sunshine

year i. freshman year - eight years ago.

you were running late.

the kind of late where every sound feels louder, every hallway longer and every second heavier than the one before. your arms were full of books, hair rebelling whatever attempt you’d made that morning to tame it, shoelaces barely knotted, flapping with each frantic step.

the universe, it seemed, had chosen you as its punchline that day. 

you rounded the corner too quickly — 

and crashed. 

a collision. sudden, sharp, inevitable. 

the impact should’ve sent you sprawling, your books should have flown, pages fluttering ike startled birds, your knees should have burned, your pride should have splintered on the polished floor. 

you braced for it. ready to hit the ground. ready for the blow, the embarrassment, the inevitable chorus of laughter. 

but the fall…never came. 

instead, a hand caught you.

a steady arm slipped around your back, halting the world in one smooth motion. and then — warmth. not from him. not at first. but from the coffee seeping between you, dark and staining across both uniforms like an unspoken truce. 

both of you stilled. a held breath suspended between two strangers.

you looked up, ready to apologize, to spill every flustered syllable that tripped over your tongue — and then you met his eyes. soft. brown. steady. like someone had melted sunlight into them.

your apology curled in your throat, unspoken. 

then…he laughed. not mocking. not sharp with annoyance or frustration. but something light, unbothered. the kind of laugh that makes the edges of a day soften. 

“you look like a tiger,” he said, eyes glinting with amusement. 

you blinked, cheeks blooming with embarrassment, “excuse me?”

“fierce,” he clarified, smile growing as if it had been waiting for this moment, “chaotic. cute. and ready to pounce.”

you stared, caught somewhere between offense and confusion, “you don’t even know me.”

his smile shifted, gentler, “yet.”

just one word. small. but somehow it opened a door neither of you had noticed until then.

and that was it. 

the beginning.

you didn’t recognize it at the time – how coffee-stained fabric and a laugh you weren’t prepared for would thread itself through the years that followed. 

how a silly nickname would echo in your memory long after the stain faded from the uniform. how a moment you wished you could redo would become the moment you’d never trade. 

the beginning of something you had no language for then — something tender, something inevitable. 

the beginning of you and him. 

the beginning of  na jaemin. 

and maybe the universe wasn’t conspiring against you. maybe, just this once, it was holding your shoulders, turning you around and nudging you toward exactly where you needed to be. 

year ii. sophomore year. seven years ago.

by the time sophomore year rolled around, jaemin had become the constant in your life — your chaos and your calm. 

he was the first person you looked for in a crowded hallway and the last voice you heard before you fell asleep. he’d grown into your rhythm, somehow —harmless at first, comforting later, and before you realized it…essential. 

inside jokes were traded in whispers between classes, half-stolen lunches shared on stairwells, the quiet of his presence settling beside you when words felt too heavy to cary. 

he was home, even when everything else felt temporary.

it happened during P.E. — the pacer test, of all things. 

the gym smelled like sweat and echoing sneakers, the sound of the beeping machine bouncing off the walls, followed by the most cursed piece of background music ever made sounding something between the gates of hell and a funeral song for teenagers’ dignity. everyone was groaning by the seventh round — except jaemin. grinning from ear to ear, determined to keep pace with mark, chenle and jeno like he was training for the olympics instead of surviving tenth-grade gym class. his hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink and still he kept going. 

“jaem, you’re gonna overdo it!” you called, half-laughing, half serious, because you’d learned to read him by then. you knew when the spark in his eyes meant something more fragile beneath. 

“relax, tiger,” he threw back between breaths, chin lifted like a challenge to the universe, “i’ve got this.”

spoiler alert: he did not. 

one second, he was sprinting. the next — he wasn’t.

you saw it happen in slow motion. his foot faltering, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the gym floor, then the sickening sound of his body collapsing across the glossy floor. for a moment everything went silent. the beeps stopped. the laughter stopped. everything stopped. 

and you — you were already running.

“jaemin!”

his name ripped out of your throat before you even knew you were moving. the world blurred around you — shouts, gasps, the teacher calling for help. but all you saw was him. you hit your knees on the floor beside him, hands shaking as you reached for his face. his skin was cold, clammy, pale. his lashes fluttered once, then stilled. 

“jaem, hey–come on, this isn’t funny–wake up,” you whispered, voice trembling. you could feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm but it wasn’t enough. it wasn’t steady. 

you followed as they carried him down the echoing hallway, past wide-eyed classmates and through the doors that led to the nurse’s office. your legs felt numb, your hands wouldn’t stop trembling but you kept close. you sat beside him while they checked his pulse, took his temperature, placed a cool cloth on his forehead. you didn’t move. you couldn’t move. 

the nurse asked you to return to class, twice, but you only shook your head, “i’m not leaving him.”

so you stayed. hands clenched around the sleeve of his jacket like it was th only thing keeping you grounded. the bright lights blurred your vision. the smell of antiseptic stung your nose. yet you counted each rise of his chest, matched your breathing to his as if you could keep him tethered just by being there. minutes stretched and the clock ticked too loudly, like it mocked your heartbeat.

when his lashes fluttered — brown eyes blinking open, hazy, confused — your relief came all at once, crushing your ribs from the inside. and then, you were scolding him. 

“idiot,” you whispered, tears burning your throat, “you scared the hell out of me.”

he gave a weak smile, finger brushing yours, a touch so gentle you could’ve mistaken it for a dream, “sorry, tiger,” he rasped.

you didn’t smile back. fear still clung to you, stubborn and shaking.

“don’t tiger me,” you muttered, arms  crossing in defense of the ache in your chest, “you collapsed, jaemin. you—god, what were you thinking?”

he chuckled softly, wincing as he tried to sit up and you immediately pressed a hand to his shoulder, pinning him gently to the pillow. 

“hey,” he murmured, his voice small now, “it’s fine. it’s just…my heart.”

your anger faltered, “your heart?”

he hesitated, exhaling slowly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. then, quietly, he said, “it’s always been kind of…weak, i guess.”

you blinked, “what do you mean?”

“ever since i was a kid,” he starts, “i used to get tired really easily. mom used to keep me inside when the other kids played outside. said my heart couldn’t take too much,” he laughed faintly, like he’d practiced making it sound small, like he’d learned early how to minimize his pain so others wouldn’t carry it.

for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. because now you understood – the caution in his mother’s lingering glances, the way he pushed himself too hard, too often, as if trying to outrun the body that betrayed him, watching others live louder because he couldn’t. 

so you said the first thing that came to mind – soft but certain. a promise.

“guess i’ll just have to be stronger for the both of us.”

his head turned toward you, eyes wide, and then…he smiled. not the teasing grin he always wore, not the mischievous spark that came before a sarcastic remark, but something gentler. something real. 

that was the moment. 

the moment jaemin’s heart stuttered for a completely different reason. because you were sitting there with your messy hair and your trembling hands, still refusing to leave him, still looking at him like that. like you were holding all the warmth in the world and offering it to him without hesitation. 

and for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of how weak his heart was because he knew exactly what, or who, had stolen its rhythm. 

year iii. junior year. six years ago. 

prom night. 

the night was supposed to feel like magic — all glitter and promises and slow dances under neon lights. but instead, you were standing outside the gymnasium, dress wrinkled, plastering fake smiles while your heart was sitting somewhere heavy and quiet in your chest. 

your date, lee haechan, had stood you up. no call. no text. just silence and the faint humiliation of watching everyone else arrive hand-in-hand while you stood alone under the flickering hallway light, pretending it didn’t sting.

you were seconds away from leaving. from slipping out the side doors, ditching the glitter and noise and disappointment — when you heard his voice. 

“there you are, tiger.” 

you turned. jaemin was standing there in a black suit and a crooked tie, his hair a little messier than usual, a shy, hesitant smile tugging at his lips like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to find you here. his eyes scanned your face, then the empty space beside you, “you look like you could use a dance.”

you laughed weakly, a sound caught somewhere between relief and heartbreak, “go back to your date, jaemin.”

“eh,” he shrugged, “she’s having a lot of fun with jeno.” 

then he held out his hand — palm open, waiting. 

“come on,” he said softly, his tone threaded with warmth, “you’re not getting away that easily.”

you hesitated, your breath trembling as you looked at him – at the boy who was your safe space. then, slowly, you placed your hand in his. he pulled you up gently, the movement natural, careful. 

his eyes flickered briefly to your wrist, where a corsage should’ve been. you saw the way his expression changed. the way his smile faltered just a little before he wrapped his arms around you, tight and certain, holding you close enough for your head to rest against his shoulder. 

you didn’t need to tell him what happened. he didn’t ask. he just held you. and that was more than enough. 

the noise of the gym bled through the walls — muffled laughter, bass trembling through the floorboards but in that small space between you, everything was still. 

you pulled away first, blinking fast, trying to keep your tears at bay. and then he was reaching into his pocket, “wasn’t sure what color your dress was gonna be,” he said quietly, holding something out between you, “but i took a guess.”

an orange corsage. peonies. 

it wasn’t perfect — a little wilted, petals slightly bruised from being shoved into his jacket, but it was beautiful. because it was him. and it matched your cream colored dress perfectly.

you stared at it, throat tight, “jaem, you didn’t have to–”

but he was already slipping it gently around your wrist, his fingers brushing your skin just long enough to make your heart stutter. he smiled, that soft, boyish kind of smile that could undo you in a heartbeat, “can’t have you going to prom without one, tiger.”

you looked up at him then. the boy who always showed up when no one else did, who always knew when to be gentle and when to make you laugh. and for the first time that night, you smiled.

he smiled back. that quiet, unspoken kind that reached his eyes. then, with your corsage now circling your wrist and your fingers tangled with his, he led you inside. 

the gym was a blur of cheap lights and pastel balloons. the air smelled faintly of floor wax and vanilla body spray. the shiny wooden floor squeaked under your heels as the dj switched songs without rhythm or mercy. the disco ball hanging overhead spun lazily, scattering fractured light that somehow made everything look cheaper but somehow, softer too. 

it shouldn’t have felt special. but with jaemin beside you, it did. 

you danced like idiots at first, laughing through songs that didn’t deserve slow movements — songs that were too loud, too fast, too 2000s. he dipped you dramatically to baby, spun you off-beat to teenage dream, almost tripping over someone’s forgotten purse, both of you laughing so hard your sides hurt. and when the dj, in all his questionable wisdom, played candy shop by 50 cent, you both just froze. then, in perfect unison, both of your burst out laughing.

“no way,” you said, your hand pressed to your mouth.

“this is so romantic,” jaemin said with mock seriousness, straightening his tie like he wasn’t seconds from cracking up.

you shoved his shoulder, bubbles of laughter pouring out of you. 

“slow dance with me, tiger.”

and so you did. you slow danced beneath that ridiculous disco ball, to a song that made no sense for the moment, to a rhythm that wasn’t really there. his hand found your waist, yours found his shoulder, and despite everything — the cheap lighting, the sweaty gym, the noise — it felt perfect. 

it shouldn’t have worked. but it did. 

you looked up at him, the lights flickering gold in his eyes and for a moment, the world fell quiet. 

he smelled faintly of citrus and fabric softener – clean, familiar. safe. his thumb brushed against your hip, slow and absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. you could feel your pulse everywhere, loud and nervous. maybe it was the music, or the warmth, or the ache of wanting something you didn’t understand yet, but your heart stumbled as he leaned in. 

just a little closer.

your breath caught. 

the laughter, the lights, the chaos — all of it blurred until there was only him. 

for a heartbeat, you could see it — the maybe of it all. 

the what if. 

the almost. 

and then—

“I’LL TAKE YOU TO THE CANDY SHOP!”

chenle’s ridiculous voice shattered the air, breaking whatever fragile spell had been holding you both still. he jumped between you, completely oblivious, grabbing one of your hands and one of jaemin’s swinging them wildly. before you could react, mark and jeno joined in, laughing, shouting, turning the moment into a clumsy group dance that had no rhythm, no grace and entirely too much noise. 

you laughed too, a little too hard, a little too fast, like laughter could undo what almost happened. like if you laughed enough, maybe your heart would stop racing. 

jaemin laughed with you, but when your eyes met through the blur of spinning friends and terrible music, his expression softened.

just for a second.

it was that look, tender and fleeting, the kind that said maybe someday. 

but not tonight. 

the rest of the night was full of laughter and cheap music and friends who didn’t know they’d interrupted something fragile. and later, when you looked back, you’d remember that fleeting second before the noise returned — when the world had gone still and his eyes were all you could see. 

year iv. senior year. five years ago. 

the end was coming. 

you could feel it in the air, thick and heavy, like the quiet before a storm. it clung to the walls of the school, to the murmurs between classes, to the glances you shared with friends who all pretended not to be terrified. it was in the way teachers started speaking softer, in how every conversation seemed to circle back to the future, in how laughter in the hallways carried an edge of goodbye. 

everyone was talking about college, about plans, about leaving. and even when you smiled and nodded along, your chest felt tight, like there was a clock ticking somewhere inside you, one only you could hear. 

the pressure came in waves – the weight of choices, the blur of expectations, the whisper that everything you knew – the laughter, the classrooms, the crowded hallways, him — was all about to change. 

you woke up tired, no matter how much you slept. the ache behind your eyes pulsed quietly, steady as a heartbeat and your body felt heavier with each passing day. the exhaustion, the nerves, the endless current of what now and what if wrapped around you until it was hard to breathe.

you brushed it off, the way you brushed off most things. everyone’s tired. everyone’s anxious. everyone’s body complained sometimes. 

so you pushed through the tiredness, forced laughter into your voice and yourself to hold on until graduation. just a few more months, you thought. then everything would feel lighter. then the weight in your chest would fade. 

by then, you’d know what path to take. what college to go to. 

by then, you would accept that change was inevitable. 

by then, it would all be a little clearer. 

but right now….

right now….

you broke. 

the room was quiet except for the sound of rain against your window, a soft steady rhythm that filled the spaces between your shallow breaths. you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, textbooks and crumpled notes scattered like wreckage around you, the glow from your desk lamp flickering faintly against the walls. 

your hands were pressed against your temples, eyes burning, chest tight. you didn’t even realize you were crying until the tears began to blur the words on the page in front of you. 

you didn’t want to call anyone. didn’t want to explain. you just wanted the noise — in your head, in your heart – to stop. 

then came the soft knock. 

“tiger?”

his voice. gentle. familiar. you forgot he was coming over today to help you study for literature. you tried your best to wipe the tears away before he could see. but it didn’t matter. jaemin took one look at you — your red eyes, trembling hands, the exhaustion carved into your face and his expression softened instantly. he crossed the room in three steps and sat beside you on the bed. he didn’t ask what’s wrong, didn’t push. just waited. quietly. 

your voice came out small, shaking, “i can’t do it jaem,” you were barely whispering, “everyone’s talking about the future and i don’t even know what i want. i feel like—like i’m falling behind, like there’s this clock ticking inside me and i can’t keep up.”

the words came out in pieces, scattered, uneven, raw. all the things you’d been holding in. the pressure, the fear, the loneliness. and when you couldn’t speak anymore, you just cried. quiet, helpless tears that soaked through his shirt as your buried your face in his chest. 

jaemin didn’t try to fix it. he just wrapped his arms around you, one hand gently threading through your hair, the other tracing slow, steady circles across your back.

“i’m scared,” you whispered into him, “i don’t want everything to change.”

he sighed softly, his chin resting on your head, “hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “it’s okay to be scared.”

“it doesn’t feel okay.”

“i know,” his words were a hum against your skin. calm. unshakable, “but we’ll figure it out. like we always do.”

you lifted your head slightly, eyes glassy, “you promise?”

he smiled, small and sure, “i promise.”

for a long time, neither of you spoke. the rain kept tapping at your window, your breathing finally slowing, syncing with his. his heartbeat was steady against your ear, grounding and constant. and somewhere in that stillness — that fragile kind of peace that only existed when it was the two of you — you found a new kind of quiet.

“let’s have a word,” you murmured, voice thick from crying, “something that means…no matter how many things change, i’m here for you.”

he was quiet for a second, thinking. then, softly, he said, “orange.”

you sniffled, blinking, “orange?”

“yeah,” his voice was gentle, a faint smile curving his lips, “it’s warm. and bright. and kind of messy. like us.”

you let out a shaky laugh, the smallest hint of smile tugging at your mouth, “okay. orange.”

he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering just long enough to make your heart ache.

“orange.” he repeated. 

it became your word — the one that didn’t need explanation. whenever the world felt too loud, or life too heavy, or silence too long, orange meant i’ve got you.

it meant you’re not alone. 

it meant i love you, even if neither of you said it out loud. 

you fell asleep like that — your breath finally even, your body relaxing against him. jaemin stayed still, not daring to move. he watched the way your lashes brushed your cheeks, the faint furrow between your brows slowly fading as sleep found you. you looked so peaceful, so calm. like the storm that had been living inside you had finally gone quiet. his heart ached in that sweet, unbearable way — full of everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. 

he brushed his thumb lightly over your wrist, right where your pulse fluttered and whispered into the quiet, “orange, tiger.”

it almost slipped out then — the other thing. the heavier truth sitting on the edge of his tongue. 

but you were asleep. 

so he smiled softly, his hand resting over yours and thought —

it can wait a little longer. 

year v. the summer before college. four years ago. 

it was the perfect summer. one last breath before the real world began. before dorm rooms and degrees and distance. before everyone scattered. 

you told yourself it was just a trip to the beach. just five friends. one car. and too many playlists. but deep down, you knew it was a goodbye wearing a prettier name. 

the air was thick with salt and sunlight as the car tore down the coastal highway, windows down, wind catching your hair. jaemin sat in the passenger seat with his arm dangling out the window, sunglasses reflecting the blue horizon. chenle was on your left, a bag of chips in hand, enjoying the summer air. mark sat to your right, flipping through the playlist, insisting on finding the perfect song for the drive. and jeno — steady, calm, unshakable, jeno — had one hand on the wheel, humming softly to the song playing. 

it should have felt simple. it should have felt like any other road trip. the kind that would end with photos and laughter and sand still stuck in your shoes weeks later. but your chest was heavy. 

because just yesterday, everything had changed. 

the doctor’s office had smelled like disinfectant and rain — clean, sterile, unfeeling. you remembered nodding, smiling, thanking them for their time like it was some kind of meeting you were late for. 

the word terminal sat quietly in the corner of your mind, heavy and patient, waiting for you to stop pretending you didn’t hear it. but you didn’t stop pretending. not today. not in this car. not with them laughing beside you, singing badly to old songs and taking turns to stick their heads out the window like overgrown children. 

you weren’t going to ruin this. 

you weren’t going to let the end make its way into something that still felt like forever. 

the airbnb was small but warm. the kind of place that smalled like salt, sunscreen and cheap detergent. the walls were off-white and peeling in places, the furniture mismatched, but no one cared. 

jeno was the first to claim a room, quietly slipping inside. mark began strumming his guitar almost instantly. jaemin filmed snippets on his camera — the view from the balcony, your laugh in the background — his voice teasing you from behind the lens. chenle wandered through the small kitchen, quietly checking if there was enough food for everyone.

you smiled, half-present, half-somewhere else. 

by sunset, the five of you were gathered on the beach, the sky bleeding orange into pink. the bonfire crackled softly, shadows dancing across your faces as the tide whispered against the shore. 

it felt almost cinematic — five teenagers caught in a perfect snapshot of time. all pretending they weren’t growing up too fast. mark strummed his guitar lazily, the melody sure and warm. chenle sat beside him, humming along, his voice soft, carried away by the ocean breeze. the scent of salt and smoke wrapped around everything, clinging to your clothes, your hair, your memory.

“so,” jeno said, grinning, “what’s everyone’s plan after this summer?”

chenle perked up immediately, marshmallow stick in hand, “mark and i got into the same music program!,” he said beaming, “i’m gonna sing, he’s gonna write the songs. we’re gonna be famous, you’ll see.”

mark laughed in the middle of strumming his guitar, shaking his head, “yeah, right. we’ll be broke artists eating ramen in a shoebox apartment, but sure, famous.”

chenle gasped dramatically, tossing a marshmallow at him, “optimism, hyung!”

everyone laughed — even jaemin, who was poking at the fire with a stick, his face glowing orange in the light. the sound was soft and fleeting, carried away by the waves before you could hold onto it.

when the laughter died down jaemin’s voice slipped through the quiet, calm and sure, “i got into a program overseas, english literature.”

it wasn’t a surprise to you. you’d been there for every step of it — every late-night draft, every half-crumpled essay, every version of his personal statement that he swore he hated until you convinced him otherwise. you’d sat beside him in cafés, coaxing him through his panic when he said he wasn’t good enough, when he said there were a thousand better writers than him. you’d stayed up with him the night he hit submit, both of you wide-eyed and giddy, a little scared but full of hope.

you remembered the morning the acceptance email came — how he’d burst into your room, his hair a mess, phone in hand, shouting your name like he’d just been given the universe. how you’d cried harder than he did, throwing your arms around him, the two of you laughing through the tears.

you’d cried again later, but for a different reason — happy, because he was finally going to chase the thing that made him light up in a way few things did. sad, because he was going to do it without you. you’d spent days pretending you were fine, telling him how proud you were, how excited. you meant it, you did, but the truth sat quietly beneath all that joy, heavy and secret.

and now, sitting there on the sand, with the fire painting him in gold and shadow, it hit you all over again. this was real. he was really leaving. but the ache in your chest felt different this time.

you looked at him — the curve of his smile, the way the flames flickered in his eyes — and instead of sadness, you felt something close to relief.

relief that he figured it out. relief that he was going somewhere better, somewhere full of stories and chances and tomorrows. relief that he didn’t have to stay here long enough to see what was coming for you.

he didn’t have to watch you fade.

jeno turned toward him, surprised, “overseas?”

jaemin nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “yeah, i figured…i’ve always wanted to write. maybe it’s time i tried.”

chenle smile, soft and fond, “that’s really cool, hyung. what’s next, jeno starting a company and becoming a ceo?”

jeno chuckled from where he sat across from you, leaning back on his hands, “i actually am staying here. got accepted for a business course. my parents want me to help with the family stuff eventually.”

“classic,” mark said with a grin, nudging him lightly with his foot, “the responsible one never leaves.”

then, all eyes turned to you. 

you hesitated, fingers tugging at the end of your sleeve, the firelight flickering against your face, “i’m… not going anywhere,” you said, your voice smaller than you intended.

chenle tilted his head, “what do you mean?”

“i’m taking a year off,” you said quietly, watching the fire sway, “i don’t really know what i want yet. everyone else seems to have it figured out and i just…don’t.”

the words came out softer than you meant and for a moment, you regretted saying them at all. but then jaemin looked at you — that familiar, gentle look and said, “that’s okay, tiger,” he said softly, his voice steady, certain, “you don’t have to know right now. you have all the time in the world.”

you met his eyes. and you wanted to break. scream into the void. get on your knees and beg whoever was in charge out there to change your prophecy. but you didn’t. you just smiled. 

the others went back to talking — about dorm life, roommates, concerts they’d attend together. the freedom they couldn’t wait for. you watched them. their faces lit by firelight, laughter spilling into the salty air and your chest ached. you wished you could freeze this. this warmth. this noise. this feeling of belonging. 

you wished time would stop just long enough for you to catch your breath. 

you sat quietly, listening to their voices fade into the waves and for a second, you almost believed you could outrun what was coming. 

the sunset bled orange over the ocean that night. you sat there for a long while, watching the sky burn and fade. it looked endless — that kind of endless that hurt to look at. you pressed a hand against your chest, felt the faint, uneven rhythm there, and wondered if you’d ever see a sunset like this again. 

you were so, so tired. 

later that night, the house was alive with laughter. the boys were in the living room, arguing over cards and snacks, their voices echoing against the walls. jaemin’s laugh was the loudest — that familiar, unrestrained sound that could pull a smile out of anyone.

you laughed too, for a while. but it didn’t last.

the ache in your stomach had been growing for days, twisting deep and sharp. and when the dizziness came again, sudden and suffocating, you excused yourself quietly, smiling so no one would follow. the moment the bathroom door closed, your knees hit the tile. the dizziness worsened. then the nausea. then, without warning, the taste of iron filled your mouth. the sound of it, soft, wet, terrible, echoed in the small room, painting the porcelain red. 

blood. 

your vision swam. the room tilted. you clutched the edge of the toilet and tried to steady your breath, but panic clawed it’s way up your throat. you hadn’t wanted a reminder. you hadn’t wanted proof that maybe the reason why it was so hard to imagine a future was because you weren’t going to have one. not right now. not yet. not when you were still pretending everything was okay.

the door creaked open. 

“y/n?”

you froze. jeno’s voice. calm, steady — always steady. 

before you could warn him, he was already inside. his face went still — eyes wide, lips parting in shock as he took in the scene. the blood. your trembling hands. the fear you hadn’t had time to hide. 

“dont–” you rasped, your voice breaking, “don’t call anyone.”

he didn’t listen at first. he moved toward you, grabbed a towel, crouched down, “what the hell–you need to go to a hospital–”

“i’ve been,” you said, voice shaking, “yesterday.”

the world went very quiet then. the only sound was the sea outside, waves rolling somewhere beyond the walls. 

he looked at you, really looked, and the horror in his eyes nearly undid you. 

“what do you mean?” he whispered.

you swallowed, the words barely coming out, “i’m sick, jeno.”

you couldn’t say dying. you couldn’t make it real like that. but the way his breath hitched told you he understood anyway.

you looked down at your shaking hands, “they said it’s terminal. i don’t know how long…maybe years, maybe less. i didn’t want to tell anyone. i can’t. not yet.”

“y/n…” his voice cracked, breaking on your name, “you weren’t going to tell us?”

“please,” you said, meeting his eyes, desperate, “don’t tell them. not jaemin. not anyone. i just need this summer. i just need to feel normal for a little while longer.”

jeno exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. his jaw clenched — his eyes glassy. and then, finally, he nodded.

“okay.”

you blinked, unsure you heard right, “okay?”

“i won’t tell them,” he said quietly. “not if you don’t want me to. but you’re not going through this alone, you hear me?”

you nodded weakly, the tears coming before you could stop them. he didn’t say anything else. just helped you up, steadied you when your knees wobbled, wiped the blood from your chin with careful hands.

from that night on, jeno stayed closer. 

not in a way that drew attention — just soft, invisible gestures.

he carried your bag without being asked. found excuses to sit beside you — he noticed things. the moments you winced, the way you’d go quiet in between jokes, the way you’d clutch your side when you thought no one was looking. he didn’t say much. just made sure you ate. that you rested. that you smiled, even when it was hard. 

he didn’t tell anyone. 

jaemin noticed. 

he just didn’t see the truth. not the way jeno did. 

he saw the way jeno started lingering beside you. how jeno always seemed to know what you needed before you asked. how the two of you would sometimes slip away from the group, speaking in whispers, sharing quiet glances he wasn’t a part of. how you leaned into him sometimes, subtle, fleeting — the way you lean into him.

and jaemin, who’d always been so good at reading you — suddenly found that he couldn’t.

he didn’t ask about it. he couldn’t. because some part of him already knew the answer he didn’t want to hear. so he smiled. he teased you. and then he buried it. 

buried the ache. the questions. the almosts. 

he buried the memory of you asleep on his chest whispering orange. 

he buried the memory of the disco ball scattering silver across your face. 

he buried the way his heart skipped every time you laughed, every time you looked up at him like he was sunlight. 

he buried everything that came with that coffee stain. 

because maybe, he thought, maybe you were already someone else’s orange now. 

year v. the airport. four years ago.

the day came faster than you thought it would.

airports always smelled like beginnings but that morning it smelled like endings. like coffee and jet fuel and all the things you couldn’t say. 

the drive there was quiet — jaemin humming softly along the radio, his suitcase tucked neatly in the back, your hand resting limp in your lap. the city blurred past in streaks of gray and gold. every few minutes he’d glance at you, like he wanted to say something but didn’t. you’d do the same. but neither of you did. 

the silence was gentle, almost fragile. neither of you wanted to break it. 

when you finally pulled up to the airport, the clock on the dashboard read 9:51 AM. you stared at it for a moment, like you could freeze time if you looked long enough. 

you wanted to tell him then. you wanted to say that the world had given you an expiration date. that every heartbeat felt heavier now. that each breath was something you’d started counting. 

but you couldn’t. 

he was chasing something beautiful. and you couldn’t be the one to turn that into a burden. so instead, you forced a smile as you stepped out of the car.

“need help with your bag?”

he laughed softly, shaking his head, “you? you’d drop it in two seconds.”

you rolled your eyes, “rude. i’m stronger than i look.”

“i know,” he said quietly, that familiar gentleness threading through his one, “you’re the strongest person i know.”

inside the terminal, everything felt too bright, too cold. the kind of place where goodbyes were meant to be quick. but you couldn’t seem to make yours small. you walked beside him in silence. fingers brushing occasionally, both of you pretending not to notice. his flight number blinked in bold letters on the overhead screen. 

departure: 11:15

every minute felt like a countdown. 

at the gate, he turned to you, his eyes a little too shiny, “i can’t believe i’m really leaving.”

you tried to smile, but your throat was already closing up, “you’ll be amazing, jaem. you always are.”

he exhaled, his breath shaky, “i don’t know how to do this without you.”

and just like that, the dam broke.

you didn’t remember who reached first — only that your arms were around each other, clinging like the world would crumble if you let go. his face pressed into your shoulder, your tears hot against his neck. 

it wasn’t the kind of hug you gave a friend. it was the kind that said please don’t forget me. 

it was the first time in five years that you’d have to say goodbye. the first time you wouldn’t be able to call him up when the world got too loud. the first time he wouldn’t be a short drive away. you pulled back just slightly, enough to look at him — his eyes red, his cheeks damp, his lips trembling with the same words you were afraid to say. 

and then, without thinking — you kissed him. 

it wasn’t planned. it wasn’t perfect. it was soft and trembling and full of every unspoken thing between you — every late-night almost, every look that lingered too long, every heartbeat you’d both tried to ignore. 

he kissed you back. gently at first. then with that desperate, aching kind of tenderness that came from knowing this was goodbye. 

when you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless — your forehead resting against his, your tears mixing with his. you smiled through it, a quiet, trembling smile, and whispered, “orange.”

his lips curved faintly, breaking into something halfway between a laugh and a sob, “orange.”

you took a step back, wiped your eyes, and nudged him toward the gate. “go. before you miss your flight.”

he hesitated, eyes locked on yours, like walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever do. then, slowly, he turned. you stood there, heart pounding, a hand to your aching chest, watching as he handed over his ticket and started toward the jet bridge.

he looked back once. you waved, tears already streaking your cheeks. he smiled — that same soft, boyish smile that had ruined you from the start — and kept walking.

but with every step he took, you broke a little more.

and then, just before he disappeared through the gate, he stopped. 

turned.

and suddenly, he was running — back down the corridor, through the murmurs of strangers, his bag swinging wildly behind him.

you barely had time to breathe before you were in his arms again, holding you like he never meant to let go.

“i’ll be back soon, okay?” he whispered against your hair, his voice cracking on the last word.

you nodded into his chest, your hands fisting in his jacket. “okay.”

you didn’t tell him that soon wasn’t a promise you could keep. you didn’t tell him that by the time he came back, it might already be too late. you just held him tighter, memorizing the warmth of him, the sound of his heartbeat, the scent of his cologne — everything you’d ever loved about him condensed into one impossible moment.

and then he was gone.

the last thing you saw was the back of his head as he disappeared past the gate — the boy you loved walking into a future you wouldn’t be part of.

year vi. the first year of college. three years ago.

the clock on jaemin’s desk read 11:37 PM. the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the radiator and the sound of rain tapping against his dorm window. his phone sat in front of of him, screen glowing softly — your contact name lit up like a ghost he couldn’t reach.

call it again? it asked. 

he did. for the fifth time that week. 

it had become a habit. something he couldn’t unlearn. every sunday, no matter how hectic classes were, no matter how late it got, or he was out with his new friends — he’d call you. 

it was your promise before he left. same time, every week. 

you’d talk about everything and nothing. for months, your voice had filled the quiet corners of his dorm room — soft, teasing, familiar. the one constant in the blur of essays, time zones and homesickness. you’d tell him about the latest movie you’d watched, about jeno’s new obsession with mint ice cream, about chenle’s new song, about how quiet the world felt without him in it. 

and he’d tell you about the new city. the cobblestone streets, the little cafe that reminded him of home. his new friends, renjun and jisung, who he’d met in the library. sometimes he’d even read you things he’d written — soft, clumsy, words that he’ never dare to show anyone else. 

you’d listen. always.

he’d hear your quiet laugh through the speaker and everything would feel right again. 

but then you missed one sunday.

then another.

at first, he tried to be rational. he told himself you were probably busy, probably tired. maybe you were out with friends, maybe your phone had died, maybe time zones were just cruel. he replayed your last message over and over like a prayer. 

tiger 🧡🍊: talk to you soon, promise. 

but as the second week passed with nothing — no texts, no calls, not even a read receipt. something inside him started to twist. 

it wasn’t like you. 

you always answered. even if it was just a sleepy voice at 3AM saying five minutes, jaem i’m awake. 

you were the one who reminded him when he forgot, the one who said orange at the end of every call, soft and sure, like a promise that no ocean could drown. and he knew, better than anyone, that when you went quiet, it wasn’t because you didn’t have anything to say. it was because you were hiding something. 

he’d seen that version of you before — the one that smiled when you were breaking. the one that insisted everything was fine when it wasn’t.

and god, he hated being so far away.

so that night, with rain spilling down the window and his essay abandoned, half-finished on his desk, he called again. 

the ringtone buzzed once. twice. three times. then finally—

click.

“y/n?” he said quickly, sitting upright, relief spilling through him like oxygen.

but it wasn’t your voice that answered. 

there was a pause — the faint shuffle of someone adjusting the phone, and then, quietly, “hey, jaem…it’s jeno.”

his stomach dropped. for a second, he thought he’d misheard, “jeno?”

“yeah.”

the sound of waves came faintly through the line — that same low hum of the sea near your place. you’d always called him from there when you couldn’t sleep. he’ picture you sitting on the boardwalk, legs dangling over the edge, phone pressed to your ear. 

but you weren’t there on the other end of this call.

“where’s y/n?” jaemin asked, trying not to sound panicked, “is she okay?”

“she’s asleep,” jeno said after a pause, “didn’t mean to pick up — her phone kept buzzing. figured i’d answer before it woke her.”

“asleep?” jaemin tried to sound casual, but the unease in his voice betrayed him, “it’s morning there.”

“she’s been tired lately.”

tired.

the word lingered. jeno’s tone was gentle, cautious, too practiced for comfort. 

jaemin forced a laugh that came out brittle, “you’ve been hanging out with her a lot, huh?”

jeno didn’t answer right away. then, quietly, “yeah, just keeping her company. things have been…rough.”

that word — rough — made something twist deep in jaemin’s gut. he couldn’t tell if it was worry or something uglier. he hated not knowing things. especially when those things were about you.

he sank back into his chair, trying to keep his voice even, “rough, how?”

“she just…has a lot going on. you know how she is. always acting like she’s fine.”

he did know. that was what scared him most. 

silence hummed on the line for a beat too long. jaemin swallowed hard, “you sound close,” he said finally, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

jeno gave a short, almost weary laugh, “we’ve always been close, jaem. you know that.”

jaemin nodded, even though jeno couldn’t see it, “yeah, yeah, i know.”

but something about the way jeno said it — that quiet steadiness, that easy warmth — made jaemin’s chest ache. 

for a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak. he wanted to ask if you ever talk about him. if you mention your calls or the inside jokes or the stupid word orange.

if you ever thought about the airport. 

the kiss. 

the one thing neither of you had talked about since it happened. it wasn’t even that it was awkward — it was just…unspoken.

you both had cried, you both had clung too tightly, and in the blur of goodbyes and flight calls and tears, your lips had found each other. it was desperate and trembling and full of everything you’d never said out loud. and then, when you pulled away, both of you just smiled through it — breathless, eyes glassy, pretending. 

you whispered orange. he whispered it back. like a coward — always hiding behind that one word. 

and that was it. 

no explanations. no labels. just a quiet, mutual understanding that it happened because tensions were high and hearts were weak and goodbyes were hard. 

at least, that’s what he told himself. 

but some nights, when the world went still, he’d still feel the ghost of our lips and wonder if you were pretending as much as he was. 

“anyway,” jeno said, snapping him out of it, “i’ll tell her you called.”

jaemin forced a small smile that didn’t reach his voice, “yeah. please do.”

“she’ll call soon,” jeno added after a beat, “don’t worry so much.”. 

but jaemin could hear it — the faint sigh behind the reassurance. the softness in his tone. the kind of softness that belonged to someone who cared too much. he swallowed, his voice catching on the question that had been sitting in his throat since summer, “are you…and her…?”

jeno exhaled, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, “you’re asking if there’s something between us?”

“i’m not—i mean,” jaemin stopped himself, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. this wasn’t his place. “forget it.”

“it’s okay,” jeno said, voice quiet, “you’re not the first person to wonder.”

that didn’t help. 

jaemin stared at the floor, his pulse loud in his ears, “and?”

another pause. and then, softly, carefully, “she’s important to me, jaem.”

something in the way he said it made jaemin’s grip on his phone tighten, his voice coming out smaller than he meant, “yeah, well…she’s important to a lot of people.”

jeno hummed, low, noncommittal, “you should get some sleep. it’s late over there.”

“tell her i—,” he stopped himself before the words miss her could leave his mouth. 

“tell her i’ll call again next sunday.”

“i will,” jeno said. 

and then the line went quiet. 

jaemin stared at his phone long after the call ended. the reflection of his own face stared back — eyes tired, mouth drawn tight. 

he should've felt relieved. you were okay. you were home. you had people looking out for you. but all he could feel was the hollow ache of distance. you were there, with jeno. and he was here, an ocean away, holding onto promises that suddenly felt like memories. 

he shut his phone off and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to shake the feeling off. but he couldn’t. because it wasn’t just worry anymore. it was jealousy — raw, unexpected, ugly. 

and he hated himself for it.  

he needed to get out. the walls of his dorm felt too small, too suffocating, too full of memories that didn’t belong here. so he grabbed his jacket, shoved his phone in his pocket, and left. 

the rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time he stepped outside. the campus glowed under streetlights, puddles reflecting fractured light like broken glass. the nearest pub was only a few blocks away — a student favorite. loud, warm and messy enough to drown out his thoughts. 

that’s all he wanted — noise. something to blur you out. he walked there half-numb. half-hoping the rain would wash the ache out of him. it didn’t.

the pub was crowded — laughter spilling over the music, glasses clinking, the air thick with cheap beer and perfume. he slid into a corner booth, ordered whatever the bartender recommended and stared at the condensation dripping down the glass. 

he wasn’t used to this — the emptiness that came after missing someone. it wasn’t dramatic, just…quiet. a slow, dull ache that settled behind his ribs and refused to leave.

he didn’t notice her at first. 

not until she was standing beside his table, holding her drink with one hand and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with the other. 

“is this seat taken?”

he looked up. she had dark hair, sharp eyes softened by the dim amber light and a smile that looked like it knew more than it let on.

“uh—no,” jaemin said, clearing his throat, motioning to the seat across from him, “go ahead.”

“thanks,” she slid in, her glass clinking soflty against the table, “you look like you’re trying to forget something.”

he blinked, “what?”

she tilted her head, smiling faintly, “you’ve been staring at your drink for ten minutes. that’s either heartbreak or a failed exam. maybe both?”

a reluctant laugh escaped him, small, startled, “something like that.”

“i’m giselle,” she said, leaning forward, extending her hand.

her smile was light, easy — and for a moment, the ache in his heart didn’t feel so unbearable. 

across the world, you sat in the back of jeno’s car. 

the trunk propped open to face the sea, a blanket draped around your shoulders, the night air blowing cool against your cheek. the sea breeze made it easier to breathe — or maybe it just made you feel like you still could. 

the phone buzzed again on the space between you.

jaemin 🍊🧡calling…

you looked at it for a long moment before whispering, “answer it.”

jeno turned to you, brow furrowed, “you sure?”

you nodded, tightening the blanket around yourself, “if you dont…he’ll keep calling.”

he hesitated, his eyes flickering from the screen to your face — pale and drawn, your lips slightly cracked, your breaths too shallow. you’d gotten worse these past few weeks, though you’d stopped saying it out loud. it was in the way you moved slower now. the way you winced when you thought he wasn’t looking. 

“just don’t tell him, okay?” you murmured, “please, jeno.”

jeno exhaled through his nose, quiet, resigned, before picking up the call.

you closed your eyes as soon as you hear jaemin’s voice on the other end — rushed, anxious, full of something that twisted painfully in your chest. you could hear him asking for you, his voice frayed around the edges. 

jeno’s hand brushed lightly against your knee — a silent reminder to breathe. 

“she’s been tired lately,” jeno said carefully, eyes on you the whole time. 

that word. tired. you almost laughed. it was too small, too human a word for what you felt now. for the way your body betrayed you more each day. for the way your vision sometimes blurred into static when you stood too fast. 

jeno’s thumbed brushed against your knuckles as he continued, “you know how she is. always pretending she’s fine.”

you could picture jaemin on the other end — sitting somewhere in his dorm room, his brow furrowed, his voice softening in that way he always did when it came to you. and you missed him so much your chest ached. 

jeno tried to keep the call steady — a short, harmless conversation that wouldn’t raise alarms. but jaemin’s voice wavered with something else — jealousy, confusion, lonelines. 

“you’ve been spending a lot of time with her,” he said. 

jeno froze for half a second, “yeah,” he said quietly, “just making sure she’s okay. things have been…rough.”

that word too. rough. your eyes burned but you didn’t look away from the ocean. the waves were easier to face than the thought of jaemin sitting miles away, wondering why you weren’t picking up. 

when the call finally ended, the silence in the car felt heavier than before. you sat there, staring at the waves, trying to blink the tears out of your eyes before they fell. 

jeno set the phone down gently beside him, “he’s gonna worry more now.”

you pulled the blanket tighter, “he already does.”

he turned to you then, his gaze soft, full of soemthing heavy and unspoken, “you should tell him.”

you shook your head, “i can’t.”

“y/n—“

“i can’t jeno,” your voice cracked this time, “he’s happy. he’s doing what he loves. i can’t take that from him. if he knew, he’d come home. he’d give it all up.”

jeno didn’t argue. he just sighed, his breath fogging in the cool air. after a moment, he reached over and gently tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders, making sure it covered you completely. his fingers brushed your jaw when he pulled a strand of hair away from your face. 

“you’re freezing,” he muttered. 

you smiled faintly, your voice teasing, “you know he’s gonna kill you, right?”

jeno blinked, then let out a quiet laugh, “yeah, probably."

“thanks for covering for me.”

he looked at you, really looked at you — at the hollow beneath your eyes, the faint tremor in your hands. his voice was low when he spoke, “you don’t have to thank me, just…don’t make me lie to him forever, okay?”

you nodded, though both of you knew it was a promise you might not get the chance to keep. 

and then sunday rolled around once again. 

and for the first time in weeks, you were the one who called. the phone rang twice before he picked up, his voice sharp with surprise, almost breathless.

“tiger?”

you smiled into the call, pretending not to hear the relief in his tone, “hey, jaem.”

there was a pause — short, but full of meaning. you could almost see him, hand running through his hair, the corner of his mouth lifting like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“you finally remembered me,” he teased lightly, but his voice cracked on the last word. 

“please, i could never forget you,” you said, keeping your tone light, steady. it took everything in you not to cough mid-sentence, “you’re my sunday night ritual, remember?”

he let out a small laugh, that familiar sound you hadn’t realied you’d been starving for, “yeah, well, you broke our streak. i was starting to think i’d have to file a missing person’s report.”

“sorry,” you murmured, “things have just been…a lot.”

he hummed sofltly, “jeno said.”

you froze, just for a second, “oh?”

“he said you’ve been tired lately,” his voice softened, careful now, “you okay?”

you forced a small chukcle, “i’m fine. just burnt out, maybe. you know how it is.”

you said it like it was nothing — like your body wasn’t turning against you, like your lungs weren’t tightening more each day. like you weren’t terrified of what tomorrow would bring. 

jaemin sighed, that soft, concerned sound you’d memorized, “you sure?”

“positive.”

another pause. you could hear him settle into his chair — the faint creak of it, the rustle of paper. “okay,” he said finally, deciding to believe you. or maybe just pretending to.

“anyway,” you said quickly, changing the subject, “tell me about you. how’s school? still romanticizing libraries and late-night coffee?”

he laughed, “you make me sound like i’m in a movie.”

“you basically are.”

“fine, then. let’s see… classes are good. the city’s colder now. oh, and—” his tone shifted slightly, lighter now, “i met someone.”

your heart stilled, “someone?”

“yeah.” you could hear the small smile in his voice. “her name’s giselle.”

you gripped the edge of your blanket, keeping your voice even. “giselle.”

“mhm. she’s in my literature seminar. we met at this pub a few blocks from campus,” he laughed softly, almost sheepish, “she called me out for staring at my drink too long, said i looked like someone who came to forget.”

you smiled faintly, your chest tightening in that quiet, painful way, “sounds like she’s bold.”

“she is. in a good way, though. she’s… easy to talk to. feels kind of like i’ve known her longer than i have.”

you nodded, though he couldn’t see you, “she makes you smile.”

he hesitated, then laughed again, softer this time, “yeah, i guess she does.”

you wanted to be happy for him. you were happy for him. but underneath that, something else lingered — a small, sharp ache. because for the first time since that airport goodbye, it felt like he was moving on.

and you couldn’t.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing your voice to stay steady, “she sounds lovely, jaem.”

“she is,” he said, then quickly added, “but she’s not you, tiger.”

the words hung between you — warm, aching, dangerous.

you smiled into the silence, blinking back the tears burning behind your eyes, “i’m glad you’re doing okay.”

he hummed softly, “i’m not, really. but I’m trying.”

“good,” you whispered, “keep trying.”

he was quiet for a moment, then said gently, “you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

you hesitated, your heart breaking at how sincere he sounded.

“of course,” you lied.

he sighed in relief, like he’d been holding his breath, “okay. i just… worry about you.”

“i know.”

“orange?” he said softly.

you smiled, the tears finally falling, “orange.”

the call ended a few minutes later, but you kept the phone pressed to your ear long after the line went silent — listening to the faint hum, pretending it was still his voice.

across the ocean, jaemin stared at his ceiling, your word still echoing in his chest. he didn’t know why it hurt this much to hear it this time.

and you sat on the boardwalk alone this time, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead of you, whispering to no one at all—

“orange.”

but this time, it didn’t mean i’m here.

it meant i’m trying to be.

year vii. the second year of college. two years ago.

one year.

and somehow, you were still here.

maybe the universe was still giving you time for honesty.

you’d gotten used to measuring time differently — not in semesters or seasons but in checkups, prescriptions and quiet victories. the new medication helped, at least for now. your body still ached, still betrayed you, but you could walk longer, breathe deeper, laugh without feeling like it might be the last time.

you told yourself it was enough — enough to keep pretending, enough to keep living. 

so after countless times of jaemin inviting you to visit, and a hesitant go signal from your doctor — you finally said yes.

the city was different from how he described it — louder, colder but beautiful in the way foreign places are when you’re seeing them through the eyes of someone you love. the air was sharp with autumn, the streets glittering faintly with rain. you’d never been this far from home, but the thought of seeing him again steadied you. 

you spotted him before he saw you — his hair a little longer, his shoulders broader, a camera slung around his neck. he looke exactly like you remembered and nothing like you remembered, all at once. 

“tiger!”

and there it was — that grin. that too-wide, boyish grin that never quite grew up. 

you smiled before you could help it, the sound of that word loosening something tight in your chest. he ran toward you through the crowd, all ungraceful excitement and hugged you before you could even drop your bag. 

it startled you at first — the warmth, the familiarity, the way he still smelled faintly like citrus and clean laundry. he hugged you so tightly you could barely breathe though you didn’t dare tell him that, not when you could feel his heartbeat against your cheek for the first time in years.

he pulled back, hands still on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. 

“you’re really here,” he said softly, pulling back to look at you. 

you’ve tried to look like the girl he used to know — brushed your hair the same, wore the kind of sweater he once said was very you. but there were some things you couldn’t hide. like how thin your wrists have gotten or how every shirt now hung off your frame like it didn’t belong. or how your smile didn’t reach quite as far as it used to. 

but as always, he didn’t ask questions. 

he only said, “god, i missed you.”

you laughed softly, a little relieved, “we called every week.”

“yeah,” he said, his grin faltering just a little, “but it’s not the same.”

you wanted to tell him you knew — that you’d missed him in a way that screens couldn’t fix, that your body had memorized the absence of him. but instead, you just smiled.

“lets go,” he said, taking your bags before you could protest, “you’ve got so much to see.”

you met her that afternoon.

giselle. 

she was cool, polite, effortlessly charming — the kind of girl who didn’t need to try to be liked, because the world already wanted to love her. she hugged you tightly like you’d known each for years. her perfume was soft, expensive, a little vanilla, a little smoke. 

“its so nice to finally meet you,” she said brightly, “jaemin talks about all the time.”

you smiled, unsure what to say, “he does?”

“are you kidding?” she laughed, “i practically know your entire life story. high school besties, him spilling coffee all over your shirt, junior prom — he told me about the orange corsage, by the way, that’s adorable."

you glanced at jaemin, who stood by the counter pretending to busy himself with mugs. he shot you a sheepish grin. giselle didn’t notice. she was already talking again, offering to show you around campus, pointing out cafe’s she thought you’d like. she laughed at your jokes, asked about the beach trips, about jeno.

and the worst part was, you liked her. 

she fit into jaemin’s world the way you never could. she knew the professors he talked about, the cafe’s he loved, the rhythm of the life he’d built without you. she laughed at all the right moments, touched his arm when she teased him, finished his sentences like she’d known him a lifetime.

you couldn’t even be mad about it.

because she wasn’t trying to take your place. 

she already had her own. 

you nodded and smiled in all the right places, but you could feel it, that quiet, invisible space growing between you. he was building a life. a beautiful one. and you — you were just visiting. 

so this — this is what it feels like to come back home and realize it’s not yours anymore. 

on the second night, his apartment was full — warm light spilling from the kitchen, laughter echoing down the narrow hallway, the faint scent of takeout and cheap wine hanging in the air. you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, half-listening, half-floating. 

renjun was perched on the arm of the couch, gesturing wildly as he retold the story of his disastrous poetry reading. the one where he’d accidentally read the wrong piece and gotten halfway through before realizing it was a breakup letter. jisung couldn’t stop laughing, practically wheezing into a pillow, while jaemin kept refilling everyone’s glasses, eyes bright and crinkled with joy. 

he looked so, so happy. 

it should’ve made you happy too. 

but it didn’t.

you laughed when you were supposed to, smiled when eyes were on you. you even clinked glasses with jisung and pretended that this was exactly what you wanted — to see him thriving, surrounded by light, surrounded by people who understood the version of him you no longer knew how to reach. 

but underneath it all, your heart ached in that quiet, suffocating way that came when you realized how much had changed without you. 

you sat there, a ghost in the corner of the life he’d built and tried not to think about how far away you felt, even while sitting right next to him. 

and then came his teasing on the third night. 

you were all seated in the boy’s shared living room again — the same couch, the same lazy laughter, the same city hum pressing faintly through the windows. giselle was sitting comfortable on jaemin’s lap, her hand curled loosely around his wrist, the two of them so effortless together it hurt to look at. 

“so,” jaemin said, leaning back againsts the couch, smirking in that way that used to mean trouble, “how’s jeno?”

you raised an eyebrow, “he’s fine, i guess. why?”

“come on,” he said, leaning forward to nudge your knee playfully, “you two still do that thing where you act like you’re just friends but everyone knows you’re pining for each other?”

you blinked, caught off guard, how could he have possibly been so wrong?

“what?”

renjun snorted. jisung laughed. giselle giggled behind her glass. 

and you almost scoffed. they’d never even met jeno. 

but jaemin just kept smiling, completely oblivious to the weight behind his words, “you can tell me, tiger. when are you two finally going to confess? we all know it’s bound to happen eventually.”

you forced a laugh, your throat tightening, “you’re ridiculous.”

he shrugged,that teasing glint still in his eyes, “hey, i’m just calling it like i see it.”

you wanted to tell him he was wrong. that what he saw wasn’t love.

that it was jeno sitting on the floor beside your bed, steadying your breathing when the pain got too sharp. that it was jeno holding your hand during checkups you couldn’t face alone. that it was jeno promising he wouldn’t tell as he wiped the blood from your lips quietly, gently, like it didn’t scare him — like he’d already accepted the ending you refused to say out loud. 

but how could you tell jaemin any of that?

how could you ruin this version of you that existed in his head — whole, steady, alive?

so you smiled. you let him tease. you let everyone laugh, even as your chest burned. and you told yourself maybe it was better that he thought that. maybe it was kinder to let him believe you were loved in some other, simpler way. 

later that night, when giselle finally left, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, whispering something that made him smile and the boys had drifted off to their separate rooms — it was just the two of you. 

the apartment was quieter now. softer. the kind of silence that felt heavy, like it knew what was coming. you sat by the window, the city lights spilling through the glass. he was cleaning up bottles, humming softly under his breath, the shuffle of his slippers against the tile.

when he came back, he looked tired but content, “you okay?” he asked, leaning against the doorway. 

you nodded, “yeah. just…tired.”

he smiled faintly, that same worried crease between his brows, “you always say that.”

you looked at him then — really looked. the soft mess of his hair, the way the city light from the window halos his silhouette, the way his eyes found yours like they always did, even after all this time. 

and for a moment, you forgot how much it hurt to be here. you forgot how far gone you already were. because right then, sitting in the warmth of the life he built without you, you could almost believe you still belonged in it. 

the night felt like it was holding its breath. 

“hey,” you said quietly.

jaemin turned from where he was stacking dishes in the sink, eyes soft, “yeah?”

you hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve, ”can we….hang out tomorrow?” you asked, “just us?”

he paused, straightening slowly, towel still in his hands, “just us?”

you nodded, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve, “yeah, like old times.”

something in his face shifted then — something small but sharp. 

“y/n,” he said after a moment, voice careful, “you’ve met my girlfriend, my friends…you know we’re all planning to take you out to that pub tomorrow?— and now you want it to be…just us?”

the air between you thinned. 

you opened your mouth, then shut it, “it’s not like that,” you said, voice trembling despite your best effort, “i just…miss you. that’s all.”

he let out a laugh — not cruel, but tired, heavy in a way that told you he’d been holding back a lot more than he let on, “you haven’t changed at all, huh?”

you froze, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling like it hurt, “you still hold on too tightly. to things. to people. to how life used to be.”

your chest tightened, “i just wanted one day, jaem.”

“one day won’t change the fact that things are different now,” he said, a quiet frustration slipping into his voice, “we’re not kids anymore. change isn’t bad.”

your throat burned, “you think i don’t know that?”

he shook his head, “then stop fighting it. this world is bigger than us, y/n. it can’t just always be me and you.”

that did it. 

something inside you broke completely — quiet, invisible, but deep enough that you felt the pieces shift.

you blinked fast, your voice small, “you’re right. it can’t.”

before he could say anything else, you grabbed you coat and left. 

he called after you — your name, your nickname, something broken in between — but you didn’t stop. you ran down the stairwell, your chest aching, lungs burning, until the night air hit your face — cold and sharp. the kind of cold that bit at your skin, like it was trying to remind you that you were still here. still alive. 

you didn’t know where you were going. you just needed somewhere to breathe, somewhere to fall apart. somewhere he couldn’t see. 

the city was quiet in that strange, faraway way cities get after midnight — too big to sleep, too bright to rest. you didn’t know how long you’d been walking, only that the cold air stung your cheeks and your chest ached in that deep, familiar way that had nothing to do with the weather or the heartbreak. 

by the time you found yourself in the small park a few blocks from jaemin’s apartment, your legs were trembling, your lungs raw, your vision swimming. you sank down onto a wooden bench beneath the flickering lamppost, clutching your coat tighter around you, trying to stop the shaking. 

it wasn’t even anger anymore — you didn’t have time for that. 

it was simply just exhaustion. 

at yourself. at him. at the truth sitting heavy in your chest, beating weaker with every breath you took. 

you told yourself you’d just sit for a bit, that you’d go back soon. you’d apologize. you always did. but the world kept spinning quietly around you — the hum of the city, the whisper of passing cars, the faint sound of rain starting to fall again. 

and then, footsteps. 

“god, tiger,” a voice breathed out, half exasperated, half relieved, “i can’t believe you walked this far.” 

you turned.

jaemin stood a few feet away, hair damp from the drizzle, chest rising and falling as if he’d been running the whole way. his eyes — those soft, familiar eyes, searched your face, the corners crinkling with worry.

he laughed under his breath, shaking his head, “why did you run? we don’t do that. we talk about it”

you looked away, blinking fast, “things change.”

he sighed and stepped closer, his voice gentler now, “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you didn’t say anything, you just stared at the wet pavement, tracing circles on your knee with your thumb, trying to hold yourself together. the rain fell heavier now, tapping rhythmically against your coat. 

after a long silence, he spoke again, softer this time, “i’m sorry. for what i said. “

you looked up, surprised by the crack in his voice. 

“i shouldn’t have—,” he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling, “—said it like that. i just…they all cancelled schedules to hang out with us tomorrow and,” he shakes his head, “—it doesn’t matter.”

you swallowed, your throat tight. 

he took another step closer, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, “tomorrow,” he said, almost pleading, “it’ll be just us, okay? no giselle, no plans. just…me and you.”

you nodded faintly, eyes stinging. 

he smiled then — that same smile you’d know since you were fifteen, soft and steady and unfairly kind. the same one that used to fix everything. 

and suddenly, you couldn’t take it anymore. 

the way he was looking at you — like you were still his world, like he’d never meant the words this world is bigger than us. the way your heart still fluttered even when you knew better. the way everything hurt, all at once, and yet, he was the only thing that made you feel alive. 

you reached out, fingers trembling, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. 

“tiger…” he murmured, his voice low, confused,

and for once — just once — you wanted to take instead of give. to be selfish instead of selfless. to hold on, even it it was only for a heartbeat. 

you leaned in. 

and he didn’t move. 

not at first. 

your lips found his — soft, hesitant, desperate — and for a single, suspended second, the world went quiet. like it always did with him.

it felt like every missed call, every unsent message, every almost between you collapsed into that one moment. his breath hitched, his hand brushed your jaw and for that fraction of a second, he kissed you back.

for a heartbeat, he was yours.

and then he froze. 

he pulled back suddenly, breath uneven, eyes wide. 

“tiger—” his voice cracked, “i—we can’t. i have a girlfriend.”

the words sliced through the night, through you.

you blinked, stunned at your own impulsiveness, your chest hollowing out as the rain started to fall harder. you nodded quickly, stepping back, pretending it didn’t matter. pretending your heart hadn’t splintered into a thousand irretrievable pieces. 

“i-i’m sorry” you whispered. 

jeamin reached for you, then stopped halfway. his hand dropped to his side. only only one word falling from his lips — small, fragile, heavy. the word that became his armor. 

“orange?”

i’m still here for you. nothing has changed. i love you but not in that way.

and god, it hurt.

but you said it back anyway. 

the morning came too quickly. you hadn’t slept. you’d spent the night sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest room — the one jaemin had so carefully prepared for you with extra blankets, a mug for tea, a vase of peonies by the window. the city was just beginning to wake, a pale light slipping through the curtains, quiet and unforgiving. 

every time you closed your eyes, you saw it again — the look on his face after the kiss. the shock. the confusion. the guilt. the pity. you’d known instantly what that look meant. and now, you couldn’t stand to see it again. 

you moved quietly, folding the blanket you’d slept under and placing it back on the bed. the air smelled faintly like rain and the detergent he used —  something clean. something familiar. it made your chest ache worse. 

your suitcase sat by the door. you zipped it up slowly, careful not to make a sound. every click of the metal teeth felt final, like you were stitching something closed.

you checked the time. 4:58 AM.

the sun wasn’t fully up yet. the streets outside were still gray and half-asleep. 

you slipped on your shoes and tiptoed down the hallway. the apartment was silent except for the steady hum of the refrigerator. you passed by his door — it was slightly ajar. you could see the faint outline of him inside, half-buried in his blanket, his arm hanging off the bed. 

you paused there for a long time. just looking. he looked peaceful in sleep. young again, almost. like the boy who spilled that warm coffee. the one who gave you a nickname just because he thought you looked cute when you were startled. 

for a moment, you wanted to wake him. to tell him you were sorry. to tell him that you loved him — but not to keep him, just so he would know. 

but then you remembered his words from the night before. 

this world is bigger than us. 

and you realized — he’d been right. 

you’d spent years trying to hold onto something that wasn’t meant to be yours anymore. and now, holding on just hurt both of you. 

so instead, you whispered the only thing you could. 

“orange.”

quiet. barely audible. meant for no one but yourself. 

this time, it didn’t mean i’m here. 

it meant i’m setting you free. 

you reached for the doorknob, heart trembling in your chest and slipped out. 

the hallway was cold. your steps echoed softly as you made your way down the stairwell, your hand brushing the railing for balance when the world tilted for a moment — the side effects, the exhaustion, all of it catching up to you. by the time you stepped outside, the city was just beginning to stir. a few cars passed, a street vendor setting up shop, the autumn leaves swaying in the breeze, the faint hum of life waking up around you. 

you stood there for a second, letting the morning air hit your face. it was cold, sharp, grounding. you wanted to cry but the tears didn’t come. you were too tired for that now. 

you hailed a cab, the sound of tires on wet asphalt echoing like a goodbye. 

no note. no message. no goodbye. 

because you’d already taken too much. because you didn’t want him to wake up and feel like he had to chase after you again. 

because leaving was the strongest thing you could do for him. 

year ix. present day. 

it was 2:13 A.M. when jaemin’s phone rang.

he almost didn’t pick up. he’d been staring blankly at the ceiling for over an hour, insomnia gnawing at the edges of his mind, that familiar restlessness pressing against his ribs. the city outside was silent, his apartment dim except for the faint blue glow of his laptop screen.

the sound of his ringtone cut through the quiet — sharp, jarring, wrong somehow.

jeno.

he frowned. jeno never called at this hour. not once in all the years they’d known each other.

something cold unfurled in his chest.

he answered immediately, voice low and rough, “jeno?”

there was no greeting. no easy laugh, no casual hey, man. just breathing — heavy, uneven, breaking.

“jaemin…” jeno’s voice sounded scraped raw, as if he’d swallowed gravel. it cracked on the second syllable.

jaemin’s body tensed. he pushed himself upright, blankets pooling around his waist, heart kicking painfully against his ribs, “what’s wrong?”

silence. not the comfortable kind – the suffocating kind, thick and trembling on the line. then a sharp inhale.

“jaemin, i— i’m not supposed to tell you.”

the sound of it — the way his voice trembled, the way it broke halfway through — it sent a chill through jaemin’s body. something in his chest pulled tight, tightening further with every beat, he pressed the phone closer to his ear, his voice tightening. 

“tell me what?” his voice came out sharper then he intended, strained at the edges. 

jeno didn’t answer right away. all jaemin could hear was the sound of him crying — quiet, muffled, the kind of crying you only did when you were trying too hard not to.

“jeno,” jaemin said again, firmer this time, though his throat had gone dry. “tell me.”

seconds stretched, long and merciless. then jeno exhaled, like the words hurt to hold in—

“it’s y/n.”

everything inside jaemin stilled. 

your name hadn’t been spoken to him in two years. not by friends. not by family. it hit him like an impact – sharp, wind-knocking, disorienting. 

his tiger.

the ache bloomed fast — old, remembered pain cracking open like it had only been yesterday.

you had disappeared on him. just— gone. no call. no message. no explanation.

he could still see that morning as if it were preserved in ice. the sun was shining brightly, soft light bleeding into the apartment when he walked toward the guest room. he’d expected to find you half-asleep, hair messy, drooling on his pillow the way you always did. instead, the room was empty. your suitcase gone. the blanket folded neatly at the foot of his bed. his front door slightly ajar, as if it had been closed gently behind you but not enough to catch. 

he remembered standing there, in the doorway, still half-dreaming, waiting for you to come back in, laughing, saying you just stepped out for coffee or fresh air or anything that made sense — until the minutes bled into hours, and hours into days.

he remembered calling. again. again. again. his voice growing smaller with every voicemail, his hands shaking as he typed message after message you never opened. he emailed. he reached out to your friends, to your mom, to anyone who might have known why you suddenly hated him enough to vanish. 

but no one gave him answers. everyone chose silence.

he checked your accounts every day like a habit, like a prayer. waiting for something. a sign. a clue. anything that said you missed him even half as much as he missed you. 

but all he found were photos.

photos of you and jeno —

you, laughing beside him at a cafe, sunlight catching in your hair.

you, on the beach, chin on your knees, the waves brushing at your feet.

you, grinning up at the camera, jeno’s arm slung loosely around your shoulders, matching your expression in a way that looked easy. familiar. like he belonged there.

you looked happy. free. like someone who’d finally accepted change. 

and maybe that should’ve been enough. maybe seeing you smile should have softened the bruise in his chest. 

but it didn’t. 

it just made his chest hurt in that deep, wordless way that no one talks about — the kind that feels like nostalgia and jealousy and loss all tangled in one unbearable knot. 

because the night he lost you, that night on the park bench, was the night he realized he’d never stopped loving you. 

he could still feel it with haunting clarity — rain dripping from his hair, your trembling fingers brushing his cheek, the soft press of you lips against his, his heart hammering wildly against the cage of his ribs, your voice cracking as you whispered, orange.

he’d tucked you in that night, wrapped you in a blanket, watched your eyelids flutter closed. and something inside him had snapped free. he couldn't do it anymore. couldn't lie to himself. couldn’t lie to anyone. 

he left his apartment at 2 AM, the sky still weeping, rain clinging to him like guilt and he went to giselle’s. he ended things. no fights. no apologies. just the truth, plain and quiet and cruel. 

“she’s the one,” he’d told her quietly, “she’s always been the one.”

and giselle, too kind, too understanding, had only nodded, eyes glistening, “i know,” she said softly, “i’ve always known.”

when he returned, it was close to four. the world felt different, lighter, terrifying, brand-new. he had stood at your doorway, watching you sleep, committing the sight of you to memory like a promise. 

he was ready. ready to choose you, finally. ready to tell you everything he had held back for years. 

but when morning came —

you were gone. 

and you never came back.

for weeks, months, years, he cycled through emotions like storms — confusions, heartbreak, then anger. angry at you for leaving like that. angry that you could. angry that you made him feel disposable. temporary. angry for being so selfish. 

and for the next two years, he filled that silence with stories he made up himself – stories where you’d moved on, where you’d fallen for someone else, where you'd decided he wasn’t worth the chaos. 

and maybe those stories were easier to live with than the truth. 

but now… hearing your name again, after all this time — those stories shattered.

because whatever came next — the way jeno’s breath hitched, the way his voice cracked, jaemin felt something colder than anger. 

fear. 

he swallowed hard, his voice barely steady. “what about her?”

a breath. not steady — shaken loose, like jeno was barely holding himself together.

then he said it — the words jaemin would replay in his head for years after.

“she’s dying, jaem…”

for a split second, jaemin didn’t react. not because he hadn’t heard but because his mind refused to process a sentence where you and dying existed together. the room around him seemed to mute itself – the hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of his laptop, the city beyond his window — all of it fading to a dull, suffocating quiet. 

he blinked once. twice. the air felt too thin. 

“no,” he whispered, the word barely formed, “no that—that doesn’t—what do you mean she’s dying?”

he heard shuffling on the other end, fabric brushing, like jeno was pacing or shaking or both. 

“she—it got bad,” jeno forced out, voice cracking on every syllable, “it’s been bad for a while. we tried—she tried—jaemin—,” his voice cracked again, choked, desperate, “please…please come home.”

and just like that, the silence shattered. and suddenly, everything inside jaemin surged at once — confusion, panic, denial, anger — colliding so fast he felt physically nauseous. 

it didn’t feel real.

it couldn’t be real.

he could still see you — laughing on the beach, rolling your eyes in the school hallways, hugging him tightly at the airport, whispering orange like it meant everything in the world.

he could still feel the ghost of that kiss — soft, unsure, the rain between you.

and now—

now you were dying.

what kind of cruel, twisted joke was this? 

he pressed the phone back to his ear, his voice breaking, “where is she?”

a broken inhale. then jeno gave him the name of the hospital, the city, the floor number — all in a rush as if speaking quickly would make it hurt less. 

jaemin didn’t say goodbye. didn’t think. didn’t breathe. he stood abruptly, feet hitting the floor, hands trembling as he searched for his keys, his passport, his bag, anything. everything was a blur in his periphery while his mind replayed the words with merciless clarity—

“she’s dying, jaem.”

each repetition sliced deeper, colder. like punishment. like consequence. like fate laughing at him for being too late. 

he didn’t remember locking his apartment. didn’t remember the elevator ride, the drive, the airport security lines, or the plane boarding. his memory stored nothing but fragments — flashes of movement, fluorescent lights, the sterile chill of transit spaces. 

all he could remember was his knee bouncing relentlessly through the flight. his fingers shaking as he gripped the armrest. his chest tight enough to hurt with every breath. 

outside the window, the sky was black — moon tucked behind clouds, stars swallowed whole. the world looked like it was holding its breath with him. he whispered your name once – so softly, the sound barely left his lips. as if saying it too loud might break whatever thread still tethered you to the world. 

the moment the plane touched down, jaemin was already unbuckling. the seatbelt sign was still lit, but he didn’t care. the click of the buckle releasing sounded too loud in the quiet cabin. he stood before the wheels finished rolling, earning a few startled looks, but he didn’t register any of them.

his heart was a drum—loud, hard, constant.

she’s dying.

she’s dying.

she’s dying.

the words marched with every beat of his pulse. he was the first off the plane. first through the jet bridge. first to the immigration line — shifting weight from foot to foot as if still mid-run. 

every minute felt like something was being stolen from him. 

the airport was too bright, too noisy, too slow. people walked with coffees and suitcases like the world wasn’t ending. a child laughed. a couple argued quietly. a man yawned into his palm. jaemin wanted to shake all of them and scream—

don’t you know she’s dying?

don’t you understand i’m too late?

but his mouth only stayed in a tight, thin line as he moved—fast, mechanical. he grabbed a cab, forced out the hospital name, and told the driver to go—please, faster, faster.

streetlights streaked past the window in long, yellow smears. the city looked half-asleep, unaware that the most important person he had ever loved was slipping away inside it.

he pressed the heel of his palm to his sternum, trying to breathe through the sharp, splitting ache spreading there. the drive felt endless. his leg bounced the entire time, fingers twitching like they needed something to hold, to break, to anchor him.

when the cab finally pulled up to the hospital, he shoved bills into the driver’s hand without looking and ran.

the glass doors parted with a soft whoosh that felt too gentle for what was happening. inside, the air was cold, sterile, laced with antiseptic. the floor gleamed. the lights were harsh. everything felt wrong. his voice barely came out, scraped raw from hours of silence and fear.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he gasped to the nurse at the counter, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. “where— where is she?”

the nurse’s expression shifted—just slightly, but enough to tell him everything was already bad. before she could answer—

“jaemin!”

he spun around.

jeno stood there — eyes bloodshot, cheeks streaked with dried tears, shoulders slumped as if the night had drained the strength from him. mark hovered beside him, jaw clenched tight, eyes swollen. chenle sat rigid in one of the waiting chairs, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.

the sight of them—all wrecked—made something inside jaemin lurch.

but he didn’t slow.

didn’t greet.

didn’t breathe.

the world tilted. his knees nearly gave out.

but still, he moved forward — forcing his feet to take him closer, hoping, praying he was wrong.

jeno stepped toward him, wordless. his face crumpled as he reached for him, pulling him into a hug so tight it hurt. and through that broken, breathless quiet, jaemin managed to ask —

“where is she?”

no one answered.

mark’s gaze dropped to the floor. chenle squeezed his eyes shut. jeno stepped back, lips parted, but no words came out. 

“jeno,” he said again, barely holding himself upright, “where. is she.”

jeno’s face crumpled. he shook his head once, small, helpless, and the tears returned, spilling over.

“jaem…” his voice was broken whisper, “she’s gone. she died thirteen minutes ago.”

the sentence didn’t land all at once—it struck in pieces, sharp edges catching in jaemin’s chest. 

no. 

not you. 

not the girl who always had a smile on her face. not the girl who promised to stay strong for him.

gone.

died.

thirteen minutes.

minutes.

not days.

not weeks.

he was thirteen minutes too late.

something inside him broke open so suddenly he thought he might collapse. but his body moved before the grief could swallow him whole. he ran. through the hall. past nurses calling after him. past rooms and signs and the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his head.

he needed to see you. needed to prove them wrong. needed to undo something—anything—

until suddenly—he stopped.

your room.

he stood frozen in the doorway. the lights in your room were dim, softened to a low glow that painted everything in muted, gentle shades. curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a sliver of dawn—the sky outside still a washed-out grey-blue, caught somewhere between night and morning.

it felt too quiet. too calm. too peaceful for what he was about to see. his breath stuttered as he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.

and there you were.

the world fell silent.

you were lying there, so still, so small against the hospital bed. the machines beside you were quiet now, their steady beeping replaced by the low hum of the air conditioner.

your body lay still against the white hospital sheets, the blanket tucked neatly around you. your hair framed your face softly, as if someone had brushed it with care. your skin looked pale under the muted light—almost translucent, unreal.

you looked like you were sleeping.

like if he whispered your name, you’d stir. if he nudged your shoulder gently, you’d groan and tell him to let you rest. if he sat beside you with that worried crease on his brow, you’d tease him for looking like a mess after a red-eye flight.

for a second — just one — he let himself believe that.

his throat tightened painfully. he stumbled forward, his hands shaking violently as he reached for you. his voice broke as it left him, so quiet the room nearly swallowed it.

“tiger,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the word. “hey.”

you didn’t move.

he sat on the edge of your bed, his hands trembling as they found yours — cold. too cold.

he let out a choked laugh — raw and helpless, tinged with disbelief and horror. “okay,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if he could coax life back into them, “this—this isn’t funny. you can stop now.”

he rubbed your hand between his palms, trying to warm it, trying to pretend the world hadn’t already stolen you.

“come on, tiger,” he breathed, voice cracking, “you always loved dramatic entrances, but this—this is cruel.”

still nothing.

no stir.

no soft exhale.

no hand squeezing his back in reassurance.

his vision blurred. tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother wiping them. he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking.

“wake up,” he begged, the plea breaking as it spilled out of him. “please… wake up.”

but you didn’t.

you never would.

he stayed like that for a long time. he didn’t know how long — time losing meaning in the dim room. all he knew was the feel of your hand in his, cooling, unresponsive, slipping away from what he remembered.

he lifted his head, eyes tracing your face — committing you to memory the way you had looked when he loved you, when you loved him, when life still had more time to give.

the gym. the airport. the park. your whispered orange.

his chest caved in. 

“orange,” he choked out, the word breaking in his mouth. it felt like saying goodbye with the wrong language.

it used to mean i’m here for you.

but here, in this room, holding your hand that would never warm again, it only meant one thing—

i love you.

he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead—soft, lingering—as if trying to seal something back into you. his tears fell onto your skin, sliding down your temple, and he whispered against your unmoving warmth—

“orange, tiger. i’m here.”

even though, this time…you weren’t. 

the silence in the room was unbearable.

jaemin couldn’t look at you anymore — not like this. not when every memory of you was alive, and this was anything but.

your hand had gone slack in his, your fingers still cold despite how long he’d been holding them. his thumb brushed against your knuckles one last time before he let go, but the moment he did, the air around him felt wrong. too empty. too final.

he stood up, dizzy, his vision blurring with tears he couldn’t blink away. he turned sharply and stumbled out of the room, his breath coming in uneven, broken gasps.

and as he walked down that hallway — sterile, white, endless — the world started replaying itself.

every memory. every moment.

your laugh echoing through the gym.

your fingers clutching his sleeve the day you first met.

your voice saying orange through tears, through laughter, through years of growing up together.

he saw the prom lights again.

he saw your orange corsage dangling loose on your wrist.

he saw you crying in your bedroom senior year, whispering you were scared of the future — and he’d said we’ll figure it out, like we always do.

except he hadn’t.

he saw the wind blowing your hair at the beach.

he saw your eyes when you kissed him at the airport.

he saw the night in the park — your trembling hands brushing his hair back, your lips touching his, the rain between you, and how he’d pulled away.

he heard himself saying this world is bigger than us like a fool.

and now, standing here in this hospital hallway, he realized — the world hadn’t been bigger than you.

it had been you.

and you were gone.

he couldn’t breathe. he shoved open the door, stumbling into the hallway, as if the floor had tilted beneath him. his vision tunneled, breath ragged, chest tight enough to burst. the hallway outside felt too bright, too awake, too wrong. voices blurred. a nurse said something, but he couldn’t hear. couldn’t think. couldn’t feel anything. 

then he saw them — chenle. mark. jeno.

standing. waiting. crying. 

and something inside him snapped. 

he didn’t stop. he didn’t think. 

it all made sense now. he finally sees the full picture. 

“you knew.”

the words came out low at first, dangerous, cracked open from somwhere feral.

jeno stepped forward carefully, “jaemin–”

but jaemin was already moving. in two strides, he was in front of jeno, hands fisting into his shirt as he slammed him into the wall so hard the frame rattled. mark jerked forward—shocked—but froze when he saw jaemin’s face.

“you fucking knew!” jaemin’s voice ripped out of him, raw and hoarse, shaking with something between grief and rage–

“you knew she was dying and you didn’t tell me?!”

jeno gasped at the impact but didn’t didn’t fight back. he didn’t even raise his hands. his eyes were wet, his voice breaking as he said, “she—she made me promise—”

jaemin slammed him again, harder, voice shattering, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR PROMISES!”

his fist drew back — mark grabbed his arm just in time, “jaemin—stop—”

“LET GO!” jaemin snarled, yanking free with a violent jerk. his fist hit the wall right beside jeno’s head, knuckles splitting on impact. pain shot up his arm, sharp and bright, but he barely felt it. 

“you let me show up thirteen minutes too late,” he spat, chest heaving, “THIRTEEN MINUTES.”

jeno’s eyes filled, his voice shaking, “i–i didn’t want to hurt you—”

“hurt me? you think THIS–” jaemin’s voice cracked, wild and broken all at once, “this is better? not knowing? missing her last breath? do you have ANY idea what you just took from me?!”

jeno’s own anger flared through his grief, sudden and pained, “you think i had a choice?! she begged me, jaem! SHE BEGGED–”

jaemin shoved him again, voices rising, grief colliding with grief like fire to gasoline.

“when someone’s life is on the line, you DON’T GET TO KEEP SECRETS LIKE THAT!”

“SHE WAS DYING!” jeno choked, voice breaking on the word, his own tears spilled faster now, “you think knowing would’ve made it easier?! you think i didn’t want help?!” he shouted back, his voice cracking, shaking under the weight of his own guilt.

“you think watching the girl you love die slowly would’ve hurt less just because you knew?!”

jaemin froze — chest heaving, breath tore from him like he’d been punched.

jeno’s voice broke completely then, trembling as he whispered, “you think i don’t know what that’s like, jaem? watching someone i love fade right in front of me and pretending i don’t? holding her when she couldn’t stand? lying every day because she just wanted to feel normal? you think that’s easy?”

jaemin’s hands loosened. his eyes widened.

“she was dying,” jeno repeated, his voice barely a whisper now, “and all she ever worried about was you.”

the fury in jaemin’s chest twisted—splintering, collapsing under its own weight.

his hands dropped.

his knees gave out.

he hit the floor hard, palms scraping against the tile, breath ripping unevenly out of him. he bent forward, shoulders shaking, and a sound tore from his chest—half-scream, half-sob, all devastation.

jeno sank down with him, reaching—but not touching—not unless jaemin let him.

chenle covered his mouth, eyes red, body shaking. mark stood frozen, tears sliding silently down his cheeks.

jaemin pressed his forehead to the cold floor, fists clenched, voice breaking open in a whisper that sounded like it hurt to exist—

“i didn’t get to say goodbye.”

jeno squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling onto the floor between them.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, “i’m so, so sorry.”

and in that hallway—bright, sterile, too alive for what had just died—jaemin cried with the kind of grief that didn’t soften over time. the kind that stayed. brutal. permanent.

he should’ve asked the questions

he should’ve demanded the answers 

maybe then…

maybe then he wouldn’t be here…on his knees…surrounded by grief and love and all the words he’d never get to say.

two weeks later

the  sky was gray that morning—not the soft, rainy kind, but the heavy kind that just sat over the city like a weight. unmoving. colorless. the sort of gray that pressed on your lungs when you breathed, like the world itself had gone quiet for you.

the church was full but quiet. rows of black coats filled the pews, heads bowed, tissues crumpled in shaking hands. people spoke only in whispers, like their voices might disturb something sacred. the air smelled of lilies and incense—sweet, cloying, suffocating—and beneath it all, something colder, sharper.

something like finality. 

jaemin stood at the back for a long time before he could make himself walk in. his fingers clenched around the orange peony he brought. the same kind he tied around your wrist at prom, the night he thought you’d remember forever. the petals were vivid against the black of his coat, almost wrong in their brightness. too alive for a room that held your absence. his shoes scuffed softly against the marble aisle as he made his way forward.

and there you were.

surrounded by flowers—white, ivory, pale pink, gentle colors people choose when they want to pretend death is soft. a framed photograph sat beside your coffin of you, frozen mid-laugh, hair tousled by the wind, sunlight warming your cheek, that familiar glint in your eyes, like you were seconds from teasing him about something.

for a moment, jaemin couldn’t move.

his breath caught halfway up his throat. that picture wasn’t fair. it made you look too alive—like you were just late to your own funeral. like any second, you’d walk in, breathless, apologizing because you overslept.

god, it hurt.

he took one step closer. then another. your photo stared back at him with a smile he could still hear. his chest burned with the kind of ache that didn’t fade—it sharpened.

you were right there. and impossibly far away.

“jaemin.”

he turned.

jeno stood a few feet away—eyes swollen, dark crescents beneath them, his black tie crooked like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after crying in the car. his hands trembled slightly as he held something out.

a small, worn notebook.

bound in fading orange leather.

edges frayed. corners bent. a ribbon poking out from between the pages.

“she wanted you to have this,” jeno said quietly.

jaemin stared at it, at the frayed binding touched so many times your fingerprints were practically a part of it. his voice barely came out, “what…what is it?”

“her journal,” jeno said. his voice cracked. “she’s been writing in it since that day after the beach — you remember? the summer before college.”

the words hit like a blow. jaemin’s heart stuttered. he remembers that day so clearly. the bonfire. your laughter. the salt wind. 

so all this time — you knew this day was coming. and he had been in the dark. 

jeno continued quietly, eyes glassy, as if each memory hurt to touch, “she said she didn’t want to lose the memories. that she wanted to keep all of us with her, even when things got bad.”

jaeemin reached out slowly, hands shaking, and took the journal. the leather was worn soft from use. a few pages looked slightly warped, like they’d been touched by tears. there were indentations across the front — deep grooves from your handwriting, pressed too hard into the page, the way you always did when the emotions didn’t fit inside the lines.

his breath hitched. he held it tighter. then tighter still. like if he loosened his grip, someone would take it from him too.

his vision blurred, tears gathering despite how many he’d already shed. he pressed the journal to his chest, right over his heart, as if it could hold him together, anchor him to the floor, keep him from collapsing all over again.

because right now, everything else felt like it was slipping out of his hands.

he couldn’t open it. not yet.

the words inside would be too heavy. too real. too you.

if he read it, it would make your death feel irreversible.

so he tucked the journal carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart, the same way he had once tucked your hand into his jacket on cold nights. and he stood there, beside your coffin, surrounded by flowers and silence and everything he never got to say, holding onto that journal like a lifeline.

because it was all he had left.

of you.

of the future he thought he’d have with you.

of the version of himself that only existed when you were still here.

his heart hurt — god, it hurt— his stupid heart that had always beaten too hard for you, too fast, too reckless. that same heart that failed him when it needed to be brave, when it needed to choose you sooner.

maybe that’s why you got sick, he thought. bitter. broken. because you were always the strong one. always holding everything together until your body couldn’t anymore.

a sound escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob, sharp enough to cut. he covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.

“god, tiger,” he whispered, voice trembling, cracking. “you really left me nothing but your words, huh?”

he closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the journal against his chest—light, but unbearable.

“orange,” he murmured, so soft it barely reached the air.

the word trembled like a confession. like a promise he didn’t know how to keep without you.

one and a half year later.

the graveyard was quiet. the kind of quiet that didn’t feel lonely anymore — but a still, settled kind. a quiet that felt…lived-in. familiar. like grief had pulled up a chair beside him and finally stopped trying to drown him.

early spring softened the air. the sky was pale gray, clouds stretched thin, like the world was just waking up. the trees were dusted with new leaves, shy and young. a breeze moved lazily through the grass, cool enough to raise goosebumps, gentle enough not to sting.

jaemin knelt down in front of your gravestone, jeans brushing damp grass, his breath forming the faintest fog as he exhaled. a few leaves had gathered at the base, carried here by wind and time. he brushed them away with careful fingers, as if clearing dust off a photograph. he traced his thumb over your name, slow, deliberate, letting the letters settle beneath his skin. he touched it the way you used to touch his hand when he was anxious, thumb brushing over his knuckles in quiet reassurance.

“hey, tiger,” he murmured.

his voice didn’t break this time.

there had been days, so many days, when standing here felt like being skinned alive. days where he couldn’t form words because the air itself hurt to breathe. days where he clung to your gravestone like it was the last piece of you he could hold, chest heaving, begging the universe, god, fate, anyone, to rewind time and give you back.

he had screamed here. sobbed here. collapsed here. he had cursed at the sky until his throat felt scraped raw. cursed at you for leaving him, at himself for being too late, at life for being so relentlessly cruel.

but grief changes shape when you start learning how to carry it.

now, the visits were softer. not painless — but quieter. quieter in the way healed wounds still ache when it rains.

today, though, wasn’t like the others. today, he brought something he had been too afraid to open for a year and a half.

your journal. the once-orange leather had deepened to a muted, weather-touched brown. the corners were worn soft, edges curling like petals drying at the end of their bloom. a thin elastic band held it closed, stretched loose from how often he held it—but never opened it. he didn’t go anywhere without it. he kept it tucked into his coat, on his bedside table, beside his coffee cup in the mornings. sometimes, he fell asleep with his hand resting on it, like holding onto your words might keep them from fading.

but he hadn’t read a single page.

not until now.

because a year and a half later, his heart finally felt steady enough to break again.

he exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing the indentation on the front—the faint ridges left from your handwriting pressed too hard against the cover, like your words wanted to bleed through.

“okay,” he whispered to himself, as if preparing for impact.

he opened the journal.

the first line didn’t just hit him—

it pulled him back in time.

jaemin is the warmth in my coffee cup.

the laugh that slipped from him was small, shaky, but real. his eyes stung.

“you really started with that, huh?” he said, huffing a breath that was almost a smile. he flipped slowly, carefully—like the pages were fragile bones that might snap under too much pressure. his hands trembled at first, then steadied, as if your voice in the ink was guiding him.

every page was you — your voice scrawled in messy handwriting. your heart tucked between sentences. your world captured in run-on thoughts and half-scribbles. there were doodles in the margins—tiny suns, coffee mugs, waves, little tiger paws. some pages were tear-stained. some wrinkled like they’d been clutched too tightly. some had music lyrics half-written, half-erased.

you wrote about school, the boys, prom night, fears about the future, the sunset on the beach that one night, the airport, the flickering lamp post at the park and—

him.

he saw himself everywhere.

not the version he thought he was. not the flawed, terrified, overly-careful boy who couldn’t choose love until it was too late.

but the way you saw him.

warmth.

comfort.

home.

his vision blurred. he blinked hard, but the tears kept forming. still—he kept reading. he read until his heart felt full and hollow all at once.

and then he reached the last entry.

the handwriting was different—shakier, thinner. letters leaning into each other like they needed support. like your hands had trembled while writing.

at the top, you had written:

for jaemin,

he swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he began to read.

i don’t really know where to start. there’s no version of this that feels right, and i’ve rewritten it so many times that the ink started bleeding through the page. maybe that’s fitting. maybe love is supposed to spill a little.

i think the simplest way to begin is with the truth….i’m sorry. i’m sorry for keeping this from you. i’m sorry for not telling you when i should have. i’m sorry for leaving the way i did. you didn’t deserve that. you never did. not then. not now. not ever.

i need you to know this. none of it was because i loved you any less. if anything, it was because i loved you too much. in that big, terrifying, once-in-a-lifetime way — the kind that makes you want to shield the other person from every ugly thing in the world, even if that ugly thing was me.

you’ve always been the best kind of person, jaem. the kind who makes the world softer just by being in it. you don’t even notice when you do it…you just breathe, and suddenly everything hurts a little less. i didn’t want to dim that light. not with hospitals and iv drips and the kind of exhaustion you can’t sleep off. i wanted you to keep your warmth. the same warmth that carried me through every laugh, every sleepless night, every heartbeat that hurt too much to hold alone.

i left because i was running out of time. and i was terrified that if you saw me breaking, you would break with me. i couldn’t bear the thought of your last memory of me being in a hospital room and a goodbye i wasn’t strong enough to say out loud.

if there is one thing i regret more than anything, it’s not giving you the chance to choose for yourself. i thought i was protecting you. maybe that was selfish. maybe it was cowardly. maybe it was both.

but please…go easy on jeno. he only kept my secret because i asked him to. begged, really. i didn’t want your eyes — the ones i loved more than anything — to look at me with pity, or fear, or that kind of sadness that never leaves a person. i wanted our last memory to stay warm, untouched, still blooming with all the possibilities we never got to live through. i wanted our last goodnight to feel like love, not like an ending.

you once told me that the world was bigger than us. and you were right. the world is bigger than us. and it should be. we weren’t meant to fit in just one place, or one moment, or one version of a future. but still…i hope, somewhere in that big world, i still take up a little space in your heart. not as a wound. not as the thing that broke you. just as someone you once loved.

and i hope when you think of me, you think of laughter. the kind that made your shoulders shake. sunlight on the beach. a sparkling disco ball. autumn leaves. and the smell of coffee in the early mornings.

i hope you remember the warmth.

i hope you remember the beginning more than the ending.

jaemin paused, jaw clenched, breath shaking. he swallowed, but it didn’t go down smoothly. he turned the page. the last lines were smaller. slower. like you had traced each word with care. like you were afraid to write your last one.

i often wonder…

if i’d kissed you that nigh at prom…would things be different?

i used to replay that moment over and over again in my head. the music, the lights, the way your hand kept brushing mine like you were waiting for a sign. i remember thinking, if i just take one step closer, everything in my life will change.

but here’s the truth i finally made peace with–

no.

i don’t think it would have changed anything.

i think no matter what happened that night, in every version of my life, i would have loved you exactly the same. the timeline didn’t matter. the kiss didn’t matter. the universe had already picked you for me.

so let’s throw that silly word away, huh, na jaemin?

no more hiding behind colors.

no more metaphors because i was too scared to say how i really felt.

no more oranges.

just the truth. the truth i should’ve said sooner, louder, clearer — while i still had time.

just….

i love you.

i love you in every lifetime i won’t get to live. i love you in every version of the future we never reached. i love you in the mornings we lost, the nights we missed, the years we won’t get. and if love has any echo after this life…if it lingers in places or people or memories…then i hope mine finds you every time the sky turns that soft, familiar shade of orange.

if that happens…

you’ll know it’s me.

the page blurred beyond recognition. his chest didn’t cave in this time. it expanded—painfully, beautifully, as if the words had finally given his grief a place to rest. he closed the journal slowly, letting his palm settle against the cover. the he pressed it to his heart.

for the first time in months, he smiled. a small, tired, honest smile. the kind that comes after surviving something you weren't sure you would.

“i love you too, tiger,” he whispered, voice steady. “always.”

a breeze passed through the cemetery then — gentle, warm, carrying the faint scent of lilies and rain. the clouds shifted, just enough for a break in the gray, and a soft spill of sunlight touched the grass, your gravestone, his hand.

it wasn’t bright.

but it was orange.

he exhaled, a soft, breathless laugh slipping out, tears sliding down his cheeks—not like collapse this time, but release.

he stayed there a while longer. one hand resting against your name. the other holding your journal—your words, your love, your forever.

and for the first time since you left, jaemin didn’t feel like you were gone.

he just felt you.

everywhere.