring the sky, and its waters, once peaceful, turned turbid and fierce—an omen of a storm about to break. Jisung wrapped his arms around himself, aware that any attempt at protection would be futile against the violence of nature.
Sadness brought the memory of his love's touch, of how he used to cause shivers on his sensitive skin with soft caresses. Chan loved to trace the path from his jaw to his shoulders with his mouth, pulling aside his t-shirt collar to reach the hidden spots. But his lips were warm, soft, and seductive; the gale, on the other hand, was cold and harsh, scratching at his skin. The wind had none of the tenderness of the sailor who knew exactly how to caress him.
Tears welled up before he even realized he was crying. Salty like the sea, they ran down his cold cheeks. Perhaps the ocean was made of a multitude of them, he mused sorrowfully. All the longing, all the suffering of the world gathered in that vast expanse of water, proving that sadness was vaster than happiness.
He pulled the small bottle from the inner pocket of his coat and took one last look at the rolled-up paper inside. He checked the tightness of the cork and stroked the glass, murmuring a prayer. Still hesitant to abandon it to that immensity, his eyes scanned the waves once more. He was searching for a trace of any other vessel, something that might have been thrown into the sea with a defined purpose. After all, that was how Bang Chan used to communicate: messages delivered to the tides.
The bottle thrown by the sailor seemed bewitched; it always found its way to Jisung's feet, who was always there to receive it. I miss you, the footer of the letter usually said. The recipient would smile upon reading the scrawl of that familiar handwriting, his heart leaping in his chest. His day was made with that simple yet powerful declaration. He would spend the rest of the week with a longing that barely fit inside his body, but which became bearable thanks to those words.
However, no bottle had appeared in the last few weeks. Bang Chan had left a month ago, and there was not even a shadow of the reminders of his existence. The absence didn't stem from any tragedy at high sea—or the coast guard would have notified them—leaving only one cruel conclusion to be reached: Bang Chan didn't want to talk to him anymore.
The memory of when his boyfriend left the house after an argument surfaced in Jisung's thoughts. The reason? Chan wanted to break off their relationship because of the constant voyages he made to the sea. He seemed fixated on the idea that he made Jisung suffer by leaving for long periods and not giving him due attention. He felt trapped in the impression that he was tying Jisung to a meaningless, unsatisfying relationship, and he had come to the solution for this problem all alone: to separate them once and for all.
Jisung, overcome by anger, refused to believe what he heard. He was sure this was the result of outside poison, of some envious person spilling malicious comments about what they had.
“Someone said something to you, didn't they?” Jisung accused. “Someone’s been filling your head...”
It wasn't the first time Chan had heeded others' judgment. Jisung knew the whispers, the attempts to sink them. They were cruel and ignorant. He was fed up with those people who understood nothing about what they needed from each other.
“It’s not that,” Chan tried to calm him, his voice gentle. “I just don't want you to be tied down to me. You deserve someone who stays by your side always, and I am not that person.”
“I don’t deserve anyone but you! Why can't you see that breaking up makes no sense at all?”
Chan kept his tone low, in contrast to Jisung's uproar.
“This won't end well, so why delay the inevitable?”
Hurt realizing he was losing the argument, Jisung gave voice to an old fear that corroded him from the inside, transforming insecurity into attack.
“I think you only want to break up because you care more about the sea than about me! So go away! Go and don't come back! Never speak to me again!”
Jisung wanted to swallow the words as soon as they escaped. He knew it was a lie. Chan never cared more about the sea than about him; his wish was not to leave forever. Jisung's fury was born from pain, from the agony of watching Chan give up on something so beautiful. The regret was instantaneous, and since then, those phrases echoed within him like a torment.
He tried to go after Chan to ask for forgiveness, but he had disappeared, cutting off any possibility of a meeting. He had gotten what he screamed for: distance. Jisung didn't give up and looked for him the next day, only to find out that the sailor had already set sail, with no scheduled return.
It was from that day on that Jisung started visiting the pier with devotion.
Days passed, and the remorse grew fiercely. Chan didn't return, no matter what Jisung did. He sent no messages, no signs. Nothing. He had become the very silence of the depths. Guilt consumed Jisung, who knew he had recklessly provoked his greatest fear. He shouldn't have said those things. He should have welcomed Chan, persuaded him to abandon such a foolish idea. He could have proven that distance was a ridiculous detail in the face of such a sublime feeling.
Now, Chan was unreachable. The greatest cruelty was leaving the ocean between them, a merciless and impassable barricade. But Jisung refused to be paralyzed. Moved by unbearable longing, he began to throw bottles into the sea, hoping that one of them would reach its destination to say how much he missed him. How much he loved him. How much he begged for his return.
He didn't know the secret of the magic guiding the sailor's bottles, but he wouldn't let his ignorance stop him. He said a prayer and trusted that his intention would be enough to guide the glass through the waves. There was no option but to believe. He compensated for his lack of skill with persistence, launching one bottle a day. He asked the ocean for forgiveness for polluting it, clamoring for understanding. I need to insist, he whispered to the waters.
He refused to believe the silence was because Chan didn't want to talk to him anymore; he preferred the faith that the sailor simply hadn't received his messages. That was why he persisted. Day after day.
The first drops of rain drummed against the glass of the bottle in Jisung's hands. When he felt the wet strands stick to his forehead, he decided it was time to go back. The exhaustion was such that his body seemed to be nothing more than a burden of numb muscles.
He stood up and, on an impulse, hurled the object into the sea, without aiming for a specific destination. He watched the tiny dot disappearing into the agitated immensity, then shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He turned his back to the horizon and left.
By morning, he would be back at the beach for his usual run along the coast. Only then would he know if his message had been received, and if he would need to repeat that ritual for another day.
≋
In the morning, before the sun even awoke and cast its first rays, Jisung began the penance he had imposed on himself. With his shoelaces firmly tied, he ran from one end of the coast to the other, his eyes sweeping the landscape in search of any dissonance.
He looked for signs, for bottles, for any clue. He was delirious with the possibility of being surprised by a familiar silhouette breaking the ochre monotony of the sand. But there was nothing. Not a shadow, not a trace. The beach remained deserted, indifferent.
Overcome by exhaustion and frustration, Jisung fell to his knees, surrendering to copious tears. He could no longer bear the loneliness that slashed his chest like razors.
How long would he need to live at the mercy of fate's imprecision? Trapped in the cruel oscillation between hope and disillusionment? How much longer would he need to wait? How much longer could he endure waiting?
≋
One year ago
It was an afternoon of merciless sun when Jisung decided to leave the refuge of the air-conditioned cabin to take a walk around the deck. The thermal shock was immediate: the heat hit his exposed skin while the unmistakable sound of waves filled his ears. He needed that moment alone, far from the incessant chatter that had dominated his morning.
He contemplated in silence the vastness of the open sea, feeling the almost imperceptible sway of the yacht under his feet. Upon spotting some nearby vessels and people diving, he felt a pang of envy; they seemed to enjoy life with a lightness he didn't know. He was curious about the underwater world, but dread paralyzed him. Just imagining himself swimming without feeling the bottom, he struggled for air. The sea was a fascinating mystery, but Jisung was deathly afraid of being devoured by it.
The distant laughter of friends betrayed the fun of others. Jisung took a deep breath, sinking his hands into his pockets. The point of the yacht ride was to make him forget his problems, relax, but the plan had failed. He had tried to stem a hemorrhage with a bandage too small and, now, was paying the price for underestimating the size of his own melancholy. He knew this moment would come; the instant the mask would fall. He had struggled to participate, laugh, and interact, but he had reached the point where the pretense had exhausted his strength.
All he wanted was to go back home, barricade himself in his living room, eat junk food, and watch movies until he passed out. Repeat the cycle until he metamorphosed into a new type of fungus on his sofa. It was pathetic, he admitted, but it seemed less painful than accepting invitations just to run away from himself. At home, at least, solitude was a choice, not this terrible sensation of being alone in the middle of a crowd.
He appreciated his friends' company—he hadn't accepted the invitation for nothing—but nothing filled the void he carried in his chest. It had been a long time since he felt this disoriented. Work and studies served as a distraction, keeping his mind busy; however, on vacation, without those anchors, he was forced to face his own reflection. He was simply adrift.
Earlier, they asked if something was bothering him. He denied it promptly, unwilling to explain. They accepted the answer, despite the evident doubt in their eyes. It was noticeable that he wasn't well, but the silent pact not to bring up the subject prevailed. His friends avoided talking about his romantic disappointments so as not to awaken the ghosts of his sadness. However, it existed, whether it was being discussed or not, hovering over him like a stubborn shadow.
He reflected on this while feeling the sun pleasantly burn his golden skin. Jisung nurtured a fascination for summer; he loved the heat on the surface of his body, feeling as if the sunlight recharged his energy. Perhaps he needed just that: outdoor activities that didn't require complex reasoning or forced interactions. Walking barefoot in the sand, reading in the shade of a tree... Who knows, finally learning to swim and dive like those brave ones in the distance.
He smiled at the thought. His vacation would be fruitful if he stopped trying to fill it with exhausting obligations.
He rested his forearms on the railing, tilted his head back, and reflected on how good it was to simply be there, feeling the slow sway and the taste of the breeze.
It was when he tried to stop his cap from slipping off his head that everything went awry. A sudden movement, a sudden vertigo. He tripped over his own legs, his body arched too far, and his feet lost their grip on the smooth deck. In one instant, he was facing away from the ocean; in the next, he was swallowed by it.
Panic was instantaneous. He sought the surface, gasping from the thermal shock of the cold water. He thrashed frantically to keep his head above water, but the waves caused by the yacht broke over him, increasing his despair. His feet kicked at the void, uselessly seeking support that didn't exist—the nightmare of his phobia becoming real.
He tried to scream, but his voice was stifled by the salt water invading his throat. The sea was about to claim him when a crash in the water announced the rescue.
Someone had dived from the neighboring vessel, cutting through the distance with firm, professional strokes. The stranger held Jisung tightly, maneuvering around his uncoordinated arms with patience, keeping him from sinking and transmitting an unshakable security.
Jisung grabbed desperately onto his savior's shoulders, feeling his hot breath against his ear.
“It’s okay,” a deep, velvety voice sounded. “The worst is over. You can open your eyes.”
Feeling his eyes sting from the salt, Jisung obeyed and met the face of his hero. For a fraction of a second, he forgot everything: the drowning, the fear, where he was. The world became irrelevant. The man before him was magnificent. Sunlight reflected in the drops running down his wet hair, highlighting his pale skin and revealing a hypnotic detail: his eyes were distinct. While the left one carried the darkness of abyssal trenches, the right one shone with the limpid blue of shallow waters. The entire ocean, with its dangers and beauties, seemed to live within that bicolor gaze.
“What’s your name?” the young man asked while waiting for the lifebuoy to be thrown.
By this time, Jisung's yacht was already distancing itself, but he would be incapable of caring about anything other than the focus in front of him at that exact moment.
“J-Jisung.”
“Jisung,” he repeated, flashing a smile capable of melting icebergs. “Don't worry, I'm going to get you out of here.”
“Th-Thanks,” he murmured, dazed, unable to tear his attention away from that singular gaze.
When they were hoisted to the safety of the neighboring vessel, the group of students who had watched the rescue applauded. Chan thanked them briefly and politely, turning quickly to the figure trembling compulsively under the offered towel. His concern was exclusively for the boy he had just rescued. He led him into the cabin and provided dry clothes.
“My name is Chan,” he introduced himself as he approached, his voice soft. “I was watching you from my boat, I saw the exact moment you fell. Do you know how to swim?”
“Not at all.”
“You were lucky, then.”
“Yes. Very lucky,” Jisung laughed, a nervous, humorless sound.
“How are you feeling?”
“I'm fine,” he stammered, coughing afterward, his throat scratched by the salt. “Never been better.”
They stared at each other in silence, sharing the feeling that this incident wasn't a mere chance. It felt like a reunion. There was no logical explanation, but the energy involving them was palpable, electric. Jisung found himself wondering if the sea itself had pulled him into that embrace, forcing the connection with that man. If Chan had learned to swim just to be ready to save him that day. The pieces fitted with such perfection that it was impossible not to consider destiny.
“I'm going... I'm going to leave you alone to change. I'll be right outside, okay?” Chan announced, a bit awkwardly, and retreated toward the door, hesitant, as if it cost him to tear his eyes away from Jisung.
Alone, Jisung took his time getting dressed. He was still dazed. He felt as if Chan had brought him to the surface of his own life after years submerged. His heart leaped impatiently, yearning to breathe that pure air. How to recover from such an impact? And, more importantly: how to stop that from slipping through his fingers like water?
When he managed to compose himself, Jisung didn't stray from Chan, refusing to take his eyes off him for even an instant. The fear of seeing him disappear was as intense as the relief of having found him. Chan seemed to share the same anguish, showing difficulty in stepping away for even a second. He offered help even when unnecessary, apologizing repeatedly, a bit clumsy, as if he himself didn't believe in the strength of that connection. He watched Jisung with a paradoxical mix of confidence and shyness, behavior that reminded him of the eternal ebb and flow of the waves. It was beautiful and, in a way, supernatural.
“Do you want to come with us? We're going to build a bonfire on the beach.”
Jisung accepted without hesitation. The shadow in his chest dissipated, and the sadness from before shipwrecked in the face of that unmistakable case of love at first sight. But was it really the first? He doubted it. The familiarity was such that it seemed impossible they had met only once in this lifetime.
Before an impressive bonfire, whose flames danced against the night, Jisung let himself be carried away by the rhythm of the music sung live by the locals. The choir sang with soul:
Sailor, oh sailor!
Sailor alone!
Who taught you to swim?
Sailor alone!
Was it the ship tipping over?
Sailor alone!
Or was it the swaying of the sea?
It was there, amidst verses and sparks, that Jisung discovered that Chan was a sailor by trade, venturing on long voyages to ensure the livelihood of that community. He also discovered that he was deep and mysterious, a human mirror of the ocean itself.
Like the tide that transforms throughout the day, Jisung found himself carried by a new cycle. He loved the feeling of having become, himself, a vessel, ready to navigate that relationship toward the unknown, the unpredictable, and the incredibly beautiful.
≋
One year later
Upon returning to the silence of his home, Jisung collapsed onto the sofa and turned on the television on autopilot. He knew he needed to go to the market, visit his mother, but he couldn't find the will to do anything. Since Chan's departure, life had lost its color.
The photograph in the picture frame on the shelf was a cruel reminder of what his life used to be like before the storm. Jisung yearned to go back to being the cheerful young man in the picture, but he knew the truth: he would never be himself again while the man he loved was far away.
The crash of something knocked over by the wind snapped him out of his daydreams. He looked for the source of the sound, imagining it was something important, but froze as soon as he heard a voice on the television addressing a painfully familiar subject.
“...and I ended up finding a bottle with a very beautiful love message...” a girl was saying to the reporter extending a microphone toward her.
Jisung’s eyes went wide, his attention hooked by the curious report about people finding bottles with messages by the sea. When the camera focused on some excerpts from the letters and the girl read the words aloud, the hairs on the back of Jisung’s neck stood up.
They were his letters.
“I was moved when I read it. And sad too, because the person this letter was intended for doesn't know that the sender loves them so much. That’s why I’d like to say to this person: come home as soon as possible. The one waiting for you misses you very much,” the young girl said, with a look of mixed affection and compassion.
She appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen. In the background, the coastal landscape indicated the location where she had likely found Jisung’s bottle.
“If you also find a bottle with a message, please contact us through our website...” the reporter ended the segment, handing it back to the anchor in the studio.
The electric shock that ran through Jisung’s body slowly dissipated, giving way to an icy void. His greatest fear was confirmed: the reason Chan didn't reply wasn't just pride or distance, but because he wasn't receiving the messages. Other people were finding them first.
The sailor continued his voyage, completely oblivious to that desperate attempt at an apology. All of Jisung’s effort had been in vain. His letters were getting lost or reaching the wrong hands. Chan would never know the depth of his despair.
At dusk, when attempting to write the letter he would send the next day, he stopped when his eyes welled up. He was desolate. The image of his bottles, his innermost feelings, exposed in the hands of strangers on television, was the last straw.
Overcome by bitterness, he crumpled the paper and hurled it against the balcony door, missing the trash can. He wanted nothing more to do with pen and ink; he resolved to sleep early to escape reality. Nothing could restore his faith in that ridiculous idea. Chan wouldn't come back, because he would never know how much Jisung missed him.
As he sank into his bed—unbearably vast and cold without Chan’s presence—Jisung spent the next hours awake. Try as he might to relax, a sensation that he had left something undone suffocated him. It was the letter, he knew. His message remained incomplete.
How could he give up so easily? Wasn't this why he got up every morning? would he give up on the love of his life just because chance had put other people in the way? Where had his courage gone?
He felt mocked by fate. Poor regretful boy, the walls seemed to whisper, lost his love to the sea. How to compete with such a force of nature? But hadn't she herself pushed him into Chan's arms that summer? Was the ocean furious now, punishing him for breaking the heart of her favorite son? Why didn't the waters help him rescue the only person he wished to speak to, allowing him the chance for redemption?
Unable to deal with that emotional turmoil, Jisung rose in a burst of energy and marched to the living room, turning on the lights to rescue the crumpled paper. Upon finding it, he smoothed the sheet on the table. However, staring at the scrawls of his own despair, frustration hit him again. With a sharp gesture, he grabbed the sheet with both hands, ready to tear it in half and end it once and for all.
“Don't do that. Please.”
The soft voice made Jisung’s body freeze. A subtle tremor ran through every fiber of his being. Slowly, he turned around, coming face to face with the presence that had invaded his dreams and thoughts for months. The person to whom he had destined every letter, every clamor. The one who held his heart in the palm of his hand and yet insisted on setting him free.
There, right in the middle of his living room, stood the man capable of taking his breath away even in absence; the cause of his affliction and his anxiety. Chan seemed to have materialized out of thin air—or from the sea foam—smiling like in his most perfect delirium. It was that same crooked smile, reserved only for the moments when they were alone.
“Chan...” Jisung stammered, stunned, his teary eyes fixed on the bicolor gaze before him.
“Did you miss me?”
Jisung wanted to laugh. It was a typical Chan question: unnecessary and full of presumption. A rhetorical question, whose answer—a desperate “yes”—was too obvious. How could he joke when Jisung’s suffering was so visible? Did he not realize how much the distance hurt? Was he unaware of the proportion of the damage, the pain he inflicted?
“Where have you been?” Jisung demanded to know, his voice trembling. “Why did you take so long?”
Although he wanted to throw himself into his beloved's arms, Jisung remained static, fearing that any sudden movement might dissipate that sweet fantasy. He could very well have fallen asleep during his internal war, and the sight before him could be nothing more than a cruel illusion projected by his unconscious. It wouldn't be the first time his mind played tricks on him.
Chan approached with caution, respecting Jisung’s alert state, and placed a heavy fabric bag on the table. The impact produced the unmistakable clinking of glass against glass. He removed one of the bottles from inside, and Jisung recognized it instantly.
“Sorry for the delay. I only found out about them recently. I would have come immediately, but... I had to rescue them first,” Chan whispered, his soft expression turned toward the bottles, as if recalling the journey to find them. “I can't let strangers keep what belongs to me, don't you think?”
“Selfish,” Jisung cursed in a choked sob.
Chan finally gathered Jisung into a tight embrace, enveloping him with affection and firmness. It was then that the reality of the moment hit Jisung: in his dreams, nothing had ever been so vivid. They lacked the strength, the texture under his fingers, the specific scent, the warmth of the breath, the softness of those lips on his. No delirium had come close to faithfully replicating the way Chan touched him.
Upon realizing that this was no longer a trick of his imagination, Jisung awoke from his inertia. He reacted with desperate fervor, clamoring for more contact, closing every millimeter of space between them. His body claimed every centimeter of Chan's, distributing kisses over exposed skin, breathing the same air, squeezing the flesh between his fingers as if he wanted to distill it until only the essence remained. He wanted to fuse it to his own, making their souls indivisible so as never to run the risk of separation again.
“I missed you so much,” Jisung said between clumsy kisses, not caring about the tears bathing his face.
Chan pulled away slightly, just enough to wipe the wet face of his beloved with his thumbs, murmuring a string of apologies that sounded fast and soft, like the fluttering of wings of a flock of birds. But Jisung didn't care. Chan didn't need to be forgiven for anything. There were no culprits, just two insecure men. One more foolish than the other, both terrified at the idea of losing a love that, in truth, had never been at risk.
“When did you arrive? What happened...?” Jisung's voice came out hoarse, choked with crying, but Chan understood him, as always.
Even when the sentences came out rushed and incoherent, even when Jisung poured out his thoughts like a storm—something only he knew how to do—the sailor understood him.
“Calm down,” Chan asked, brushing away the hair that fell over Jisung's eyes. “I arrived a little while ago.”
He cast a quick glance at the clock before returning his full attention to the face of his most precious treasure. If not for the firm support of his arms, Jisung would have crumbled, his legs betrayed by weakness in the face of that unexpected appearance.
“I didn't want to wake you.”
“How did you know about the messages? Did any of them reach you?”
“I heard people commenting about them at another port.”
“You mean you didn't receive any?” he asked, the hurt showing in his voice.
“I received a few. I threw them back into the sea. I didn't want to read them.” The confession came low. “It was right in the first few days, when I was still very hurt by our fight... I was wondering if maybe it wouldn't be better for us to stay apart for a while.”
Jisung grunted in disapproval, his jaw locked, making clear his aversion to Chan's ridiculous idea.
Chan rested his forehead against Jisung's in an intimate gesture of surrender and continued:
“When supplies ran out, I docked at the neighboring port and heard stories about love messages found in bottles. At first, I thought they were talking about one of mine that had gone astray. But when I paid attention...” He traced a soft path with his fingertips across Jisung's face. “I realized they weren't my words, but yours. And I felt an overwhelming jealousy. Because strangers were reading what you wrote for me.”
Jisung remained silent as he listened to the account, alternating his gaze between Chan's bicolor eyes and the movement of his lips.
“I went after every bottle to rescue your letters. And what you wrote, Jisung...” he sighed, emotion choking his voice. “Every word...”
Chan captured the other's lips, diving into an urgent and burning kiss.
That kiss ignited Jisung and brought him back to life, just like the day he was saved from drowning. With that touch, Chan brought him back to the surface. He felt every cell, every nerve ending awakening, gaining vigor; a million whispers of pleasure running through his blood at effervescent speed. His mouth conveyed accumulated longing in breathless movements, in mute pleas for more, finally finding peace imprisoned in those arms.
“I love you so much, Jisung. This distance tore me apart. I am not willing to stay away from you ever again.” Chan sealed the promise with an intense gaze.
They stumbled toward the bedroom amidst laughter and tears, for Jisung could barely believe the reality of that moment. Chan had returned. Returned to him, to his life, bringing a declaration worth more than all the precious stones hidden at the bottom of the sea—more valuable, even, than if all of them were gathered into one.
He let himself be flooded by touches that were familiar, yet seemed to explore him with the freshness of the first time. And with the urgency of the last. Chan knew him perfectly, from head to toe, inside out, by heart; yet, he touched him as if he needed to re-record every detail on his fingertips and in the depths of his memory, for the pure pleasure of remembering.
Chan mapped him devotedly, as if his eyes were blindfolded, guided only by the instinct of someone who knows the way home. He expressed his enchantment upon rediscovering old marks, invisible to the eye but palpable to the touch, drawing from both deep sighs that mimicked the sound of waves breaking on the shore.
It seemed impossible to imagine that, that very morning, Jisung had felt terribly anguished, alone, on the brink of madness.
Chan possessed the power to reintegrate everything that seemed lost just by his presence. It was as if all the fragmented pieces of Jisung had landed in his hands instead of being lost in the ocean's vastness—just like the bottles he had rescued from drifting.
Calm, at last, succeeded the storm.
Jisung inhaled the fresh fragrance of rain, feeling that, after so long, he was finally breathing for real again. He dove into one more kiss—tasting of salt and redemption—passionate and sweeping. He felt complete, free from the cracks that heartache and suffering had carved irregularly into his emotions.
Chan knew exactly how to fix him. How to make him find pure air. How to give him back his vital functions and the spark in his eyes.
Jisung no longer felt like he was sinking. Not like that.
The only thing he would drown in from now on would be the full conviction of the love he felt for Chan.
“I love you too,” he returned in a murmur that blended with the soft sound of a gentle wave, sealing the affectionate meeting of water and sand, silencing the despair and extinguishing, once and for all, the distance between the two lovers.