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✏️ .. part 2 any1? comment #teamjju to root for our man and get tagged for the 2nd part🤞🏻

cortis taglist . @taelvvrzz @en-dream @anniyahhh @hyuneskkami @toomanyfanficsbruh @maraaaa105 @wowbyselene

𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ⋆.˚ .ᐟ ALMOST THERE GUYSSS FINAL CHAPTER TMRW OR MAYBE TONIGHTTTT 𐙚⋆.˚ .ᐟ @xikskrrrs @dazzlingjaeyun @my-root-came-2006 @xionvlog @teacuplps @tiramisumin @lovhyeon @ilovegojosatoru13 @reinmyheartvy @chae-rries @lilbuzi @mitsubal0ver @ptolemaea4 @mattmeow @whlhql @hoszhe @emotiandon @dandeliongraveyard @sofisbelle @nolongeryoungbutbeautiful @kienhawon @st4rry-l4vender-sk1es @lovemashu @iloveducks102906 @snghyyn @cookyland @elliotsbeigeguitar @miisoluvsdeer @https-astrid2 @miles4eva @raratoulie @en-dream @toj1sgf @mxddi3-the-mnm-lover @sweettenderhearr227 @eunjjx + lmk if you want to be added ! 𐙚 back to the masterlist 𐙚 please do not copy, adapt or steal any of the content !!!

JAMES

bf!james who keeps random little things that remind him of you. it could be a receipt from a place you went together, a photo you took that he really liked, or a tiny note you left behind. he isn’t sentimental in the obvious ways, but he has a tendency of holding onto moments like these because it means a lot to him.

bf!james who always checks if you’re comfortable before making plans. he’ll ask if you’re tired, if you’ve eaten, if you actually want to go out or you’d rather stay in. he wants spending time together to feel easy, not like something you have to force yourself into.

bf!james who sends random things that make him think of you without needing a reason. a random video, a song he found, a picture of something funny he saw while he was out. sometimes the message is only a few words, but it’s his way of saying you crossed his mind.

bf!james who tried to learn the things you care about, even if they aren’t things he doesn’t normally pay attention to. if you’re excited about something, he wants to understand why. he’ll ask questions, remember details, and bring it up later because loves seeing you get passionate about things.

bf!james who is the type to celebrate your small wins seriously. you finished something you were stressed about? he’s proud of you. you did something you were nervous about? he’d tell you that you handled it well. he never makes you feel like your achievements are “too small” to notice.

JUHOON

bf!juhoon who never missed an opportunity to reach for your hand. crossing the street, standing in line, walking through a crowd — it almost comes naturally to him. sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until his fingers are already intertwined with yours.

bf!juhoon who finds every excuse to keep you close for another minute. if you’re about to leave, he’ll ask one more question, tell you one more story, or pull you back over because he remembered he “forgot” to tell you something. deep down, he just hates ending your time together.

bf!juhoon who looks at you first whenever something good happens. if he hears exciting news, wins something, or has a funny story to tell, you’re the person he searches for without thinking. sharing every happy moment with oh becomes second nature.

bf!juhoon who adores hearing your voice, even if you’re talking about the most ordinary part of your day. you could ramble about school, something your friend said, or what you had for lunch, and he’s listening with the biggest smile.

bf!juhoon who has this habit of brushing his thumb across your hand whenever you’re together. it’s such a small gesture that most people wouldn’t notice, yet it’s his silent reminder that you’re right there with him.

SEONGHYEON

bf!seonghyeon who falls asleep easier whenever he knows you’re okay. if you text him that you made it home, finished what you needed to do, or finally got into bed after a long day, he feels completely at ease. it’s the last thing he wants to know before ending his own day.

bf!seonghyeon who always notices when you’re staring at something for more than a few seconds. whether it’s a book, a dessert in a bakery window, or something in a shop, he catches it every time. weeks later, it somehow ends up in your hands because he remembered.

bf!seonghyeon who slows his pace to match yours. whether you’re wandering around a bookstore, shopping, or simply taking the long way home, he never rushes ahead. he enjoys the extra time together more than getting anywhere quickly.

bf!seonghyeon who makes space for you without saying a word. if you walk into a room, he’s already shifting over so you can sit beside him, opening the door before you reach it, or moving your chair a little closer. it’s become second nature, and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.

bf!seonghyeon who has an amazing memory when it comes to your routines. he knows what time you’re usually finished with school, when you’re probably studying, and when you’re most likely asleep, so he never expects instant replies.

KEONHO

bf!keonho who keeps track of the little things you mention wanting to do together. one day he’ll randomly text, “we still haven’t done that,” because he actually remembers every plan the two of you made, even the ones you brought up months ago.

bf!keonho who lets you borrow his clothes without expecting them back anytime soon. weeks later, he’ll see you wearing one of his hoodies and grin because it somehow looks better on you. if you accidentally keep it forever, he isn’t complaining.

bf!keonho who asks for your opinion on things that actually matter to him. new haircut, clothes, a project he’s working on, even small decisions. he trusts your judgment, so hearing what you think genuinely helps him decide.

bf!keonho who never lets your birthday, anniversaries, or important dates become last-minute plans. he’ll have everything sorted well before you even start wondering if he’s remembered. he’s the type who enjoys planning because he wants the day to feel special from beginning to end.

bf!keonho who naturally includes you in conversations with other people. if someone asks him about his weekend, he’ll mention the museum you went to together or the restaurant you tried.

pensieri this is a lot guys i’m sorry 😭 but updates will be a bit slower since i’m traveling, this is kind of me making up for it 🫰

His parents had promised him ice cream that day, and ice cream was the sole reason he even agreed to leave the house with them in the first place. This would explain how ever since the Kim family acquired an additional member, dentist appointments had become a recurring feature of life. As said, children, man. So when they parked in front of an unfamiliar lot and informed him they were actually there to meet the new neighbors, he felt the full weight of deception settle on his tiny pale shoulders. It really would be your own parents.

The betrayal occupied most of his attention at first. He made the walk to the front door in a kind of sulky procession, nursing his disappointment and contemplating, in exquisite detail, a future in which no adult ever earned his trust again. Juhoon considered them peculiar, forever insisting their children to be honest while reserving for themselves a more inventive relationship with the truth. But the neighbors opened the door, and unfortunately for his argument, they were lovely. 

Juhoon doesn’t remember exactly what he thought when he first saw you. He was only six, after all. Whatever revelation struck him was probably less conceivable than history would like to suggest. Still, memories can be very selective. 

Looking back, he still remembers that little girl standing in the doorway hiding behind her parents’ legs with dirt on her shoes. You looked both curious and prepared to run away. He remembers staring, too. Cute, he thought. Pretty, maybe. Whatever word a toddler would have used for something like that.

“What’s your name?” Juhoon asks you first, surprisingly. He’s known for not talking at all. . 

All you did was disappear back into the house, and Juhoon felt bewildered at first. Until now, every significant development in his life worked on this simple principle: You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, or whatever that book said. Apparently, Juhoon was now discovering a more humiliating variation of the rule, which was that you could also miss the ones you did take. 

He and his parents were ushered inside. Tea appeared somewhere in the conversation, as tea always seemed to when the grown ups gathered in one place for long enough. Juhoon took his place beside his mother on the couch, but his attention kept slipping loose and wandering through the house in search of you. 

His ears perk at the one mention, ‘our daughter’, he was sure you were what they were referring to. And one particular phrase was caught in the inside of his ear. Our daughter’s been having seizures lately.

Juhoon knew what a seizure was. A bit vaguely, but he did. His parents were physicians after all, so in their house, illness was never a mystery for long. His mother fixed children. His father fixed brains. At six years old, this was more or less how he understood medicine. The result was that he knew very little, but what he knew, he knew absolutely. 

Seizures were very bad. 

The realization made him twist uncomfortably in his seat until it sorted itself out, though not as heavily. A seed weighs almost nothing. 

So the first thing he learned about you was that something inside you occasionally misfired. The second would take much longer. Juhoon finds you later after he goes to the bathroom. You’re peeking out of a door and looking at him intently as if you’ve never seen another kid before. 

“I’m Juhoon.” He offered his hand. You looked at it for a moment, then stepped out and took it. 

“Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

You let go and looked down. “I’m Y/n.” 

“I heard you’re sick.”

Your little shoulders lifted a bit. “The scary man calls it a… mech–... mechanical imbalance.”

“Chemical imbalance.” Juhoon corrected. 

“Yes. That’s right.” 

He considered this for a few seconds, then said, very seriously, 

“You look pretty balanced to me.”

You smiled, small and surprised. “Thanks.”

It was, in hindsight, an unremarkable beginning. But in the moment, it felt like the first loose thread of something he wouldn’t learn how to stop holding onto. That was the day Kim Juhoon met you. Maybe years later, when memory had sanded the edges off entire seasons of his life, he would have become several different men in turn. Still, he’ll remember this part and live long enough to tell the rest. 

──────── .✦

At nine, you were still the sort of child who could be persuaded by an idea. 

Juhoon had learned this about you early: if someone said let’s make something, you were likely to stay. If someone said draw this, fold that, stack these higher, and with just a few strings, a pencil, and paper, you would lean in with serious concentration as though you were the tiniest engineer to exist. 

That afternoon, the playground had turned into a temporary workshop. School had ended, but not so much the day. The in-between hours belonged to the children and their improvised industries. Pale blue sheets of paper lay everywhere, wrinkled by eager fingers, while the two of you and a few others tried to convert them into boats, or hats, or something that could float. 

You had been humming to yourself, and Juhoon watched your hands, which were always moving faster than everyone else’s. You taught a girl to flatten a crease with her thumb and announced, very confidently, that hers was wrong. 

Juhoon folded his paper back the way you had shown him and held it out for inspection. 

“Like this?” he asked.

You nodded and reached for the edge, your fingers nudging his dusted with pencil lead and the dry ghost-smell of grainy paper. “Now fold it here.”

Juhoon tried and tried, but the paper kept turning into the wrong shape in his hands. He made several attempts. Each one took him farther from whatever it was supposed to become at that point. Eventually, there was nothing left of his little stack of paper. 

He patted your shoulder, quick and careful. “I’m gonna get some more paper.” Then went off toward the nearest classroom to ask for the ones that had color in them. 

When he pattered his way back, he heard a loud laugh floating across the playground from the direction he had just left. 

“Haha! She’s moving like a fish!” 

A fish? That sounded interesting. Juhoon followed the sound of laughter toward its source, weaving through the little crowd as the circle kept growing. When he reached the front, he went very still.

A fish, they said. 

Juhoon imagined flapping arms. somebody making faces, maybe a new game. A few minutes ago, they had all been sitting about on the sand. Children had spent the better part of an hour arguing over their toys and whether a boat could still be called a boat if it sank immediately. 

“When is she gonna stop?” He hears someone ask from the crowd.

I don’t know.

The paper boats are everywhere now, strewn in every direction, some flattened and some untouched. You are on the ground in their midst, shaking violently. Those bright blue bits, the laughter he thought sounded fine just moments ago, they’d gone all wrong in his ears. It was a sour and awful tingling, and Juhoon wanted to throw up when he noticed your eyes were rolled back into your skull, and there’s–

“Spit!” Someone says, cheerfully. 

Yes, spit. You were salivating beyond control, and Juhoon calls your name because names are handles, aren’t they? He didn’t know what to do with his hands either, only that they had begun to tremble with an ugly little life of their own. 

Your hand claws at your chest just below the collarbone, gripping fabric, searching, pressing inward like something inside is trying to escape. Juhoon thinks, your heart has become a frightened animal, and it is trying to leave you.

He thinks a little more; stay with me. Hold it in, hold it in, hold it in. 

A boy steps forward, laughing under his breath as he prods at your shoulder, and Juhoon’s eyes flick over the others, only to confirm what he already feared. 

The papers fall from Juhoon’s arms as he pushes the boy out of the way in a burst of anger. He hears the scream of pain after, though it does nothing to pull him back from the rush in his head. 

“Y/n?” He crouched beside you and took hold of your shaking shoulders. Your eyes lifted to his face and caught there for one brief moment before they slid away again. Still, he could tell you were not entirely elsewhere. In the middle of all that he could not yet understand, he could only think of miracles. 

Eventually, the teacher came and took you away. But first she had to wrestle Juhoon loose from you one finger at a time, a task akin to separating two pages that’d gotten wet and dried together. The fibers protested, and so did he. When she succeeded, though, the world had never felt colder to him than it was. 

He could say he was but a child. At least that was the excuse available to him. Children are allowed impossible convictions. That the moon followed them home, or that they had the power to make it happen. But it wouldn’t make sense either to question the mass of this far-fetched thing, bright as a pin and stubborn as a weed splitting rock. It grew despite fear, and people might call it hope. Hope, but at just nine years old Juhoon knew that wouldn’t save anyone.

Later that week, Juhoon would find himself in the principal’s office for the very first time. His parents sat behind him on one side of the room. Across from them posed the boy he had shoved, a fresh white bandage wrapped around his forehead, and his parents stationed firmly at his side. He’d receive the sermon of his lifetime the second they went home, and knows it would be every bit as lengthy as promised. But there, trapped in that painful wooden chair, he would just have to take the blame. He wasn’t sorry, but he figured his sentiments, like all valuable things, would obviously have to cost something. 

That day marked the first time Juhoon witnessed it with his own eyes: the terrible fact that your body was capable of occasionally betraying you. So it was true. Hope served no use to him, at least not more than the stubbornness of his belief that your body belonged to you first. And for as long as Juhoon took his breaths, he would refuse to accept anything else. 

──────── .✦

“So like, just for the summer right?” 

You and Juhoon had taken the long way home, the road sunlit and mellow beneath the heat of early afternoon. Class had ended ahead of schedule because of some faculty meeting, and at first it had seemed like the sort of lucky interruption one ought to appreciate. With time, it was just one more small detour to the day. 

Juhoon walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, his uniform sleeves rolled up just enough you could see the tan line he’d been developing from all the hours of basketball practice under the sun. 

“For sure,” he said. “My dad said it’s for his start-up, so I guess we’ll be back right before school starts. 

You made a face at that. “Well, you better. Next school year is a fuck-up, I heard.”

Juhoon turned his head toward you. “Don’t curse like that.”

“We’re already twelve.” You pointed your finger at him then back at you. “And no one’s around. We’ll be fine.”

“The point is we still got time. Imagine being a senior.”

You made a thoughtful noise, squinting up at the sky and then hissing. “Feels surreal to think about. Hell, you think I’ll still be alive by then?” You shot off a little laugh and shook your head. 

“Hey.”

You looked at him innocently. “What?”

His pace slowed just a little, and so did yours, the two of you nearly stopping in the middle of the sidewalk as the wind brushed hot and lazy through the roadside trees.

“You good?” he had asked then.

You clicked your tongue and looked away. “Here we go again.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said a little too quickly and then softened with a shrug. “I’m fine Juhoon. Seriously. Take a joke.”

He huffed out a laugh despite his willingness to prod a little further, and more so to the way he wasn’t entirely convinced of that. 

“When did you get so sassy?”

“You never noticed?” You shot back, grinning now, the sound of it sending weightlessness to his chest enough to chase away the density that’d been growing on it. 

You both leaned a little closer to each other as you walked, the promise of a popsicle and a piggyback ride if your legs got tired still waiting somewhere ahead. And for the rest of that walk, it was easy to believe this was the summer that would never end for them. 

Before long, Juhoon swung open the little fence at the front of your house and held it aside for you. You both climbed the porch steps side by side, the wood creaking softly under your shoes, and by the time you reached the door, the smell of food had already found its way out of the kitchen and into the hall.

Inside, your mother looked from where she stood near the stove as you bent down to tug off your shoes while Juhoon did the same a step behind you. 

“Smells good over there, Auntie.” Juhoon peeked toward the kitchen with that careful sweetness everyone liked to eat up. 

Your mother smiled, though not fully turning away from her cooking. “You’re sweet Juhoon. Come eat, both of you.”

“Maybe a little later ma. I gotta make Ju help me with homework before he tries to escape.”

“You know I never do that.”

Your mother waved a hand from the kitchen as if to send you both on your way. “You kids go ahead, but come down when you’re hungry, yeah?”

“Okay mom!” You called back, and you sounded so okay that Juhoon let himself believe you were. 

Juhoon ended up doing your homework while you sat cross-legged beside him on the bed, busy with a pile of rubber bands and one of those little plastic looms that’d become the latest obsession at school. He wrote carefully, and when he concentrated a little more than usual, you’d notice how his brow furrowed too much and scrunch it back into place with your thumb.

Every few minutes, Juhoon would glance over and see another bright bracelet taking shape between your fingers in strange colors and neat loops. Good with your hands as always, he thought. In just a week after you started, you had made so many bracelets that Juhoon’s wrists were practically becoming a gallery for them. 

“Ju.”

“Yeah?” he answered, head bent over the worksheet in front of him.

“Made you something.”

Juhoon lifted his head, and there you were holding one of those little looms out toward him. This one was blue and orange. He noticed you always made him different ones. They’d never be the same colors twice, nor the same pattern. And when he asked why, you told him it was because no two things about Juhoon should ever be exactly the same, and you liked that about him. 

Before he could take it from you, you caught his arm on instinct and slid the bracelet over his hand yourself. The elastic tugged lightly against his skin before settling into place, and you held his hand up to inspect your work. You looked at the bracelet, then at Juhoon, only to find him already looking back. 

Juhoon blinked. “What?”

“Look at the bracelet, dumbass.”

So he does. He lowers his gaze, obedient more than anything. Looks at the bracelet, then back at you. “Looks pretty.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, and you gave him a sing-song ‘thank you’; then you let go of his arm and looked away. 

Juhoon let out the quietest and shakiest breath, and when you looked at him you saw that he had turned his face away too. The faint pressure of your fingers where you had held him hung around for just as long as the bracelet on his wrist did. So with a little more effort, he bent back over your homework and kept writing. 

You were almost asleep when you heard Juhoon call your name from behind you. You rolled over on the bed and found him sitting there with an orange in his hands, peeling it carefully over a scrap of tissue so the juice wouldn’t drip. 

“Want one?” he asked. 

Your eyes narrowed a little. “You got another?”

He lifted the fruit slightly, still working at the skin. “You can have this one. It’s almost unpeeled.”

You snorted and propped yourself up on one elbow. “I can peel my own oranges, y’know.”

“I know that.” He glanced up at you for a second, then back down at the orange. “Just let me peel it for you.”

“You’re always doing things for me, Ju.”

“I bet you like that, huh?” 

You don’t remember the first time you began to need Juhoon. He was so perfect to you. So steady and kind, that being cared for by him felt a little like making a wish at a shrine. So did you like it? Somewhat. But somewhere closer to the surface, in a place far less noble than the root, you wished he would stop. It was humiliating. 

Whether his concern came from pity or something else, you could never separate it from the shame that bloomed every time he was there to witness you as a flaw of nature. 

You wanted him close. You wanted him gone. Tragic that both of those wishes always came from the same place. 

“Not really.” It was a lie in the open.

“Ah.” Even then, Juhoon finished peeling the orange and held it out to you in neat little segments, and you took them. 

“Sorry,” he said next. Still, he fed you fruit. He’d tuck a slice between your lips and wipe the juice from the corners of your mouth. You didn’t answer, even after you both had gone downstairs to eat. There was nothing to be sorry for.

You’ll never know why you’re like this, and you would have preferred a better explanation. If there was anything else to blame besides the clinical little claim that it was simply in your brain chemistry, you would’ve taken it. But there isn’t. So you were left with the bitter knowledge that you were simply built to buckle under the pressure of being alive. 

The strangest part is that you’re aware of it all. The numbness is there. Your emotions have never been particularly obedient things. Your mind could spend days trapped inside a single unpleasant thought before losing the ability to focus on anything at all. 

Sleep doesn’t help either. People speak about it as though it were a repair mechanism, and eight hours of unconsciousness ought to return you to your factory settings. But it doesn’t. And food is either too much or not enough. There are sudden headaches, nausea, and an appetite that shifts with the tides of your mood. Sometimes you think your body and brain are conducting separate experiments on you. 

And a lot of the time, you’ll think of doing very bad things. Things you believe won’t leave you regretful. You don’t want them, and you don’t agree with them. You know better. There really was no villain to point at other than yourself.

Worst of all, you’d get these manic attacks. Those really ticked you. 

You try to find a pattern in them. A reason or a warning sign, some rule you can learn and obey to keep them away. But when they come, there is nothing to be done except wait. You really can’t explain how they feel. You’re twelve, for Christ’s sake. You’re not supposed to. 

But things can be normal, and you hold onto them for as long as they last. Like now, with nearly seven in the evening slipping by and Juhoon still not at his house. The television buzzes softly in the living room, the new Batman movie still playing to no one in particular while the two of you have long since sunk into the couch and dozed off. 

Your eyes are closed when Juhoon’s parents come by later to pick him up. You don’t open them then either, only feel the hush of movement near you, the brush of breath against your eyelids, and then the brief touch of a kiss pressed to your hair.

“See you in a month,” comes his voice. You hadn’t answered back then and pretended to be asleep still, because he’ll be back anyway. You were as certain as tomorrow. 

But you never really did see him after a month. Not in two months, or three. By the time the school year had begun to turn over into its second half, Juhoon still didn’t come back. 

You asked about him only after a good while of pretending not to care, and your parents told you his family’s stay had been extended. Something about his father’s startup doing better than expected. Later, you learned he’d been sent up north to some polished boarding school. You thought to yourself jokingly that perhaps he need not come back at all. Boarding school boys, after all, were a plague. 

Growing up without Juhoon for the first year and a half of it felt like trying to get around with a missing limb. He had filled so many roles in your life, as young as you both were. Something like a parent, something like a best friend, and something like an embarrassing little crush. 

Now it would be your girl friends sitting cross-legged across your bed painting each other’s nails in colors too bright, instead of Juhoon hunched there tuning his guitar like he had all the time in the world. It would be your parents, not him, who would talk you out of pursuing all those complicated thoughts. And later on, it would be some boy named Nicholas on your phone, someone not especially remarkable, just available, and you would call that enough for a while. You knew he was neither kind nor good. But you were young, and people like you are so often willing to stitch romance out of whatever flimsy scraps are nearest to hands. It made your life feel, for a little while, a little less bland.

You liked to think you were doing well for yourself. Whether that was true depended on the day. But you were still here, and at that age it felt like a miracle. You went to school. You remembered birthdays. You made plans for next week. From a distance, you looked pretty normal. The doctors seemed to think so, anyway. 

4 years have passed since then.

“So you just don’t care? At all?”

Hyein’s voice crackles faintly through the phone in disbelief, and you let your head sink back against the mattress, equally in disbelief at the little fan doing its useless work overhead. The room is so warm you’ve been nudging at your neckline for some relief. 

“He’s done me dirty more times than I can count, Hyein. I genuinely can’t bring myself to give a fuck anymore.”

Truthfully, you wished you had more backbone in this situation. But whether Nicholas was in fact flirting with some other girl behind your back, and this wouldn’t even be the first time, you couldn’t seem to coax yourself into feeling much of anything at all. He wasn’t your boyfriend anyway. Something adjacent to that maybe, but not that. 

“Why do you always take him back though?”

You let out a laugh with no joy in it. “It’s so boring out here, can’t you see? There is nothing to live for.”

“Jesus–okay, whatever. None of my business anyway. I’m just telling you.” You hear her sigh hard and run a hand through her hair. “And she saw them all touchy when you left too.”

You turn your face a little into the pillow, as if that might help you heart this any less clearly. “Thought you said it was none of your business.”

“Shit, sorry.”

Your mother appears in the doorway of your room and carefully peeps in. 

“Y/n dear, it’s time to come down. People are starting to come in.”

You’re still half-sprawled on your bed, phone in hand, one leg handing off the side, when you nod and wave her off. 

“Got it ma.”

When she leaves, you place your phone even closer to your ear. “Hey, I gotta go. The neighbors are coming in.”

“Got any cute ones? Phone then my way.”

You snort, pulling a face even though she couldn’t see it. “Absolutely none. Bye, I’ll talk to you later.”

You head downstairs and are met by faces you knew well enough to wave at. Midyear gatherings like this are customary in this neighborhood, the dinner of the year where everyone suddenly discovers they have time to spare and opinions to share. That used to be your cue to disappear upstairs while the adults settled into their long and complicated plans. But you’re old enough now to sit through it. Socialize, your mother told you. You try, really. It’s only that no one in the room feels quite close enough to your age to make the effort feel less like wandering. 

The last of the plates have just been set on the long table when you hear a loud knock on the door, accompanied by your mother’s call. 

“Y/n could you bring them in?”

You quickly wipe your hands and fix your top. “Alright.”

Scurrying through the hallway, you weave around children playing tag between grown-up legs, smile politely at the neighbors who stop you to ask how school has been, and answer each question with the same well-practiced kindness. Good. Busy. It’s been fine. By the time you reach the entrance, your expression’s set as you expect another familiar face. And when you open the door, you get one. Kind of. 

Kim Juhoon stands on the porch. The bastard actually came back. 

For a long moment, you can only stare. At him, most certainly. The little boy you knew had been stretched into someone much taller, broader, angular. His eyes are the same, but everything else isn’t. 

He smiles first, small and tentative. 

“Hey there.”

You don’t really speak for a while so Juhoon takes it to mean you probably don’t recognize him.

“Uhm, see I don’t know if you remember me but I was—“

“No—I remember you, yeah.” You shake your head and try to catch yourself. “Juhoon, right?”

Something in his face loosens, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. He blinks once, and if he was smiling now, this time he’s showing teeth. 

“That’s me.”

All the years that’ve gone by stand awkwardly between you, hands in their pockets pretending not to exist. Before either of you can think of what comes next though, another pair of footsteps climb onto the porch. 

“There you are!” 

His parents appear beside him a moment later, just as bright as you remember them. Before you can even think to say hello, his mother has already crossed the distance, wrapping you in a hug so immediate your body freezes from the contact. You return it on instinct, stiff for a second before your shoulders start to soften. When she finally lets go, both hands stay on your arms. 

“My goodness.” She breathes out as eyes you all over. “Look at you. You’ve grown so much, my love!”

Beside her, Juhoon rubs a hand down his face.

“Ma,” he says, reaching over to gently steer back by the shoulder. “You’re getting a little too close.”

“What?” She protests, swatting his hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Then she looks between the two of you. “What’s with those faces? You two used to live in each other’s rooms. Now you’re standing here acting like strangers.” 

Well that certainly made things more awkward. Juhoon turns away and squeezes his eyes shut as the color climbs up the back of his neck in slow, undeniable surrender. You can’t help the small laugh that slips out of you. Not at him, but for him. From the corner of his eye, you catch him noticing. His shoulders loosen, if only a little. 

Your mother calls from somewhere deeper inside the house. “Y/n? Are they there?”

You answer with a quick “Yeah” and hope it travels farther than your embarrassment. At last, whatever strange little performance had taken over the doorway dissolves. You usher them inside one by one, taking coats as they’re shrugged off and hanging them on the coat rack. It gives your fingers something to do besides fidget.

You avoid looking at Juhoon. Or rather, you at least try. Your gaze would stop just short of him, catching instead on the line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt, his hands busy undoing the buttons of his coat. Every time your eyes threaten to climb higher they think better of themselves. 

At the table, the two of you end up across from one another by some small and evil conspiracy. You keep your hands busy though. Your fork, your napkin, the little glass of water sweating in your palm. It gives you something to do with the terrible electricity in your chest. Anything to keep from looking up too often. 

Meanwhile, Juhoon doesn’t even seem like he’s trying. He has at least enough shame to look away every once a while, but in the end his eyes return to you with the stubborn rhythm of a tide. He catches your mouth when you answer a question, takes note of what you said, notices when your hand reaches for your glass, or the small shifts of your expression whenever someone says anything funny. 

You’ve changed. Of course you have. Juhoon reads them in pieces whenever he looks at you. Your hair’s different. Your shoulders too. Then it’s the way you sit, the way you lift food to your mouth, the way your throat moves when you turn your head to listen. It’s the little things that add up. And the near-smiles. They come and go, but Juhoon takes note of the way they look. Nothing about you has become any less you, yet every glance he’s stolen so far has left him a little less rational than before. 

It’s not long before you finally look up to see him staring right back at you. He turns away immediately, but not before the smallest betraying color climbs his neck. He clears his throat and stabs at his food with unnecessary concentration, and you have to look down fast. Because if you keep looking any longer you’ll start to grin, and that would be a disaster of its own, wouldn’t it?

“Could somebody please get the dog to stop making that sound?” Your mother exclaims in the middle of dinner. You stood up at once, glad for the excuse to leave the table. Your family dog had been whining by the front yard for the better part of thirty minutes already, pacing in little frustrated circles and throwing itself against the fence. You slipped outside with a muttered promise to your mother that you’d handle it. 

“You’re so dramatic.” You told her in a whisper as you rubbed her ears to make her calm down. Behind you, the screen door opened with a quiet scrape.

“She wasn’t always this loud.”

You turn your head around, and just as you feared, Juhoon stands by the front door with his hands in his pockets, looking somehow both the same and not at all. Four years could do that. You glance back at the dog. 

“She’s grown now. Couldn’t obey if you told her anything.” 

His mouth twitched. “Sounds about right.” 

You climb onto the porch and settle on the top step where the dog can still keep you in sight. That is apparently all she wanted before folding onto the grass with a long, satisfied sigh, lowering her head between her paws, content that you hadn’t disappeared yet. Behind you, footsteps. Juhoon comes to stand beside the railing until he’s only an arm’s length away now. Between what space was left hung the accumulated ghosts of years worth of memories. From six, ten, and the exact age you’d both been when he left. 

He leaned one shoulder against the porch railing and looked out at the yard, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand beside you again.

“It’s been a minute,” he said. 

“A minute? Try four years.”

He winced and glanced at you from the corner of his eye.  “Yikes. Could you maybe let the grudge go.

“I’m not holding a grudge.”

“C’mon, I know you better than that.” The words slip out and come a little bit unnatural because they’re a few years out of date. Nonetheless, Juhoon reached into his pocket and held out a stick of gum as a peace offering. “Gum?”

You eyed it, then him. “No thanks.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

He unwrapped it with his teeth and popped it into his mouth, then glanced at you again a little more carefully this time. 

“How’ve you been?” 

Such an ordinary question, it ought to have an ordinary answer. Instead, your mind turns over itself looking for one.

“Good. Great? Dunno, as good a life as this.”

“High praise.”

You snorted. “Did you want a more tragic answer?”

Juhoon shook his head and looked down at his feet, smiling to himself. “Maybe a more specific one. Still in the same school?”

“It’s the only school we got in this town.”

“Right, right. Forgot I used to live in the middle of nowhere.”

The dog, offended by how little either of you has been paying attention to her, wanders over and folds herself on the step across your shoes with a dramatic huff. You bend down and scratch absentmindedly behind her ears. 

“How ‘bout you? Good so far?” You finally dared to look at him and told yourself, yeah, he looked nice. Really nice, actually. This was the kind of cute neighbor Hyein wanted you to ‘phone her way’ you thought. 

Juhoon shrugged. “Yeah, I mean I got out of boarding school so that’s something.”

“I heard about that. Boarding school boys.”

He looks over, one side of his canine peaking. “Yeah?”

“Eugh.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from him. “Hey, that's rude. I came out of there pretty much the same.”

“Don’t even lie. I know that place turned you into some secret freak. You probably got secret societies. Your weird little rituals. Who knows? Maybe even a cult.”

“Jesus, Y/n.” He dragged a hand over his face with an exaggerated groan.  “Again with being so paranoid.”

“You know I can’t help it.” A soft smile forms in your face as you turn to look at him, and Juhoon stares. He can’t help himself. He’s spent the better part of the evening pulling himself away from you by the neck, reminding his eyes where they ought to go. He’s supposed to be respectful, for god’s sake.

Juhoon’s exhausted four years with things stacked behind his gums. There were so many things he wanted to say folded neat and sharp, that if he ever found you again, he could unfold them one by one and prove that he’d kept himself waiting for a moment as large as this. And here it was. 

He opened his mouth to start.

Closed it.

Opened it again and settled for a mere question. 

“Are you not gonna be mad at me?”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For leaving so suddenly.”

You looked down at the dog who thumped her tail a few times against the step, then back at him. “I wouldn’t be mad about something that wasn’t your choice to make, Ju.”

Juhoon let out a breath through his nose, relieved by that dear old nickname and in some ways grieving. He rolled the gum around in his mouth once, then pinched it out with two fingers and stuck it to the side of the step. 

“Still,” he said, quieter now. “If I were you, I think I’d be pretty mad.”

You gave him a small and helpless sigh. “Good thing you aren’t me.”

And thank God for that. Juhoon wasn’t anything at all like you. 

You picked at the edge of the porch step with your thumb while the dog shifted at your feet. “What’s the plan?”

“We moved back to the house. So after summer ends, it’s back to that school too. Back to normal.”

“Was it not normal up north?”

“I could argue against. For one, I couldn’t see–” Juhoon had to stop himself quickly and retaliate. “Yeah, it wasn’t normal at all.”

For the rest of summer break, you saw Juhoon more than once. A week later, your mother sent you over with a basket of fruit for his parents. Juhoon answered the door before either of them could and, after a brief greeting, led you upstairs to his room. It was there that you realized just how much he had changed.

His little kid bed had been replaced with a much larger bed frame, save for the growth spurt he’ll be undergoing for the next 3 years. His walls, the way you remembered them, were so plain and blue before. Now, you could barely see the paint through the posters and vinyls and–

“Oh, you play the drums now?” 

There was a whole drum set in the corner, tucked beside a very expensive-looking record player he had set up nearby. 

“Yeah. I took up drumming for a marching band.” 

“Cool.” 

While Juhoon knelt to search beneath his bed, you let yourself take another look around. He had started to resemble one of those 90s British rock boys. Could play the part with his seemingly newfound hobbies, too. 

“So why’d you take me up here?”

Juhoon stood up with a cardboard shoebox in his hand and crossed the room toward you. 

“Wanted to give you something.”

When he held it out, you leaned in to peek inside. Tapes. All tapes. 

“Tapes?”

Juhoon gave the box a little shake and let out an awkward grin. “It’s just some songs I put on tape a while back when I first heard them. You really need to listen to more music Y/n.”

You took the box from him and turned it over in your hands. The labels were written in his neat, slightly slanted handwriting. Song titles were lined up on the edges. A few artists you recognized. A few you didn’t.

“I’m perfectly fine with peace and quiet, but thank you.”

Juhoon let out a laugh and leaned back against his desk, folding his arms. “That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I didn’t even know you were capable of this kind of epiphany. What, watched too much MTV?” 

“Music feeds the soul, dude. Y’know what old Willie said about it? If music be the food of life, play on.” 

You took a seat on his bed and laughed at the likeness he had to a man delivering wisdom from a mountaintop. “You mean William Shakespeare? That man’s a sham.” 

“Y/n, have you gone mad? That is one big disrespect to the arts.” 

“The disrespect was for you. Like you’ve ever even read a single Shakespeare piece. I bet you got that quote from CliffsNotes.” 

He scoffed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Maybe I’m the sham. Thou sodden witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows–”  

You choked on a laugh and hurled the pillow that struck Juhoon square in his face. The tape box lurched in your lap. And Juhoon caught himself against the desk before he could fall off. After that, the two of you collapsed into breathless, useless wheezing, enough to forget about this one misdeed of a life. 

──────── .✦

By the time school started, things were a little different.

You and Juhoon still lived in separate worlds most days. Different tables. Different people. DIfferent collections of inside jokes and complaints and things to do with your afternoons. Oddly enough, you found this distance quite comforting. Neither of you were children anymore, and time had begun to show itself to you in its ways. 

Juhoon, especially, seemed to have entered astoundingly into his state of adolescence. His clothes fit differently now. His features were sharper. His voice had dropped low enough that it sometimes startled you when he laughed. And there was something new in the way he paid attention to things. To people, passing remarks, you. 

And God help you, he had learned how to flirt. 

Or at least, he thought that making you flustered made for nice entertainment. He’d try it on you sometimes. And though you never gave him the satisfaction he so obviously wanted, you felt it. Every time. And in each of those times, you did your best to hide the fact that it reached farther in you than you wanted it to. 

Like today. 

“Can’t say I don’t miss this,” 

“Yeah, well you used to carry my bag back then, though. What happened?”

“Do you want me to carry your bag?”

“Chivalrous as ever.”

Juhoon had texted you the night before asking if you wanted to walk to school with him. You weren’t sure why. For one, he took his car with his friends every day going there. For one, he usually drove. Ever since getting his student license, he’d become inseparable from the little convoy of those loud boys who’d cause a ruckus in the parking lot each morning. For another, the two of you were old enough now to take the bus on your own. 

But perhaps he was feeling nostalgic. Or maybe the memories had gotten to him in one of its moods. Either way, you said yes. The morning air still carried some cool residue, and patches of sidewalk remained dark where the sprinklers had overreached in the early hours. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing in particular, and as you walked with Juhoon down the steps of your porch, you could almost believe you were nine again. In the pale half-light, the distance between childhood and adulthood seemed almost like a trick of perspective. 

“I sometimes see you walking to school.’+” He said after a while. “You don’t take the bus anymore?”

“I do take the bus.” You nudged a pebble with the toe of your shoe, watching it skip ahead of you. “And sometimes I miss the bus. So I walk.”

Juhoon’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Y’know I could just drive you, right? I take the car most days.”

“And have to sit through your rowdy band friends?” you scoffed. “I’m good Ju.”

“They’re not all that bad.”

“I’m sure they aren’t.”

Juhoon shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “It’s funny. Did you know Hyeon used to have a crush on you?”

You stare at him. “Who?”

“Eom Seonghyeon. He’s like a year below us. One of the guys. He said he thought you were pretty.” Juhoon understands. You are pretty, and Seonghyeon simply couldn’t help himself. Hyeon doesn’t know how Juhoon’s been living with that thought for longer than he can remember. 

“Yeah? What else did he say?”

His smile grew a bit strange. Smaller. “Said he stopped because you looked like you’d never talk to him. And that you always seemed a little sad.”

“Kid’s got a basic eye.” Juhoon laughs, but only because you did.

By the time you reach school, the sun’s fully out. Shoes scuff across the pavement, voices carry in bright, careless bursts, and people are either laughing to each other or scrambling to their lockers. Nicholas finds you first. 

“Y/n, come over here.”

You turn at the sound of your name and there he is, leaning through a little know of people. He looks well enough, annoyingly so. Juhoon hears the sound as well and turns his gaze leftward. 

“Nico.” You clicked your tongue as you got closer. “You look well. New hair? Is that why Jiah’s always got her hands on it?”

His expression shifts from offense to smug in the blink of an eye. “Hey you know she’s just a buddy. Listen, you got that math homework?”

You’re about to answer when another voice slides into the conversation, dry and amused. 

“Persistent as can be,” Juhoon says.

Nicholas turns toward the sound. It takes him less than a second to find Juhoon right beside you, and when he does, his smile frows thin.

“Kim Juhoon. Y’know, you used to be a whole lot shorter. I see you’ve changed.”

“And I see you haven’t. How’s that forehead?” 

The grin Nicholas has been wearing starts to crack as his eyebrows become more pinched. His jaw tightens.

“It’s been years. It’s fine.”

“A shame. Scars look cool, y’know. Gives you that cartoonish little high school jock look. Very Disney. I thought that was kind of your style.” 

Before either of them got any more escalated, you stepped in between the two. “Stop it you animals.” 

You look at Nicholas, who’s looking at Juhoon with fury. Then you look at Juhoon, who’s looking at you with a smirk and a look that could mean to ask you if whatever he said was funny. 

The smile you give him is small enough to deny later, but it finds him all the same. His own threatens to widen before he reins it in.

“I’ll see you around Ju. Good luck on that History test.” Then, you turn away with Nicholas.

Juhoon helplessly watches you go and arrives, against all reason, at a fascinating conclusion. Maybe he’s been doing this all wrong. Nicholas seems to be doing wonderfully with only half a conscience, so perhaps ego really is the nutrient of romance. Maybe Juhoon ought to start shoving freshmen into lockers, wear sunglasses and backward caps indoors, and become one of those aggressively symmetrical Disney jock prototypes he so loathed just to get you. 

Before he turns to leave, he laughs under his breath. No way in hell. 

—

At lunch, you both would seem like strangers.

From where you sat with your own group of friends, Juhoon sat three tables behind with his own. It’s look like you were two people whose lives had only briefly overlapped. You wouldn’t look at each other either. Not once. It is, frankly, an Oscar-worthy performance. 

But it would be so often where your phone would vibrate, and you’d hide it under the table on your lap to take a peek.

JuJu with no beat: is it just me or are the potatoes so damn dry today

12:08 P.M.

You: it’s just u. mine slap

12:09 P.M.

JuJu with no beat: shucks 

JuJu with no beat: pass me a couple ? 

12:10 P.M.

You: fuck no how would i even do that 

You: want me to frisbee some across the cafeteria? 

You: heads up

12:12 P.M.

JuJu with no beat: DO NOT no don’t even think abt it

JuJu with no beat: u could just come over and sit next to me

You: at this point just ask me to feed u some while ur at it

JuJu with no beat: could you?

You: no id rather eat drywall. leave me alone

12:14 P.M. 

JuJu with no beat: ok cuz i see ur boyfriend’s probably cracking the funniest jokes rn. glad to know he’s keeping u entertained

JuJu with no beat: maybe u should stop texting me and listen to him 

You: u talked to me first and nico is NOT my boyfriend

You: im not resorting to that kind of torture

JuJu with no beat: if hes not ur boyfriend why u always w him

JuJu with no beat: he’s always buggin ya

You: idk its complicated

You: u wouldnt get it

JuJu with no beat: hell yea i wouldnt

JuJu with no beat: the guy doesnt like me n everyone likes me

You: eat ur dry potatoes and fuck off my cell brah 

“Y/n?” Nicholas snaps his fingers once in front of your face. “Are you listening or what?”

You turn away from your phone and blink. “Hm?”

“I’ve been talking to you for, like, two whole minutes.”

“My sincerest apologies.” You tilt your head. “Which girl’s ass were we discussing again.

He lets out an exaggerated groan. “C’mon Y/n, don’t be like that. You know yours is my favorite, right?”

You snorted bitterly. Did he think that was romantic? “Really? I was worried I’d fallen in the rankings.” 

He watches you for another second before the grin returns, slower this time. “Hey. I heard the underside of the bleachers are empty this time of the day.”

“So what?”

His eyebrows lift. “You know what.”

 It seemed a fair exchange, all things considered. Besides, there were worse things than being believed in by a fool. 

You sigh through your nose. There’s no annoyance left in you anymore, because that requires an element of surprise, and Nicholas has long since exhausted that resource. You stood up, and Nicholas followed suit. Fine. You’ll let him have the illusion. You’ll borrow the comfort of this however cheaply it was purchased, and he’ll borrow whatever he thinks he’s touching. It seemed a fair exchange, all things considered. Besides, there were worse things than being believed in by a fool. 

His hand settles against the small of your back the entire way out, and you don’t stop him, no matter how much you want to pull it away. Across the cafeteria, Juhoon looked up just in time to see the gesture and almost spat out his food.  It left a sour taste in his mouth as the texture turned awful. 

No shade to Nicholas, but he could be everything a person ought to be. He could be generous and patient and funny and good. He could volunteer at shelters and call his mother every day, rescue drowning children, hell, achieve sainthood. And Juhoon, with all the pettiness you had made him capable of, would still think: Not enough. Never enough. Not for her. I knew her first. 

He couldn’t really intervene, though. You told him not to. So he chewed down his rice and prayed that all the things you said about that guy were true. And once he convinced himself enough, he gulped down the rest of his juice and got out. 

──────── .✦

You could make the argument that parties terrified you, which was true. You felt like a startled deer, and loud noises had a way of turning your bones inside out. But you liked going to them because everyone thought to collectively agree that for one night, homework and the next school year were concerns for another day. And with the right people to stand beside and exchange the occasional ‘can you believe this shit?’, you could pretend for just a few hours. 

It was nearing the end of another school year, and the field had transformed into its annual imitation of joy. Booths lined the walkways, things were being put up for sale, and there were enough sugary drinks to go around. But what everyone was really looking forward to was the music. 

And what better way to send the year off than with Juhoon behind the drums beneath the stage lights, sleeves rolled up, sweating up a storm and smiling like an idiot? Nothing. And evidently so, given you were witness to half the female student population erupting in screams every time he twirled his drumsticks. 

“That’s my boyfriend!” Someone screamed from behind you.

“That’s not your boyfriend.”

“Not with that attitude!” 

You had only meant to get drinks and come back. That was the plan. Then you turned back, and Hyein was gone. 

“Hyein?” you called, craning your neck. “Where’d you go?” No answer. 

The crowd had closed around you in the meantime with the motion of a dangerous trap. Shoulders struck shoulders. Hands brushed where they weren’t meant to. Someone’s breath found the back of your neck and the next second against the skin of your ear. Too many bodies, too little air. 

Your skin prickled as your thoughts went thin. You tried to force your way out, but there was no out to find. The crowd seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction, and every time you thought you’d found an opening, another person would step into it. 

Oh no. 

Oh no, no, no, no

“Hyein!” You called again, much louder this time, and heard the panic in your own voice. Where the fuck had she gone? 

A pair of hands settled on your shoulders from behind, and your body reacted in panic. Your mind was half gone by then, and you were already convinced you were one more breath away from peeling yourself out of your own skin, so you spun around and started swinging your arms.

“Whoa–hey, watch the hair! It’s me!” 

A voice came out laughing, and those same hands caught your wrists before you could accidentally hit something or someone. There stood Juhoon, flushed from the stage and still glowing, shirt damp at the collar, looking exactly like he had a few minutes ago when you’d managed to tear your eyes away from him. Your breathing, as well as your thumping chest, began to drag itself back into place. 

“You okay?” he asked, and his eyes flicked over your face, taking in the color in your cheeks with his palms. If anything, the gesture made you even more red. “You’re flushed.”

“Duh. Your performance got the whole set of girls flushed,” you say, and even you can hear how flimsy the joke is. 

Juhoon drops his hands from your face and squints. “You really mean that?”

You shook your head. “Of course not. I need an out, Ju. Right now.” 

“We can pass backstage,” he says at once, already angling his body toward the edge of the crowd. “C’mon.”

The backstage route turned out to be a secret passage smelling faintly of dust and the exhausted spirit of school-sanctioned cheer. Juhoon told you to hold onto his hand and not let go, glancing over his shoulder every few steps to make sure you were still there, which was funny because the deathly grip he had on your palm should have made it obvious to him. 

It was impossible not to feel a little giddy about it, being shepherded along by Juhoon with his ridiculous hair and stupidly nice-looking face. The classroom they ended up using as a lounge had been decorated to look like somebody’s idea of a good time. There were paper lanterns, bent streamers, and a whiteboard covered in names and doodles. One corner had a speaker set up for karaoke, another had a ring of chairs pushed into a circle, and the rest of the room was a collision of snack wrappers and soda bottles. 

You found a few of your friends there, though not Hyein. You still didn’t know where she’d gone. A few others from Juhoon’s orbit had claimed the back row for an argument. Juhoon was greeted, naturally. 

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence. Everybody act natural!” Martin yelled.

“Show-off!” Keonho retorted.

“Semantics semantics.” 

Juhoon lifted both hands in surrender, the picture of false innocence. “I have no idea what you’re all talking about.” 

You hear Hyein before you see her. 

“Found you,” she said, appearing at your side and looking like she’d run a mile. Her gaze skimmed over you from head to toe, quick and assessing. Then she shoved a plastic cup into your hand filled with water. 

“Where’d you go? I looked back and you were gone.”

Hyein’s brows shot up. “What do you mean, where did I go? I went to look for you I swear I almost had a panic attack.” 

“I almost had a panic attack! You and your little side quests.” 

Juhoon was still at your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the quarter inch of space between you. He smiled a small smile.

“That was supposed to be my good deed for the night.”

You glance at him and squint. “Making a lot of assumptions about your good deeds.” 

Before he can think of a comeback, someone from the back of the room lifts a deck of cards into the air. 

“Now that more people actually decided to come, we can play some competitive Go Fish!” 

“You do realize we already played Go Fish for an hour,” someone said. “An hour straight. You wanna do it again?”

“That’s a children’s game, isn’t it?”

“Oh fuck all of you.” Woojin said, wounded by the room’s lack of appreciation. 

“Just go home, man.”

“No. We still haven’t done Karaoke.” 

Juhoon tipped his head toward you, speaking low enough to be heard by your ears alone. 

“Better?”

You gave him a smile that could only be seen by him in return. “Back to normal.” 

Across the room, Woojin is still fighting for his life over the merits of his Go Fish idea when somebody snatched the microphone and started threatening him with it. Another person had climbed up onto a desk to announce, for reasons unknown, that if nobody kissed anybody before graduation, it would be a waste of youth. 

That naturally piqued everyone’s interest. 

“Gross,” Hyein muttered.

“Okay, but if we’re doing stupid shit, we should do them properly. Hey we got a bottle and some Truth or Dare cards. Spin the bottle, anyone?” 

The reactions were a variety of Yes, No, Absolutely not. But before anyone could agree to disagree in any meaningful way, chairs were already scraping across the floor, and people were starting to crowd into a circle. You stayed unnervingly still for a bit with a mind spaced out. 

“You coming?” Juhoon called out for you.

“Yeah yeah. Give me a minute.” 

And with the first spin of the bottle, everyone knew this was fucked. The game, as it turned out, was as indecent as can be, 

The first victim was Hyein, who was instructed to text her ex a haiku. She argued that she hadn’t written a poem since elementary school, to which someone said today might as well be her comeback. Woojin, somehow faring even worse, was sentenced to serenading Mr. Choi in the hallway. Then came Seonghyeon, who had his card saying he had to kiss the prettiest person in the room. Like a goddamn movie stereotype. 

“Ohoho careful Y/n. Y’know he used to have the biggest crush on y–” Martin was briefly cut off by Seonghyeon’s hand on his face.

“Shut up–piece of shit.”

Martin’s voice came out as little more than muffled suffering. “Mmph–”

“Die quietly.” He turned to you and immediately gave an apologetic bow. “Sorry Y/n.”

You couldn’t help but laugh and wave him off. “It’s all good.” 

Seonghyeon got up. “I’ll take the punishment.”

“Aww,” Keonho cooed. “Can’t find anyone pretty enough Sean?”

“Yeah. Hideous, hideous, hideous.” He pointed to three of his friends as he said it. 

Throughout the night, the bottle kept spinning. Truths became dares, dares became crimes. It was admittedly a fantastic time. The room wasn’t as loud as the field outside, and you haven’t been given any obnoxious dares yet. 

That is until Woojin picked up another card, and his expression seemed to change. That smile looked more evil than sincere.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be witnessing a seven minutes in heaven tonight.” 

Half the group cheered, the other half booed, and one girl started praying. For it to be her or not, you weren’t sure. 

“That is entrapment! No way in hell am I doing that with any of you monsters. I’m out.” Seonghyeon shoved himself to his feet in a dramatic outrage that made the rest of you laugh harder. Keonho had apparently latched onto his leg, and Seonghyeon had to pry him off before he could make his way out the door. 

“I pray it’s you Y/n. This bottle really seems to hate you.” Hyein says.

“You’d be dead wrong.”

You really should’ve held your breath back there, because Hyein had been dead right.

“Fuck.” You groaned under your breath. “Smells like feet in here.” 

“Yours or mine?” 

“Definetely not mine.”

Before you knew it, you and Juhoon had been shoved into the smallest supply closet as the final consequence of your losses. Keonho and Woojin could’ve picked a better spot. This was the cliche of all cliches. 

Juhoon shifted first, planting one hand against the shelf beside your head. “Wanna talk? We got 7 minutes.”

“Not really.” 

“So you wanna do something else?” Before he could lean any closer and tease further, you grabbed a handful of his hair and started pulling. “Ah—quit it! I was kidding!”

“You should be.” You say, laughing despite yourself as you let go and lean back against the wall. THe plastic shelf gives a little under your shoulder. “We can talk.”

“Alright, I’ll go first.” He rubs the back of his head and shifts from where he stands. “Be honest with me alright? And don’t think too much about it.”

“Can’t say that made any sense, but I’ll try. Shoot.” 

“Do you find Seonghyeon handsome?”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“What kind of a dumbass question is that?” You lifted a brow. 

“… A dumbass kind of question, I guess?”

You fold your arms and stare at the darkness with all the patience you can fake. After a bit of thought, you had come to a conclusion. “Conventionally, yeah Seonghyeon is handsome. Everyone else would think that.”

Juhoon squinted at you, then pushed himself off the shelf, adjusting his stance so he’s much closer. “Okay let me rephrase the question. So do you think Seonghyeon, who you think is handsome, is a date-able person by any means?”

You frowned and tilted your head. “Which means specifically Ju?”

“Your means.”

“That’s a kid.” You snort out. “Listen I don’t know how this question even came to you, but being aware of the fact that Seonghyeon used to have a crush on me and the other fact that I think he’s conventionally attractive isn’t gonna change the most important fact that I will probably never look at him that way.”

Juhoon let out a long breath and nodded, satisfied for reasons only he understood. “Alright. Good to know.”

“You prod too much man.”

“Let me ask another question.”

“Last question you’re gonna get tonight so you better think it through.”

He ignored the warning entirely. “Is Nicholas a date-able person by your means then?”

You wished he could see the disbelief in your eyes when he said that. “Are you serious?” No! God no.”

He makes a helpless little face. “I’m just saying—why are you two like, always paired up like that?”

“Nicholas is kind of dumb, Ju. No, seriously—he’s really dumb. He thinks he’s using me but he’s living a lie too.” Juhoon’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t know whether to be happy about it or not. At least he’s being given some clarity now. It’s a win in his books. 

“I’ve always wanted to explore the dating scene. Romance just looks so nice in the movies, doesn't it? So I figured if I was gonna mess around with anyone, it might as well be with some insincere guy I could use for the experience.” 

You continue, a lot quieter now. “I know he doesn’t really like me, and I don’t exactly like him either. But at least it feels less bad to waste time with someone who isn’t genuine than with someone who is. I mean if we stopped talking now, it wouldn’t mean anything.” 

Juhoon wants so badly to tell you he’s right here. That if wasting your time on someone genuine is what scares you, then let it be him. He’s willing. 

Instead, all that climbs out of his mouth is, “Ah, I see.” 

You study him for a second, finding the glowing reflection of eyes in the dark. “Why are you asking me this?”

Because it’s really about me.

“Just thought you’d pick up on a few things.” He waved the topic off. “Nevermind.”

“Sometimes you just sound… crazy to me.” 

“A minute left. You’re literally breathing down my neck.” 

“This supply closet’s so–” You kick on the door, “Tiny. I think I’m missing an eyelash.”

Juhoon tilts his head and hunches over. “Plucked it all out while we were in here?”

“No, my falsies dumbass.” 

“Oh.” A beat. “Let me have a look.” 

“In the dark? Be my guest.”

Juhoon took the challenge as though it could be won, but this might just be the dumbest possible excuse he’s made to stand far too close to you again. This time, in the dark. And you could feel him before you could properly see him. How warm he was, the faint hitch in his breathing, the small hesitation that came from one motion and the next. 

Inch by inch, closer by degrees, and the hand that found your jaw was warm. His thumb settles beneath your chin while the other hand cups your cheek, angling your face toward the thin strip of hallway light slipping under the door. He’d forgotten he was supposed to be looking for an eyelash. 

“I think,” He was close enough now that you could feel his breath fanning your face when he spoke. “I think it might be easier if you looked up.” 

Your eyes met his instead. “You seem very focused. On my eyelash, was it?”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “On the general vicinity, mmh.” 

Before either of you could react, the closet door shook violently beneath a barrage of fists. 

“7 minutes is up! Stop kissing in 3 2 1–” 

When the door opened, Juhoon jerked back so fast he nearly collided with the shelf, his hand falling away from your face like he’d been burned by the fact of having touched you. 

Everyone was outside looking, curious, expectant. You merely rolled your eyes and stepped out. 

“You wish. We were just talking.” You said as you shoved Woojin aside. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s Ju so red then?”

“Because it’s hot as balls in there.” He replied quickly, dragging a hand down his face looking horrified. 

“A shame.” 

Neither of you ever spoke of it again. And you certainly never mentioned how, in the sliver of light that reflected in his eyes back there, you caught them wandering just a little too far downward. RIght above your chin, just below your philtrum. 

──────── .✦

The first summer you spent with Juhoon after he returned was a busy one. He insisted you take him to every new place and landmark that had popped up in town while he was gone. When you asked him why it mattered so much, since he’d already seen them with his friends from school, he told you that seeing them with you would be an all new experience altogether. 

You didn’t really have much to argue after that. Your face, however, had plenty to say for itself. All those words painted red. 

You took him to a festival that afternoon, and in doing so, rode in his pickup for the first time. Juhoon looked unfairly nice behind the wheel, one hand lazily resting on it and the other tapping along to whatever song the radio had decided to butcher. Sometimes, it startled you how much he’d grown up. 

The festival had taken over the town square and spilled into the streets surrounding it. Colorful banners hung overhead in uneven rows, fluttering lazily beneath the June sun. Paper lanterns swayed gently above stalls selling skewers of grilled meat, candied fruit, and cups overflowing with shaved ice. Children chased bubbles around the fountain, armed with plastic swords and paper hats. Teenagers clustered around games with impossible prizes. And there was laughter everywhere. Juhoon took it all in one look and grinned. 

You both got shaved ice first, and after that Juhoon pulled you toward a tossing game, intent on proving that all those years of basketball had been good for something. He rolled up his sleeves, talked up his god-tier hand to eye coordination, and then missed the first two shots so badly you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

At least the third one went in. The man at the booth looked put out, in contrast with Juhoon’s smug expression. 

“God. Like I said.”

“That was one shot.” 

Juhoon tipped his chin up a little, still riding the high of his own victory. “One shot’s all it takes.”

The booth attendant finally handed over the prize: a giant stuffed dolphin, absurdly blue and far too big. Juhoon took it with both hands, gave the man a quick bow, and then immediately shoved it toward you. 

“For you.” 

You stared at him. “For me?”

He shrugged, trying for casualness. “I fuckin’ hate Dolphins. Devils of the deep, that’s what they all are.”

By the time the sun began to set, you and Juhoon had set off on his pickup toward a hill overlooking the town. He motioned for you to climb into the back where he’d spread out a blanket for the two of you to lie on and watch the rest of the sunset from. So you did, settling in with the giant dolphin as a pillow, while Juhoon finished the last of his shaved ice and the sky slowly bled into the night. 

“So how’s it going? Y’know, with the whole…”

“Huh?” You turned your head. “Oh you mean–?”

“Yeah, that.” Juhoon picked idly at the spoon in his hand. “You haven’t really been as open about it with me ever since I came back.” 

“You’ve become too cool, Juhoon. Agh, you and your suave band friends.” You snorted, and waved vaguely. “What’ll their drummer think of me once I tell him my doctor’s visits have never stopped at all?” 

“Stop bullshitting me man.” He sighed and sat up a little, resting his elbows on the edge of the truck bed. 

You turned away from him to look back up at the sky. “I’m fine. The doctors said I’m as stable as can be.”

It was weird to you, how persistent he was. So much so that sometimes you fear that one day he'll look at you too closely and discover everything that lay there. The slipping gears, the tiny teeth grinding where they shouldn’t. And maybe then, after he looked enough, he’d decide it was hideous.

No matter what he told you, you knew he’d changed. He was cooler now, more out of reach. Taller somehow, even when he was sitting down. You wanted to be known by him all over again so badly it was an illness of its own. And then there were other days where you wished he’d just leave again. 

You supposed you had always been a little in love with Juhoon, and a little embarrassed by it too. Because of this, you knew you were completely ruined. He was my ruins witness and my witness to ruin. Worse still, he never seemed to recoil from the sight. He touched you. He cared. Well, he said he did. As though these things were so easy, and that you hadn’t given him every reason not to. 

“You sure? You don’t seem too happy about that.” 

“Sure I am.” 

“Liar. But it’s ok. I know you well enough.”

You looked over and gave him a once over. “Want a ribbon for that?”

“No. And I know that whenever you say ‘I’m fine’ in that voice it either means you’re lying or you’re stalling.”

“Helpful.”

“And again, I know that if I keep pushing you'll get pissed at me.”

“Very helpful.”

“And I know,” you could hear the sound of a smile when he said it, which should have been impossible, “that you’ll tell me eventually.”

You picked at the seam of the stuffed dolphin fin and looked away from him. “You have better things to worry about, Ju.”

“No I don’t. What is it huh? You don’t like school? You need a makeover? Do you not feel like yourse–” 

‘It’s not that, Ju, it’s–” You cut him off and shove your face into your hands with a groan. 

The hill had gone dark, and the festival below had become a scatter of lights, warm and blurred from the distance. The fireworks would crack soon, so to tell him, it’d have to be now. 

“I want to be okay with who I am, Really. And sure, I’m scared of her. Shit, sometimes I think nobody's more afraid of me than me.” Beside you, Juhoon said nothing. He’d turned onto his side at some point, and you wanted to hide from the feeling of him looking. 

“But this is all I’ve got, right?” You shrugged. “This is the person I have to spend the rest of my life with.”

You swallowed a choke. “If I fake it, and people like what they see… then they don’t like me at all. That’s so scary to think about.” 

You pushed yourself up from the blanket and stared out into nothing in particular. The wind shifted. You could smell the grass. Sugar. Summer. 

“But nothing’s scarier than being me, Ju.” You smiled a little, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Nothing.” 

He was quiet long enough that you began regretting having said anything at all. With the residual drops of courage in your body, you pushed out the last of the truths that'd been gnawing at you all your life. 

“Sometimes I wish my brain just worked the way it was supposed to. Like, if I didn’t have these chemical defects I wouldn’t even think about half the things I do. Isn’t that crazy? I wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“What are you talking about?” 

No seriously, what was she talking about? And of course Juhoon knew in theory what you were talking about, but if he spoke now you probably would have brushed it off and told him not to worry, or that you didn’t want to hear any of it. 

But fine. You don’t want what ordinary people have to say? Let’s consult the so-called Gods, starting with Aristotle himself. His idea of being good had less to do with being perfect and more to do with customs and choices. Then being good must be like a muscle, right? Use it enough, and it’ll remember. Then the existentialists came along and preached that people are made by what they do with what they’re given.. You are what you choose, they’d insist, even if the choosing hurts. And you’ve got someone like Nietzsche who made a career out of asking this one question: “Well, what if suffering isn’t ‘the ’sign that you’ve failed?”

You don’t like the Gods? Fair enough. Then look to the dead. Van Gogh spent much of his life miserable and gave the world stars. Sylvia Plath left behind poems that people would only learn to weep over decades later. John Nash spent years fighting his own mind and still changed mathematics. 

Perhaps that was the common thread tying together Gods and ghosts alike. Aristotle with his mores. The existentialists with their freedom to insist. Nietzsche forever defying the universal morals. Van Gogh with his sunflowers. Plath with her bell jars. Though separated by centuries and burdened by vastly different tragedies to reach their conclusions, they all seemed to stumble toward the same end, and it was one of the few things Juhoon had managed to take away from them. That these things: righteousness, suffering, beauty, all of them began from the materials already at hand rather than some imaginary set one had been cheated out of. 

Which was why he found your fear so heartbreaking. There has never been another you waiting behind a curtain, Y/n. There is only this one. 

And not one among these figures had managed to produce evidence of a perfect blueprint for a human being no matter how revered they became. There was no original version unchanged by grief or loneliness. Not the philosophers, not the gods, not the poets, nor the dead. These were people. And what they left behind were lives that were anything but simple, with no suggestions of a pristine hidden self. Only the self itself. Super strange, yeah. But no less real for it. No less deserving of being lived. 

Before you could answer, it was his turn to cut you off. 

“Don’t do that.” He said. It didn’t sound all that angry. He seemed more sad, if ever. 

Suddenly, a loud bang split the air. A moment later, a bloom of color. Fireworks rose over the hill in splashes of red, blue, and gold spilling themselves across the sky, and when Juhoon turned at the sound of your gasp, you were looking up. He caught the colors in your eyes, and your mouth, so lately full of those terrible little verdicts, parted in wonder. 

Ah, Juhoon’s brain goes off, would it be so bad to want to kiss you under all this? Will we still have each other?

When the fireworks had finally died down and the sky settled back into darkness, your yawns grew harder and harder to disguise. Juhoon took the hint. So he folded up the blanket and tossed it into the backseat, banishing the stuffed dolphin alongside it despite your half-hearted protests. Then he ushered you to the passenger seat and drove home in easy silence. His playlist hummed through the stereo, and when Juhoon glanced over, he found you sitting with the window rolled down, chin resting against your hand. The wind played with your hair and streetlights came and went over your face like passing thoughts. 

Juhoon hopes the songs in the car can stand in for all the things he couldn’t find the right moment to say earlier. He hopes that, despite the wind rushing in through the open window, you could still hear it.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?

Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

“Does it scare you? When I… y’know.”

The question catches him off guard that he has to steal a brief glance in your direction before returning his attention to the road, though the answer had already reached him by then. 

“No.”

“Do I scare you?”

“You never scare me.”

You make me sad sometimes. You make me angry. But never scared. Never you. 

And Juhoon never second-guessed the thought. Not once in his life did he think he ever would. 

By the time Juhoon turned onto your street, the conversation had long since died out. The radio had become little more than another engine humming somewhere beneath the quiet. He glanced over when the car rolled to a stop outside your gate, and you were asleep. Your cheek had fallen against the window sometime during the drive home, leaving the faintest fog blooming and disappearing with each breath. He reached across and unbuckled your seatbelt carefully, before unbuckling his as well. Then, he stepped out into the cool air, rounded the hood, and opened your door as slowly as the hinges would allow.

With one arm behind your knees and the other around your back, he lifted you from the seat. You stirred immediately, and his heart launched into his throat. The walk to your front door felt considerably longer than usual. He slipped his shoes off by the entrance before carrying you upstairs one impossible careful step at a time. WHen he slipped across your room without a hitch, he could finally breathe properly again.

Juhoon crossed your bed and lowered you onto the mattress, and it was only when you barely stirred at all did his heart finally rest easy knowing you were fast asleep.  Now, standing in the quiet of a familiar bedroom, he looks down at the girl who had become the measure by which he’d learned every other kind of missing. The smile he lets himself have is small and hopeless.

So much, he whispered, barely louder than your breathing. You have absolutely no idea.

Then because he needed to leave, Juhoon turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the blanket a little higher over your shoulder, and let himself disappear as quietly as he’d come.

──────── .✦

Geez, did it hurt. 

The bulb above the mirror is dying. It flashes every few intervals, and you make a mental note to tell your dad he ought to replace it. But besides that, you sit on the cold tile floor holding the side of your stomach, and sitting on the floor with you is a lighter, a little blade, and some plaster. 

The flickering was horrible, but did you know what was worse? Hospital lights. Those things were fucking obscene. Too bright. Too white. Like being interrogated by the moon. Everytime you looked at yourself from a reflective surface you could see every pore and every line. You used to think they made them that way so there would be nothing to hide from the doctors. But tonight, you weren’t going to the hospital. At least not for another week. 

A few hours ago, you had gone through one of those seizures again. For what reason, you could only guess it was a biological one. Your parents, after holding you through it, said it might have been caused by changing hormones or sleep deprivation to your condition, but you didn’t care. You just wanted it to stop. To be rid of that terrible out-of-body feeling you could never get used to. And you wished you could abandon this coping mechanism entirely, but the method had proven itself somewhat effective at times. 

No matter how many times you resort to this, you only grew more convinced that nobody should have to do it. Nobody should be brave enough, or as desperate. Least of all you. 

Just then, your phone’s ringing got you out of your trance. You quickly finished applying the rest of the bandages and got up to answer the phone. When you saw the caller ID, it was Juhoon. 

“W’dya want?” You said as you put the phone to your ear, slowly bending down to tidy up your mess.

“I want you to meet me outside your front door in 30 minutes. Maybe pack some extra clothes while you’re at it.” 

“What? Why? Where are we going?”

“The lake. And no I’m not taking no for an answer if you’re wondering. Bye-bye.” 

“Ju wai–”

Before you could protest, Juhoon hung up. Once the line went dead, and after confirming that there were no suspicious remnants of your earlier misery clinging to you, you made a mad dash for your room. The next half hour was spent with a valiant effort to look at least marginally better than you did some minutes ago. 

When you got downstairs and saw Juhoon’s pick-up roll around at the perfect moment, you bid your mom goodbye and hurried out. 

“30 minutes? You fucking serious?” You climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Now I know you don’t get girls because then you’d know a girl could never get ready in 30 minutes.”

“You still made it didn’t you?” Juhoon shot back immediately, one hand on the wheel. “And you look great, so I’d say my estimate was pretty accurate.”

“Just shut up.”

“How can I when the Beatles are on?” He gave you a sheepish grin and turned the volume up before hitting gear. “Oh hey Jude, don’t make it bad! Take a sad song–!”.

For the rest of the drive, all you could do was laugh while Juhoon shouted every lyric from the radio, and you laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

“You know what? McCartney would’ve admired this passion.”

You laughed even harder. “McCartney would’ve hit you with his bass. 

The town rolled by outside the window, washed in afternoon light and a familiar feeling. A convenience store. The old pharmacy. Mrs. Han walking her terrifying Pomeranian. And all the while, your laugh kept bouncing around in Juhoon’s head. Clearer than the radio, softer than the road.. A real one. Now, Juhoon knows every version of your laugh. He lived long enough to witness them all. The fake one. The polite one. This was the one you’d save for him. 

By the time he pulled up near the lake, the pick-up slowed into a quiet little opening by the trees. It was a place that looked like it had been waiting all day for someone to find it. Juhoon barely turned off the engine before he was out, shutting the door behind him and jogging toward the dock. You were right behind him a second later, laughing already, your sandals half untied and your steps quick over the grass. 

The dock creaked under both of you when you reached it, old wood warm from the sun and rough beneath your feet. THe lake stretched out ahead, still in some places and glittering in others, the surface broken only by the occasional ripple from a fish or a breeze that found its way down through the trees. WIthout warning, Juhoon crouched and started yanking at his shoes.  

“Damn. You’re not even gonna sit first?” You asked.

He looked up at you from where he was bent. “Do you want to sit first?”

“Yeah.”

Seeing you teetering at the edge, he lunged for you at once. You shrieked, stumbling back in surprise, and nearly went over your own feet before he caught your wrist and steadied you with an easy reflex. His hand was warm against yours. His grip was light. His thumb stroked once over your skin as he looked at you, and you wanted him with a helpless ache. 

“Careful,” he said smiling.

You narrowed your eyes and hit on the side of his chest. “You almost pushed me over!”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

With a snark and a cheeky grin that should have warned him, you flipped both your positions around and shoved Juhoon right off the dock. He let out a startled yelp before the water swallowed him whole, and you sat down triumphantly, laughing so hard your shoulders shook as your feet skimmed above the lake. . You should have been more wary though, because the moment Juhoon resurfaced, he grabbed both your legs and yanked hard enough to drag you tumbling in after him. 

He smiled that terrible, beautiful smile of his and pointed at the water behind you. “There’s a fish.” 

You flinched without thinking, and Juhoon took the opening at once, splashing at you while you groaned and shoved at his shoulder. He laughed louder, then caught your wrist before you could push him away. His hand was warm even through all the cold water, and really, you’ve always thought of yourself as a practical person. Inept with the ability to put mind over body. But the body is often more honest than the mind. The body knows which hands to lean toward. And Juhoon’s are warm. 

The sun’s light had softened by the time you both decided to climb out of the water. Your clothes clung to you in dripping layers, your hair darkened and plastered to every patch of skin reachable. Juhoon shook himself off like a wet dog the moment he clambered back onto the dock with you. 

“C’mon.” He said, jerking his chin toward the bank. “There’s shade.”

The two of you crossed the grass with wet footprints trailing behind you. The ground was warm where the sun still reached it, but under the tree near the docks the air was cool and still. Its branches hung low enough to gather the last of the breeze, and the roots had made a small rise in the earth beneath it. Juhoon collapsed there first, leaning back against the trunk with a long sigh before you dropped down beside him too, knees brushing and dripping. 

You tipped your head back against the bark and turned to him. “I’ve probably already asked this a million times this summer,” you said, picking at the damp edge of your sleeve, “But why’d you bring me here?” 

Juhoon was stretched out beside you, one knee bent and an arm thrown over it. He cracked one eye open to look at you. “Dunno. I had a feeling you might have needed it. Heard your mom calling the house earlier. Said you had another rough moment.” 

It was a strong feeling alright. Juhoon always had an unsettling for looking at you and knowing, enough to make you suspect he was some kind of witch. Apparently, years apart had done nothing to cure him of that. 

You groaned and tipped your face upward again, staring through the leaves. “God, I don’t even wanna think about it. Makes my skin crawl.” 

“We don’t have to. Not right now.” He said, quieter now. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me why I saw Nicholas pacing around your house the other day?”

“You saw that? You should’ve called the cops on him.”

“What’s up with that?”

You huffed and looked back out at the lake. “I haven’t been texting him all summer. I don’t even know why he’s being nosy about it.” A snort escaped you. “One of my friends said he’s been hanging around some other girl for, like, almost a month now, so I don’t know what he wants. I’m not even his girlfriend.”

“So, you’re not hanging around him anymore? Ever?”

“I wouldn’t say ever. Maybe by the end of next year when we graduate I’ll finally drop him.”

“Why do you do this to yourself, Y/n? Seriously.”

“What? I already told you the reason.” 

“Yeah, it doesn’t make it any less horrible to hear.” 

You glanced at him with a straight face. “I thought you hated Nicholas.”

“I could care less about Nicholas. He’s a jerk with the personality of a wet turd, and all he cares about is girls and ass. It’s you.” When he said it, your smile faded. “This. You let that be somewhat enough.”

“It’s not enough, Ju.” You swallowed. “Nicholas is a shallow person and I know that I feel too much, I know that too—christ! Of course it’s not enough.” You rubbed a hand over your face, frustrated with yourself all over again. 

“Then why do you stick with him?” The answer was simple enough in the ugliest way possible. Simple enough to embarrass you.

“Because it’s easier,” you said finally, “For my conscience, I mean. It’s easier to fake it if I only have to get a little bit of something out of it. Intimacy? Closeness? Those things. I don’t know.”

Juhoon’s expression changed in tiny, almost invisible ways as you spoke. He was more hurt for you than at you. 

“You don’t want something real?” he asked. 

You let out a breath through your nose and looked away from him. “Where am I gonna find that?”

Juhoon hesitated, because the answer ought to have been obvious. When he finally answered, his voice was gentle. 

“WIth me.”

You went still as your chest took a leap too far, and Juhoon rushed on, words suddenly tripping over each other in a way that was very unlike him.

“I mean, I’ve—Y/n I’ve been here for ages. You know that. I’m not saying it like I woke up one day and decided I could just fix everything. I know that’s not how any of this works. But… I’m here. If you wanted something real, you could have it.” 

The lake breeze moved between the leaves overhead. A bird cried out somewhere farther down the bank. Your damp hair stuck to your cheek and you hated how suddenly close to tears you felt. Juhoon reached over then, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, and brushed the wet strands out of your face. 

“I’m a mess, Juhoon. I can't do that to you.” You said. 

“What’s the worst you can do?”

A whole lot, you think.

More than he can possibly understand. Poor Juhoon, standing there with his hands empty and his heart carried so openly it almost hurt to look at. 

Imagine spring as something stolen from beneath the stomach of a drought. Imagine the water isn’t actually imagined. Picture yourself a dry shell, and picture the water real. There is nothing to become but an animal. You wanted to do too much, you were a compass hand with nowhere to face but north, a pilgrim who wants a shrine to deem it holy and die reaching. Because once you touch it, you will remember how desperately you wanted to want to live. God, how badly you wanted to be made forward-facing by the world instead of always braced against it. 

So you’ll mess it up. You know you will. This wasn’t a self-pitying thought as much as it was just the truth. And then what? 

The old world again? Or maybe the pyre version of it. You’re either back to where you started or, in your particular case, halfway down in the fire. You wish this were easier to explain to people who have never lived with the sense that the self is, at best, always a little provisional. 

So when Juhoon asks you again with a face so earnest, what’s the worst you can do? You think, rather bleakly, that the worst thing you can do is the thing you’ve always been doing. 

You pose a new question in your mind: why the hell would it matter then?

And so you lean closer and tell him, brace yourself, I know I’m fucking terrible at this, before grabbing him by the collar and kissing him into the grass. Into seventeen years of pain and wishes. And when Juhoon kisses you back the way you feared, you decide then and there that if you were to burn, you might as well do so facing a beautiful sun. 

──────── .✦

Kissing Juhoon felt, for some reason, a little too much like what you’d always imagined it would be. You had spent enough time wondering about it in the small dead spaces of a day. Yes, you did imagine it. You’re just a girl and Juhoon’s a good looking guy, how could you not? The only problem was Juhoon himself, who seemed to have discovered the experience with all the greed of a starving mammal. He was eager, and it would’ve been funny to you if it weren’t also making you a little hazy. 

It was late into the night. Juhoon had stayed over after you begged him to help you with your homework again, and he had, to his credit, actually helped. Weeks worth of it actually. It was just that at some point he leaned in too close while explaining something, his shoulder brushing yours, his mouth barely a breath away from the side of your face. One thing had led to another, as these things tend to, and now…

“Ju–” You start pushing at his shoulders as he tries to lean in like he’s not already been given enough, now merely testing the boundaries of generosity. “Slow down man.” 

That gets him to pull back at once, all at once, like he’s been jerked by a wire. His hands hover uselessly for a second before he drags them away from you, looking properly concerned now, the easy grin gone off his face like someone snuffed it. 

“Did I hurt you?”

You’re still catching your breath, your pulse feels ridiculous, and your mouth tastes faintly of him and the room and the stupid fact of having been kissed at all. “No, I’m fine.”

He searches your face anyway, eyes flicking over you with a kind of panic that’s almost sweeter than the kiss itself. Your hair’s been knocked loose from where it was once held back, and one side of it has fallen half into your face. Looking at you now, Juhoon straightens a little and says, with a breathless sort of pride, 

“I’m pretty good, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

“You want me to fuck off now?” He asks in disbelief. “After what you did to me and my hair?” 

“It was ruined when you got here,” you tell him, still trying not to smile too hard. “I don’t know what bone you have to pick with me.”

“Lots.”

Juhoon goes to sit back up in the desk chair and turns toward your table, gathering the scattered papers into a neater little stack in concentration. The top sheets keep slipping under his palm, so he smooths them flat, then another, his fingers moving with patience. You watch him through all of it, and apparently too obviously, because after a few seconds he glances over his shoulder with one brow lifted.

“You want somethin’?”

There’s a little crease still in his shirt from where you’d grabbed it earlier. His hair is worse than before, if that was even possible. You lean back against your pillows and pretend not to think about it. “Pretty sure I’ve taken too much from you already.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and turns the last page over. “That’s right. My brain cells, my paper, a kiss or two—actually, that was a whole thirty minutes, wasn’t it? Wow–”

“Shut up!” You throw a pillow at his face before he can keep going, and Juhoon catches it easily, one hand closing around the case before it can hit him. He looks at you like you’ve just declared war. 

“Oh, it’s like that?” He gets up with the pillow in hand and lunges for you before you can shriek anything useful. You scramble farther back on the bed already laughing, but he’s too quick and too pleased with himself, and in the next second he has you pinned in the most harmless way possible, pressing the pillow down over your face until you’re wheezing. He finally lets up just enough for you to yank the pillow from his hands and shove him back by the shoulder. Somehow that only makes the both of you laugh harder, until the two of you end up in a useless heap across your bed, one of his knees pressed against the mattress next to yours. 

“It’s fine,” he says breathlessly.. “Seriously. Pretty girls deserve pretty things.”

You turn your head just enough to look at him. “Is that your life’s philosophy?” 

“Hell yeah. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.” He stares back, waiting. 

 “Did you just quote Shakespeare on me?”

“Yes...” He shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Why? You’re supposed to swoon.”

“I would. I just thought we were above that sorta thing.”

“Aw, who says so?” Juhoon pushes himself up with his elbows.

“Says everyone.”

He makes a contemplating face before leaning back on one hand.

“Yknow, you spend enough time around businessmen and politicians, and then believe the only worthwhile things are practical.” He shrugs. “That must be a miserable way to live.”

Juhoon looks at you more carefully now, really looks. His hand lifts almost absentmindedly, and he catches your chin with one finger, tipping your face up for you to stay there long enough to hear him. 

“Art isn’t practical. Music isn’t practical. Love certainly isn’t practical. Neither’s standing around watching sunsets. We fall in love with songs that don’t feed us and stories that don’t save us. Why do you think that is?”

Blinking in confusion, you try to give an honest answer. “... Because we’re human and to be human is to be stupid?”

Not quite the answer he had in mind. Still, Juhoon points at you like you’ve won some sort of argument.

“Correct. So forgive me,” he says, leaning a little closer again. “for being a common stupid human quoting Shakespeare. This stupid human’s got his sights on one thing.”

“Yeah?” You ask, all before your mouth goes completely dry. 

He tilts his head, as if to challenge you, because the answer is so obviously there. Before he leans in for another kiss, he whispers,

“Mmh. Quite a beautiful one, if I do say so myself.” 

──────── .✦

The doctor had been careful with her words. That was the first thing you noticed. 

You sat on the edge of a chair with your parents behind you, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles had gone white. The paper gown they made you change into kept snagging at your thighs whenever you moved.

Your mother, to the left of your backside, put one hand firmly on your shoulder like maybe she could keep you in place by the force of love alone. Beside her, your father sat rigidly with both hands braced on his lap, posture too straight and trying not to look too afraid. Across from you, the doctor had laid out your chart and kept tapping a tablet against her fingers whenever she thought no one was watching, But you were paying too much attention. 

To the doctor’s mouth, to the small pause before she spoke, to the careful way her eyes flicked to your parents before returning to you. It felt as though she was measuring how much of the truth you were able to take at once. 

“I’ve looked through all your results, tests, your sheets.” she said gently. “Taking into account the frequency increase in seizures, as well as your recent episodes, combined with the scans and the history we already have, these all suggest that your brain is under more strain than we’d like.”

Your father frowned. “Under strain, how?” 

The doctor continued, an explanation you didn’t want to have to hear yourself. “When the brain is under prolonged strain, the balance of signaling chemicals can become very disrupted. In people with MDD, the monoamine systems are more vulnerable than most. When you add her seizures, and possibly the lack of sleep, the whole thing can become harder to stabilize.” 

You couldn’t seem to feel much of anything at the moment. Maybe it was the medicine they had given you earlier dulling everything down to a numb, distant blur. Still, you kept thinking about your parents having to sit through all this and listen to every awful word. Your poor mother. Your exhausted father.

The doctor folded her hands. “That doesn’t mean your symptoms are imaginary. The brain and body are affecting each other in very real ways, Y/n. This isn’t just some sadness. MDD can change the way the nervous system regulates itself. It can affect the HPA axis, the thing that controls your stress hormones. And that can keep the body stuck in a state of exhaustion, over-alertness, or worst case, a shutdown.” 

Your mother cleared her throat. “So what does this mean for her?”

The doctor gave you all a sympathetic look. “It means we need to reduce the load on her system. Right now, she’s still able to manage in short bursts, but she won’t be able to sustain herself. All that’s been happening is taking a greater toll on her body, which tells us she’s been under more distress than she may have been able to communicate.” 

Us, us, us. You wondered who exactly she thought she was speaking for. She was the only doctor in the room, after all. But she sounded kind, and for that you were grateful. 

“So we’re recommending that after her senior year, she be admitted into a facility for a period of stabilization and monitoring.”

Your mother made a small sound beside you, and you could hear your father shift uncontrollably. When you looked at him from the reflective glass to your front, his face changed the way you never liked seeing. He wasn’t angry. Worse. He was scared. 

“For how long?” He asked.

“That depends on how she responds.” The doctor said, “A few months, possibly longer. At this stage, I’m concerned that if she’s sent directly into college without a period of stabilization, she may just deteriorate further.” 

You had been holding onto that so stubbornly. Graduation had been the thing on the horizon. The invisible lever to which your life could be flung forward. The idea that maybe, after the caps and photos and the questions of what you were gonna do next, you would get to go somewhere else and begin again. But there was no beginning again. Not soon. Though you had hope, and if you were being honest, you weren’t sure you had the strength for any of it anyway.

Your father spoke carefully. “Will she still be able to finish school?”

“Yes, graduation first. We wouldn’t interrupt that unless we had to. But after that, I would strongly recommend admission. This is the safest way to prevent any more risks of deterioration.”

The doctor must have noticed your face crumpled a little, and with a voice so steady, reassured you something she could. “I know this is a lot to take in right now, but the goal of treatment isn’t to isolate you. It’s to help bring these destabilized systems back into a range where you can function without having to constantly fight yourself. We can work with new medication, sleep regulation, and therapy to lower the risk. Your brain isn’t broken beyond repair, okay? But it’s asking for more support than you can give it alone right now.” 

You appreciated what little comfort she managed to give you, but besides that, you bit back your tears and remained quiet. Your father finally spoke. “What happens next?”

The doctor exhaled. “We’ll coordinate with her neurologist, finalize the admission plan, and make sure everything is in place whenever you’re ready. Until then, we’ll keep monitoring her activity. If anything happens, do contact us immediately.” 

After your parents spoke with the doctor a little longer, it was finally time to go home. The drive was quiet on the way back, but you kept catching their eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked terrified, more than you had ever seen them, and you understood that too. What were you supposed to do with the dreadful fact that this body which should have borne you onward had turned, instead, into the weight at your ankles? 

And when you got home, your mother went into your room with you, as she couldn’t bear to leave you alone. She looked at you then, her only child, her whole life’s work, and there was in her face the heavy, aching work of learning you anew. 

“Baby,” she whispered as you pulled the sheets up to your body. Her voice cracked on the word. “You didn’t tell us it was this bad.” 

You thought, with a grief so embarrassingly childish, Mama, take me back. Swallow me up and make me again. Return me to the dark. Nine months, one more time. Build me differently, Shuffle the compounds. Rearrange the stars. When I come into the world, I’ll remember to come out right. And when you look at me this time, you won’t have to be so sad. 

“I’m not…” You stopped. Started again. “I’m not trying to be difficult.” 

It was all in the room with you then. The guilt, the fear, and love itself, vast and helpless and with nowhere else to go. Your mother wept quietly by the bed, your father stood in the doorway and held himself still, and you drifted to sleep at last, carrying fear and shame and relief knotted so tightly together they might as well have been one thing. 

──────── .✦

By now, you had become something of an unwilling chemist.

Not a very good one, mind you. You just swallowed your pills with increasingly concerning names and hoped your brain would stop trying to kill your morale. The problem with introducing new medication was always that the body was at least a few steps behind. 

Which was how, at a quarter to twelve on a Wednesday morning, while your teacher was halfway through explaining something in Algebra class, you suddenly became intimately aware of your own stomach. 

There were signs: the dizziness, the metallic taste, the strange underwater feeling behind your eyes. But you’d grown so used to your body issuing threats it had no intention of carrying out that you just ignored it.

That was until you couldn’t. One second you were staring blankly at the chalkboard. Next, you vomited. 

“Oh my God.”

“Y/n!”

“Miss–”

“Someone help me carry her to the nurse!”

Before your vision blurred, you stared at the mess in front of you and, for reasons beyond your understanding, burst into tears. There were worse things in the world, surely. But humiliation made no distinction between the life-threatening and the merely unbearable. At that moment, with your stomach empty and your dignity somewhere near your shoes, you thought you’d rather die than endure this particular shame twice. 

The nurse’s office smelled much more homey than the hospital. By then, the nausea had passed. The school nurse handed you crackers and water and spoke in her soft voice.

“New medication?”

You nodded.

“Are you taking it with food?”

“Sometimes.”

“Young lady.”

“Well, not most of the time.”

She sighed. “Your body’s adjusting, alright? These things happen.”

You wanted to tell her that your body seemed to do a lot of things, but she already had enough problems. By one in the afternoon, you were back home after your parents picked you up. Your father had no choice but to go back to work. Your mother insisted on soup. You had insisted on instant death, but neither of you got what you wanted. Instead, you got ginger tea. Cruel world. 

Your mother left you alone to rest, but sleep was proving difficult as you buried yourself beneath your blankets replaying the scene for the nth time. Maybe twenty people had seen. Maybe thirty. Maybe by tomorrow there’d be rumors. Maybe  they’d say you were pregnant. Teenagers, after all, possessed the imagination of Renaissance painters, albeit their morals measuring adjacently to that of a raccoon’s. You groaned and shoved your face deeper into the pillow, and eventually fell asleep. 

Around four in the afternoon, you awoke to your blanket on the floor and the sound of someone calling you from the doorway. You rolled over and there was Juhoon, standing just outside your room in a T-shirt and still in his school slacks, two convenience store bags hanging from his hands. The sight of him looked so absurdly ordinary against the misery of your day that you almost thought you were dreaming. 

“I heard you died.” He said.

“What?”

“Minji cornered me during lunch. Said you threw up and got sent home.”

You groaned some more. “Jesus Christ.”

“Relax. You know how news spreads around here. People were saying you exploded.”

“Can I explode now?”

“No. I brought you some stuff. Gatorade. Some bread. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He stepped inside and set the bags down on your bedside table, then placed the back of his hand against your forehead. His palm was warm, and you closed your eyes. 

“Ju, I’m so cold.” 

There was earnestness in his expression, all traces of teasing gone. He dropped his backpack beside your desk, walked over to the window and rolled your blinds down. You watched him through half-lidded eyes as he came back to your bed and reached for the blanket on the floor, tucking it around your side carefully and snug. 

“Much better?” He asked quietly. You let out a soft mmh and nodded. 

He lowered himself onto the floor beside your bed and rested his head against the mattress, his face only a few inches from yours. From there he could see everything you wished he wouldn’t. The shadows beneath your eyes. The strange emptiness in your gaze, fixed somewhere far beyond the ceiling and the walls. 

Quietly, he shifted to retrieve his backpack. There was a rustle of notebooks and loose papers before he fished something round and bright from the depths. An orange, because some habits die hard. 

“You’re always bringing me those. Can’t you get, like, apples next time?” You watched him work open the peel. Thumb beneath the skin. Twist. Tear. Never rushing, and never making a mess if he could help it. 

“What’s the fun in eating something so hard? I can barely get a bite out of an apple.” 

“Is this like the Kim Juhoon motif then? Oranges?”

He smiled to himself as he carefully removed another strip of peel. “It’s more yours than mine.”

“Huh? 

Juhoon held up a section triumphantly. “I’ll tell you a little something about oranges. Read some stuff in a brochure once.”

The orange released another burst of fragrance as he split the skin. Sunlight and sugar and memories of elementary school lunches. 

“It’s a migrant fruit, did you know? Carried from South China and arrived in Europe by way of caliphates, then travelled west through Persia, and then the Arab horticulture straight into the Mediterranean. At the time, fresh fruit in a European winter was almost unheard of. So they took these fruits from under the sun and sold them in the marketplaces during December. This was like a luxury to them.”

He handed you a slice, and as you popped it into your mouth, he continued. “These were fruits born of subtropical light becoming symbols of Christmas, by the way. Weird right? ‘ 

His hands had gone slower now. “And in whatever century that was, a whole Dutch dynasty took its name from them. They became little seasonal miracles, these guys. And the peel…the peel’s part of it too. It protects the sweet parts. Makes you work for the center.” 

Juhoon looked down at the orange resting in his hands. At the bright pieces arranged like small half suns. And he smiled. “So to peel an orange like this is to participate in an old history of transport, and theft, and then preservation. And when it’s peeled, the sweetness may come with acid and all, but it's worth it because it tastes so good.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I’m talking about you.”

“You’re seriously comparing me to a fruit?” 

He laughed softly. “Something like that.” He peeled away the last stubborn thread of white and handed another piece to you. 

“That even if they’ve been uprooted, or spend their whole lives being carried too far from home, none of that makes them any less sweet. People used to wait a whole year for these things. To them, and to me now, these were the original golden gifts.”

You blinked. “What are you trying to say?” 

Juhoon leaned his cheek against the mattress again, brushing a hair from off your face as his eyes met yours. “I’m saying you were my golden gift, Y/n. 10 years ago, in this same house just a room or two away, I found mine. And it was you.” 

Outside, cars passed, birds sang, and the wind pulled leaves off their branches. But here, with the smell of citrus in the air and Juhoon seated beside your bed, orange peels piled carelessly on his lap, you found yourself wishing for something small and preposterous. Please. One day, let me forgive myself for all the things I am not. 

You envied narcissists sometimes. You know they weren’t the only people capable of loving themselves, surely they weren’t, but they can do something you can’t. To admire themselves with such conviction. To inhabit their skins so fittingly. 

How could you ever do that? Your soul can never yearn for another soul shaped like its own. So Juhoon saying that undid something in you. You kept thinking there must be a better narrative of yourself waiting just beyond the next day, but Juhoon kept trying to convince you that the better narrative was never the point. 

“What would I do without you?”

“Plenty of things.” He shrugged, “Trust me.”

“I don’t think I can even do one thing. I just want to sleep. Forever and ever and ever.”

He reached up and absentmindedly smoothed the blanket where it bunched around your shoulder. “Take a rest. Sleep. Not forever, but just for another eight hours. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

“And Y/n?”

You made a small sound. “Hmm?”

Juhoon swallowed once, and let the words scrap out of him. “Promise me you’ll keep on trying, yeah?” 

He placed a hand and rubbed the underside of your chin, lulling you almost to sleep. “Please–please Y/n. There are… there are things you haven’t done yet. There’s light you haven’t felt and dreams that haven’t crossed your mind, things I’ve yet to tell you about, more you’ve yet to know. Please let me.” 

You stared at him for a long time. How many times had he thought of this and never thought to let them out until now, you’ll never know. 

“I will. I promise.”

──────── .✦

“Get a grip, man. What’s wrong with you today?” 

Juhoon knew exactly what was wrong with him. He could’ve named it on the spot if his mouth hadn’t gone dry every time he tried. He’d missed so many beats over the last hour he’s surprised Martin and the others had ignored it for this long. 

He let out a long breath and dropped his sticks into his lap. “Nothing.” he muttered, rubbing both hands over his face.  

“Ya sure?” Keonho asked.

Seonghyeon snorted beside him. “You think he is?” 

Juhoon’s knee bounced beneath the drum stool, and his shirt clung damply to the small of his back. The gym felt too warm, the amps buzzed too loud, sweat had gathered in all the gross places, and he had that stupid bouquet of flowers shoved in his bag as well as a letter, folded and refolded so many times the corners barely held shape. 

Despite what it might’ve looked like, you still weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t given him a clear go-ahead yet, even if that first kiss had been more than enough to leave him privately optimistic. He respected that, tried not to push, told himself he’ll bring it up one day. Today was gonna be that day. He was going to ask you to homecoming, and if he had any luck left at all, maybe ask you to be his girlfriend right after. 

The only problem is he waited until there were only 2 days left before homecoming to do it. Idiot. 

“Let’s go again.” He shakes his head and lifts his sticks.

Martin whistles lowly. “Look who’s talking.” 

He didn’t know if you already had a date. You didn’t mention anyone, not even Nicholas, though Juhoon supposed it made sense. Nicholas was hanging out with a completely different crowd now. Still, the thought occasionally returned to bother him. What if somebody had already asked you? What if you said yes?

But enough of that. He shoved the lingering thoughts into a deep corner in his brain, spun a drumstick once between his fingers, and settled back into the stool. 3, 2, 1. 

—

When Juhoon spotted you at lunch, he almost didn’t recognize you. It wasn’t because you looked different, but because you were laughing. Not the polite sort or the little huff through your nose. This one reached him from three tables away. There was a looseness to you he’d never seen, and he should have just been happy for you. He was, mostly. 

You even came over to him on your way out of lunch and held out your leftover burger for him. 

Juhoon blinked at it. “You never give this stuff away.” And you never approach me at lunch, either. 

You shrugged, still smiling. “I can’t eat this in class, y’know.”

He took it from you slowly. “You can eat it later then.”

“You can,” you corrected, waving him off. “Wanna go home together?”

That startled him more than the burger did. He looked at you for a second too long until he finally replied,

“Uh–yeah. Yeah, I’ll wait outside your classroom.”

“Good.” You said, and then you were already backing away toward your next class, as bright and effortless as a thing he might not have the right to keep looking at if he kept staring like that. But Juhoon watched you go anyway. The burger sat heavy and warm in his hand. He looked down at it, then back up at the hallway where you had disappeared, and felt something in him settle into place. God. How had he forgotten you smiled with your eyes first?

People didn’t owe explanations for joy. Whatever had placed that brightness inside you belonged to you alone. Juhoon found, to his own surprise, that he didn’t need to understand it to be grateful for it. You looked alive and well, and that was enough.

Even the walk home felt different. You talked more than usual and filled the spaces between your footsteps. Mrs. Choi’s impossible homework, Martin getting detention for reasons both of you weren’t entirely surprised about, chemistry. Juhoon laughed in all the right places. By the time your gate came into view, his heartbeat skyrocketed.

Now. He’d do it now. Just ask. 

There’s something I wanted to tell you– No. Too dramatic.

Can I tell you something? Worse.

He opened his mouth. Now. Say it.

“...Hey.”

You looked over immediately. “Yeah?”

He froze. Every word he’d spent the entire walk arranging abandoned him without so much as a goodbye. Instead, what came out was:

“...Can I come over tomorrow?”

You blinked. Confusion crossed your face so briefly it almost escaped him. Then you smiled.

“Since when do you ask?”

Juhoon rubbed the back of his neck. “Since now.”

You nudged his shoulder as you stepped backward through the gate. “Must be something important.” He laughed at that. If only you knew. 

Before disappearing into your house, you turn back to look at him. “I’ll see you then!”

Juhoon stood there for another few seconds after the door shut. Coward. 

But he still has tomorrow. Tomorrow will come, and surely, by then, he’d have enough courage to ask you one last time. 

The question might be begged if one were inclined toward such things: why does he love her? What’s the pull, the proof, the sign? How many reasons does he need?

The truth is that he doesn’t need anything. No one does in the grand and strange scheme of love. Matter of fact, the truth is simple. 

That the sun will continue its fusion, the Earth will turn under the laws that hold it in place. That atoms will keep exchanging energy and matter will forever redistribute itself into new and temporary forms. Life will persist in these structures, the division of cells, lungs drawing breaths, tides answering the moon, and the universe expanding according to rules indifferent to man. Just how things should be. 

That maybe 2 days from now, Juhoon will appear at your front door in a neat suit and take you out to homecoming. Then to the theatre if ever the two of you get bored, and later to his car, where he knows his neat shirt will have been disheveled after a few secret kisses. By the end of it, the two of you will be fast asleep in your little twin bed. And Juhoon, half-dreaming even then, will promise himself he’ll wake first just to grant himself an hour of watching you breathe. 

Just how things should be. 

──────── .✦

The bathroom had that same awful light bulb again. It's funny, I used to think I'd have already let dad replace it right about now. It made everything look sick and yellow. But this time, standing beneath that same ugly light I felt something I hadn't felt in so long. I was as good as free. 

Relief. Or something close enough to fool me. 

I’m not religious by any means. Even then, I spent the majority of my life believing some ‘maker’ had followed an unfortunate set of instructions. There was maybe one point where I’d even gone looking for God myself to get some answers. I saw a poster of it on the street: “In the face of it all, turn to God.” So I did. And when I prayed, I had no idea who to address. A god, yes. But which one? There were too many to choose from, too many heavens, though none that seemed willing to answer by the time I tried. 

I really did beg to be saved. At the end of it all, when prayer had turned thin and ragged in my mouth, I might have been shouting at some spoiled and rotting angel instead. I don’t know. I only know I tried. A star burns its fiercest just before it explodes. I have always wondered whether stars knew they were beautiful. Or if, like so many things, they had undervalued their burning for something bad. 

The floor is so, so cold and filthy against my skin, but just beyond the edge of it, something bright seemed to be waiting. I saw it. It may not have been heaven but it was miracle enough. 

I am somebody’s daughter. Before I am anything else, I am that. I feel like it too. I know I am something dearly made. That is the first truth, and it hurts to know I am still my parents’ child. They loved me first, and I loved them all my life, in all the ugly, ordinary, necessary pieces that make a person. So I will take this feeling with me, in this life and the next. 

Juhoon. 

Dearest, poorest Juhoon. My obstinate swallow, you patient animal. You carry me so often at some point I forgot how heavy I must have felt to the world. You take all my acid and bitterness. You make me sweet, and I can never still quite believe my luck. What would I have done without you? 

At eighteen, I can now say I had made a somewhat significant realization. That my life has been held together by small and untrustworthy things. I could be hopeful and terrified in the same breath, tired and restless in the same hour, certain of one thing and then ashamed of being certain at all. This heart would start learning new hungers as my mind set traps or itself, and I lived inside all these shifting contradictions. 

Threaded through all that decay, there was a boy I’ve known since I was six. Juhoon looked, from an outward perspective, like just a breathing, walking, human thing. But he was harder to dismiss than the force of this planet that held us so. And whatever I felt for him didn’t grind itself against my ribs the way the rest of my feelings did. It was lit from within, a subterranean current threading through the bedrock of a world I’ve wanted to abandon for years. And as erosion continues its course, that'll be my narrow vein of truth. 

At eighteen, I was both the fulfillment and failure of every prediction ever made about myself. And when so much in me was sick with fear, what I felt for him seemed to be the purest mineral in my body. 

I want to thank them all. Perhaps they were the brightest things about me.

The pain went thin, and I must be drowning in a dream. I saw stars. then a scatter of pale dots, then nothing at all. People say there is fear at the end. I might have believed them once, but I had already spent eighteen years afraid of my own mind, and eternity seemed too large a thing to waste on the same old terror. 

It’s so often that people who brush up against death come away with a sharpened appreciation for life. It makes you wiser and more grateful. I wish I could claim that kind of transformation happened to me, but all I had was a very simple and honest thought on my way there: thank the gods. 

A punishment to some, a gift to others, and to many a favor. Seneca, oh Seneca, who once framed it so, which did you think this was for me? 

Surely, surely, I’d have counted for something.

──────── .✦

When Juhoon knocks thrice on the front door, it is your mother who gets there first. 

“Juhoon!” She greets him as bright as a flare. “Did you walk all the way here?”

“I’m just a few blocks away so I’m fine Auntie.” He resembles ‘fine’, but he’s not fine at all. Juhoon is actually very nervous. 

“Well Y/n’s upstairs if you wanted to see her.”

She doesn’t seem to notice his jittering. But if she did, she simply chose not to interfere with them. At least that was what Juhoon assumed. 

“Oh, and Juhoon?”

He turns to her as he’s halfway up the staircase. “Yes Auntie?”

“Good luck.” 

He goes still for a second too long and lets out a small, awkward laugh. His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands that have slowly wilted while in his car. They were 50 bucks, pretty expensive for a bouquet. 50 bucks worth of attempted language. 50 bucks of I thought about this. He looks composed enough too, hair straightened and all, clothes ironed. Effort, his father had said, women think the hottest thing you can be is a man with effort. How do you think I bagged your mom, huh?

He looks back at your mother again and gives a small nod in thanks, acknowledging her little blessing. And weirdly enough, he feels a slight upward pressure in his chest. He believed it to be the improbable sensation that the world has just tilted very slightly in his favor. 

When he reaches the upstairs landing, he hears music drifting from your room, like it’s been playing itself into space for a while now. Juhoon gathers a small amount of courage before barging in. He expects you, but you aren’t there. Instead, a player sits on your desk turning over a tape. Beside it, a box of cassettes resting half-open. He recognizes it as the box of tapes he handed you a few days after he came back to town, and the way he pretended it didn’t mean any more than it was. 

“Y/n?”

Juhoon sets the flowers down on your bed carefully then turns on his heel to leave. His eyes drift to the balcony first. That’s usually where you are. Book in hand and legs hanging off the edge of the railing. But the balcony was empty too, so he stepped back inside. He continues moving past familiar corners until he reaches the bathroom door. 

“Y/n?”

He knocks twice, then thrice. No answer. Whether he was allowed to or not, he twists the knob and pushes. 

“Y/n?”

You’re on the bathroom floor, your eyes have gone half-shut and strange, there’s a pill bottle that’s scattered on the tiles, and Juhoon prays with so much primal desperation that what’s coming out of your mouth isn’t foam. 

He thinks it over and over while he kneels down and drags you into his arms as your head goes heavy in his hands. Your skin has never been so cold. When he presses his ear to your chest, there is nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing. Nothing else. What have you done? 

“Hey–Y/n? Get up, please. This isn’t funny–hey–” 

He gathers you closer and shakes you with all the force he can muster up, but your head does nothing but loll in his hands. Juhoon presses himself against every part of you he can find. Your wrist against his fingers. His forehead against yours. His cheek against your mouth. His ear against your chest. A small proof, a pulse, a tremor or an accident. And what a hateful thing the silence was.

“You promised me something–oh, god, wake up!”

Juhoon screams for your mother with a tone so torn-up it barely sounded human. His breath comes wrong, ragged and uneven. When he finally lets go of the back of your head, there is red on his hand, a thin stain of blood. His heart is unbearable in his chest, hammering and hammering and beating itself raw as if it might still find another body to save.

God, if you have any decency left, he thought, be useful. There are flowers for her in her room. She has somewhere to go tomorrow. Her parents are right here, just down the hall. She’s 18. Only 18. She’s yet to actually live. 

God I know you invented miracles. I’m not asking for anything original. Just make another.

The rest of it is a blur, and Juhoon will remember it that way. Your mother’s footsteps hurrying up the stairs, her voice calling your name before she reaches the bathroom, ordinary and unsuspecting. It makes his stomach turn. THen the door swings open, and the sound she makes doesn’t resemble a scream so much as something being torn clean through. He thinks that he’s sorry. Sorry that she has to find you like this. Sorry that your father has to come running after her. A while later, your father appears, and it’s the first time Juhoon’s ever heard him stutter. 

He felt like he was nine again, looking back to the day where he’d first saw you in a state back in that playground. You’d been shaking then, except now, as he’s being pried off of you once more, you were completely still. 

At eighteen years old, Juhoon experiences his second betrayal, and promised it would be the last.

——

Juhoon makes it home with a patch of blood on his shirt and more blood in the lines of his hands, both of which have already dried. He crosses the bathroom in one unthinking line and reaches for the toilet just in time. When the lid is down, he bends over the bowl and vomits. He vomits until the first chewed up mush is gone, then the next, and the next. His hands slip on the seat and leave red where they touch, and he’s still bent over as he shakes and starts crying in short, useless bursts that don’t relieve much. So he tears the towel off the rack and shoves it into his mouth, bites down, and screams into it. 

He stands over the sink now with the towel balled in one fist and his mouth tasting of bile and something faintly sour. The water runs too long before he remembers to turn it off. When he does, it’s silent. Juhoon looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize anything noble in what is left. His face is blotched, his eyes too wide, and there’s red under his nails. He scrubs at one thumb and watches the smear stretch, thin as paint. 

What did I miss?

It’s cruel enough to imagine that just one ceiling below you, your mother was probably deciding whether there was enough rice left for dinner, or if the laundry could wait another day. Your father might already have been pulling into the driveway just as Juhoon had finally collected enough courage to ask you. But if I had asked you just a day earlier. 

How much of a life can one conversation postpone? He sinks into the floor and rests his elbows on his knees. His hands hang between them, dirty in the cracks where the skin folds. Juhoon stares at them until they become only hands again, only tools. Ones that proved useless just about an hour ago. He knows, with a kind of sick clarity, that you didn’t do this to him. No amount of wishing could make this sort of thing come from choice. But what have you done, Y/n? 

He prayed his parents hadn’t woken up from all this. So that tomorrow, when the news came down to him in somebody else’s mouth, he could be surprised in a much cleaner shirt and pretend the ache had only just arrived, because maybe that would delay his response. He could pull the shell tight over the soft parts and keep the noise in until night came again. Tonight, though, he has no shell. 

The next day, Juhoon doesn’t go to homecoming. He’ll imagine the gymnasium filling, yes. His phone spends the entire afternoon vibrating itself tired against the bedside table. Every few minutes, another name, another photograph, another question of where he’s gone. He doesn’t think to look. He’s showered twice, scrubbed until his skin stung. Somehow, the smell remains. 

The last thing he does that day is curl himself into the blanket, turn toward the wall and wonder of the possibility of becoming a ghost before evening. One that could evaporate for a month or two until he’s found some balance again. 

In the end he thinks nothing of the party. He didn’t have a partner to go with, after all. 

——

Today, Juhoon wears white. Everyone does. Your parents had requested it, and said black would have felt too gloomy. Still, everyone weeps. The change in color doesn’t do much, nor does the beautiful weather. Your friends are sitting together at the front holding each other. The rest of your classmates who came out of obligation, affection, confusion, or some indistinguishable mixture of the three remain quietly at the back, each pretending to have discovered something intensely interesting about the ground beneath their shoes. 

Juhoon sits right in the middle of James and his parents. He dons a porcelain suit that fits him too well, and he’s sweating balls underneath it. He hasn’t said much in the days leading up to this, not even when James would pat a hand on his back every once in a while. He offers Juhoon some hope, ‘it’ll be okay’. He doesn’t believe it, but nods each time anyway

After the funeral, Juhoon finds your mother crying in the corner, her grief turned inward and wearing her down. She is upset at the whole obscenity of this, but more than that, she’s haunted by the missing clothes from that night. The same ones you wore when they found you, ones she could no longer find after the mortuary visit. Juhoon sits with her. He pats her back while she cries onto his shoulder, and keeps one sinful secret to himself. Those clothes are gone, and he took them.

She doesn’t have to know. And if she ever does, he thinks he might run with them. Or maybe he’d cut them up into such small pieces that he’d be able to swallow them down one by one.  

She also won’t have to know that after that, on the nights when he is alone and brittle with feeling, he takes out those clothes from a box, holds them up to his face like some pathetic, feral thing, and breathes until the smell gets into him. He presses them against his skin. He lets them cover him. It’s disgusting, he knows that. It makes him feel like something hunched and wrong and creeping in the dark. He feels fucking insane with it. Hollowed clean through. So full of grief it’s become his own rotting organ. Though the scent keeps him from splitting open, the memory inside it even more so. 

But while Juhoon will busy himself with drowning in what little of you all this fabric still holds, there is a corpse feeding the same hunger to the things that have found their way through the cracks. 

The earth will come for you with its impatient mouths and nameless appetites. The little bugs will slip through the seams, into your sleeves, beneath your nails, expecting meat and nothing more. But there will be something else. An aftertaste they won’t know how to water down. It’ll be the residue of all the ways you’ve turned yourself inside out, and underneath it, him. Juhoon. Like a splinter in the radicle. The things in the ground would get their teeth into that first. They’d take one mouthful of Juhoon and suffocate. 

You were always never entirely yourself down there. In all the years you lived, you made sure of that.

And perhaps that’s what will drive them back. What you had taken with you to that wooden box was never something that could be broken down and therefore would’ve been too hard to chew. The bugs might weep, the moss will want to grow over you in envy. But whether it’s love or the ghost-shape of Juhoon’s soul in your bones, whichever it is, this world won’t be able to devour it. 

──────── .✦

A YEAR AND A HALF LATER…

At long last, Juhoon could breathe.

This was due to several factors. First, the term paper from hell had finally been submitted. Second, his shitty roommate (Martin) went home, something Juhoon regarded with the same gratitude ancient civilizations reserved for their successful harvests. Basically, he was fucking ecstatic. 

He’s in college now. One of the big leagues, whoop whoop. But being a college student to him sounded more like an incurable condition he’s come to find out. Most days were spent studying, panicking about studying, or recovering from the consequences of studying. Occasionally, Juhoon entertained the idea that he should’ve gone to a community College instead. Perhaps he would’ve slept more. Maybe he’d even develop new hobbies. 

Then again, moments like this made the thought difficult to hold onto. The semester was over. His grades were good. Martin washed his dishes before he left. Most importantly, Juhoon was going home. 

By the time he stepped off the plane, the airport was particularly crowded. Full of reunions, delays, and people dragging their entire worldly possessions behind them on wheels. Juhoon did the same after claiming his suitcase from the baggage area, and got a call from his dad saying he was parked by the north entrance. 

“Grew any taller?” His father said it the moment Juhoon emerged from the gate. He reached over to ruffle Juhoon's hair, then relieved him of one of his bags to put it in the trunk.

“Maybe.” Juhoon shoved his own suitcase in before slamming the door shut. “Or perhaps you’re just shrinking. That’s pretty common at your age, huh? Spine compression.” 

His father barked out a laugh. “Two years in that school and you’re suddenly a doctor?”

“Nope. Just observant.”

“Observant with my tuition money.”

“Technically, your tuition money made me observant.”

“See?” His father pointed at him with a grin as they both got in the front. “Smart mouth. That’s what I’m paying for.”

On the drive home, Juhoon’s father updated him on the latest developments in town. His mom’s new flower shop was thriving. The old school had been renovated. One of his cousins got married. Most importantly, his father acquired a massage chair. Juhoon quietly fistbumped the air at that last news. Then, his father asks him why he hasn’t been visiting much in the last year. 

“I’m really busy dad. I’m a sophomore now so it’s like purgatory. Next year? Hell.” There were other reasons. Reasons with a name and a face and memories attached to them. He isn’t particularly interested in discussing or even thinking about it. 

“Well, at least you're home. Welcome back, kid.” As they pull up to the driveway, Juhoon thinks, welcome back, kid. 

The house has changed very little, which could either be comforting or depressing depending on how Juhoon chooses to look at it. His room, especially. All his things are the way he left them: His drum set he couldn’t bring, the posters he’d been too nervous to peel off the walls for fear of tearing, his fancy record player, the picture frames. It gave him a small, embarrassing rush of nostalgia. Enough, apparently, to make him text his friends and plan something for the afternoon. 

——

“Alright 8 ball Messiah, eat my shit.” The thirteen sat near the corner pocket with an almost insulting angle. Martin lined it up, took two quick taps fo the cue, and sent it into the pocket. One. The twelve followed. Ten the fifteen.

 Keonho let out a low whistle. “Show off.” 

The pool hall was lively at this hour, but not so crowded that they had to shout over one another. The five of them had claimed a table in the far corner, with pizza boxes perched on a chair and the lazy, companionable gravity of friends who had come together mostly to watch one another fail. Company, for another. 

“Watch this,” Martin said, and chalked his cue again, too aggressively, the blue dust gathering on his fingers. 

“No,” Keonho said. “I don’t think I will.” Martin ignored him and lined up for a shot at the nine. He took his time, exaggeratedly so, and the ball rolled. It kissed the pocket, then, with almost malicious tenderness, spun back and settled right on the lip. There was a beat of silence before Seonghyeon folded over in a fit of laughter. 

“Ju,” Keonho said, jabbing him lightly with the cue. “You playing or just brooding?” Juhoon looked up from the green felt and the small universe of striped and solid balls laid out under the low, amber light. He gave Keonho a lazy shake of the head.

“I’m getting drinks,” he said. “Be right back.” He set his cue aside and crossed the hall toward the bar, weaving through the warm noise of the place. The bar itself was sticky at the elbows and dim at the edges, and when he ordered first, he took a seat and waited there. He was just starting to wonder if he should’ve asked for water instead when a familiar voice slid in beside him.

“Been a while,” James said, leaning against the bar.. “I’m sure you've been pretending it hasn’t..”

“It’s only been, what, a year?”

“Pretty long, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t feel like it when the semester’s eating your ass off.”

“Gross. But back to that, Martin says you always try to spend your free weeks there. And then you were abroad for Christmas, so that was another no-show.”

Juhoon shrugged. “Plane tickets in this economy, dude.”

“Don’t lie to me.” James replied. “Your dad’s basically made of money.”

To which Juhoon snorted, but James didn’t let it go. He asked again, quieter. “Have you… visited? At all?”

“No.”

“Not once after the funeral?”

Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “No.”

James watched him for a second. He expected that answer but still hated being right. “You should go. At least once, y’know? Just to… figure your shit out. It’ll help.” 

Juhoon kept his eyes on the drinks, on the slant of condensation gathering along the cups, and the useless shine of cold glass. “I know.”

It was just his luck when he got home that evening too, though his mother looked a bit too hesitant to say it.

“I visited Ms. L/n’s house this afternoon.” She said, “They have a bakery now, did you know?”

He leaned back against his chair, still half in the night and half out of it. “I didn’t. How’ve they been?” 

“Good.” She glanced at him, then away, as though trying not to make a performance of this. “I told them you’d just come back from college, and they said if you’re ever free tomorrow, they need help getting some stuff out of the house.” 

When Juhoon's head lifted, her expression was gentle. “Only if you want to, honey.”

Juhoon looked down at his plate, then out the window. The evening had gone blue at the bounds. For reasons he knew all too well, and perhaps out of some old, stubborn loyalty to the past, he agreed. Tomorrow, then. And tomorrow, he would go.

“Tell them I’ll be there.”

Juhoon couldn’t sleep that night. He turned over in bed until the sheets felt worked raw, got up again and again for no reason at all except that lying down had become unbearable. This restlessness could usually be attributed to the long, feverish aftermath of studying too hard. Tonight though, it was fear. Plain and unhelpful. 

——

Juhoon had thought of this house in fragments over the course of the two years since he left, and it was smaller than he remembered. The windows were still clean. The paint on the siding had been redone in a shade warmer than before. When he stepped past the gate, the front yard filled itself with more flowers. Their colors crowded the narrow path in soft, overfull bunches, brushing against one another as if they were sharing secrets of Juhoon's arrival. It was still the same house, and it wasn’t. 

He made it up the porch steps, swallowed around the dry little knot in his throat, and rubbed his hands against his jeans before ringing the doorbell. Then he waited, breathing in small careful increments, until at last the door opened and a familiar face greeted him.

“Juhoon!” Ms. L/n was as sweet as he remembered. She went ahead and gave him a little hug, and Juhoon couldn’t help but hug back. “Come in, come in. You can keep your shoes on dear.”

“My husband's at work right now, so thank you for stopping by. I know you just came back from university and you must be tired.”

“It’s no problem Auntie. Glad to be back.”

“I hope you’re not too homesick over there.” 

Leave it to the past to keep these seed-shaped instincts intact. The stairs were familiar beneath his feet, worn smooth by all the times he’d gone up them before and all the earlier selves he’s dragged along. He’d done this a hundred times over, maybe even more, and the way up became its own haunting of all the other times he’d come here always bearing a gift. Always something to give. 

The hallway they cross is prosaic enough to make his chest tighten, all up until Ms. L/n stops at a door he remembers too well. When she opens it with careful hands, she glances back at Juhoon, who has to take in the sight of it all at once and do his best not to choke on the feeling. 

“I couldn’t bring myself to change her room for a long time.” She said quietly. “I was obsessed with keeping everything exactly as it was. If I didn’t, it felt like I was giving up on her.”

She smiled faintly, though it did not reach far. “My husband and I did couples therapy. They said it was especially helpful for parents who had lost a child. At one point, the therapist told us we were keeping too many of her things that we might need to let some of it go. I remember thinking that sounded a little absurd.” 

Her voice lowered a little as she continued. “But we've come to terms with that. They were right. It wasn’t helping either of us to hold on to everything.”

When she glanced back at Juhoon, her intent almost seemed apologetic. Less to herself, more to him. “When I heard from your mother that you’d just come back from college, I thought… well, you were a dear friend of Y/n’s. The closest we know. I figured you’d be the first person we’d let look around. See if there’s anything you’d like to keep for yourself before we go through the rest. Who knows, you might find some closure in there.” 

Juhoon stood very still for a moment, then dipped his head, polite as ever, even though his chest had gone tight in that miserable, familiar way. “Thank you, Auntie.”

“I’ll be down in the kitchen whenever you’re done here.” she said, already turning toward the door. “Take your time.” 

When the door closes behind him at last, he is finally left to face it. Juhoon can’t decide what’s worse: that everything looks exactly as it did before, or the fact that he remembers it all so well he was able to make that observation in the first place.  Everything's stuck in place so much so that he could have drawn this scene in the dark.

Juhoon's first stop was your desk with a cardboard box he recognizes sitting atop. The tapes were still inside waiting uselessly, but he didn’t touch them. They were never his to reclaim, though only his to make, and he made them for you. Even if you were no longer here to hear them, they remain as the little relics they always were. And he wished helplessly that you had listened to every single one. That you had worried them to pieces in your mind when you had the chance, overthought them into strange shapes, loved them until they became excruciating to hear, the way he felt when he chose them one by one. To be wounded by them, if only a little. To have heard him. 

He walks over to your closet next, and when he opens it, is struck by the sense that he’s wandered into something private. A few of your clothes have been taken out already, he notices. Though one particular lavender dress remains untouched. It hangs by itself, suspended in the middle of all that newfound space. He stares at it as his memory leans in to whisper. Back then, you told him your homecoming dress would be this exact color. The dots connect themselves, and he realizes this must be the one you were referring to. 

Juhoon slips the dress carefully from its hanger. It’s lighter than he expected. The fabric gathers over his forearms, and his thumb wanders over the seams. Then he lifts it closer, and inhales. The scent has mostly gone. It smells of cotton and cedar from the closet. But beneath all that, perhaps imagined, there is something so unmistakably of you. Shampoo. Laundry detergent. Soap. Juhoon closes his eyes and lets himself imagine. 

You, standing in front of your bedroom mirror, turning once just to see how the skirt moved. Asking your mother if the earrings were too much. Wondering if lavender made you look washed out. Wondering, because you always wondered. He had been so certain the color would suit you. He imagined telling you so after pretending to think about it first. He rehearses these possibilities, then stops himself right on his tracks. 

He sets the dress down on the bed. As he does, something farther inside the closet catches his eye. A bouquet. The petals are now brittle and have long surrendered most of their color. They curl and warp until they resemble paper, but the wrapping remains intact. Juhoon doesn’t have to wonder where it came from because he remembers leaving them on your bed that night.

God, I need to fucking leave. Juhoon can only stand being in this room for so long before his memory starts to become persuasive, and he might eventually turn psycho. As of now, it takes the lavender dress and supplies the girl who ought to have been wearing it. It sets flowers into your hands and watches you fuss over a vase. It has you kneeling beside that box of tapes, smiling to yourself after discovering he hadn’t labeled any of them. The future is extravagant that way, and maybe that was the true scale of loss. It contains infinitely more than the past ever managed in all its time. Juhoon knows he’s lost a long time ago, but apparently that wasn’t the end of it. 

He spends the next hour performing an examination of a once ordinary life. There are polaroids that catch it in fractions of a millisecond, journals filled with futures written in present tense, novels with ticket stubs left between their pages because you had every intention of coming back to them. At one point, almost without thinking, he brings the sleeve of your sweater to his face. Smell is the sense most resistant to time, which is why albeit embarrassingly, he tries to search for something. Nothing. When he reaches the door, his knees give out before the rest of him does, and so Juhoon slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wood. 

Missing you can’t be the entire answer. People miss each other every day and still go on with their lives. Long distance relationships, military deployments, immigration, death. Human beings possess an alarming talent for adapting, so why this? 

Juhoon doesn’t understand, and perhaps he might never understand until he seeks out the source. 

When he turns to leave the room, he takes nothing. It felt like the right thing to do. They mean one thing here, but they'd mean another in his house or his dorm. Context matters, and it's changing. A clay pot displayed beneath museum glass tells a different story than one found in the earth where it broke. And Juhoon can’t bear to excavate you, so he leaves empty-handed and accepts that having witnessed this place as it was is the only keepsake he’ll ever need.  

Downstairs, your mother looks up when he approaches, her expression still carrying that careful apology from earlier. “Anything worth taking?”

There wasn’t anything I could take, Juhoon thinks to answer. Instead, he gives her the warmest smile he can manage.

“More than I expected.” 

Her shoulders ease a fraction, though her eyes remain tired.

“I need to go and think some things through.” he says after a moment. 

“What things?”

“... I’m still figuring that out.” He lets out a small breath, and gives her a sure look. “Thank you again, Auntie. I’ll visit soon.” This time, the promise didn’t hurt to make.

Juhoon steps outside, and the sun’s holding steady just as much as the day keeps on, moving itself toward whatever infinity waits at its far edge. He goes through the familiar with a heaviness he can’t quite set down. A pathwalk he knows by heart. A few blocks. An opening in the land that seems, at first, too small to be called a clearing at all. He passes the graves one by one and bows as he goes, respect given in the simplest language he has. 

And then, at last, there’s a little break in the field tucked away at the corner of everything. He knows this place. He knows it even with the absurdity of having been here only once, even with the certainty he had carried away from it then that he wouldn’t return. But he’s here now proving himself wrong, and it felt good. 

To track back a little, once upon a time that was a year and a half ago to be specific, you were buried at the ragged edge of spring, when the last scraps of snow still clung desperately to the earth, dissolving by slow degrees into the dark soil of this very garden your mother loved enough to kneel in for hours without noticing the ache in her joints. By the next morning, the world had gone on being beautiful again. The birds returned, the sun lay warm across the house, and your room was exactly as you left it. Unbeknownst to anyone, it would stay that way for the rest of time up until now. 

Juhoon knows, though you only told him once, that you hated spring. Your puppy from your childhood died in spring as well, and you called it a badly timed season for grief. The air was warming just as the house was thawing itself out. In the garden, flowers kept opening their throats until the scent turned syrup-thick and mocking. Even now, the smell needles at him. You would’ve hated going among these buds, pretty or not. 

He wondered if you had gone the same way you lived. Sad, or maybe sadder. People always reach for reasons after that fact, don’t they? How dumb. 

Against all reason, he hopes he’s wrong about everything. He hopes the last moment didn’t resemble the thousands that came before it. He hopes whatever waited beyond that impossible decision was kinder than the life that delivered you there. That, if the act itself couldn’t be called kind, it was at least merciful. That something inside you wound so tightly for so long finally let loose. He hopes you looked behind yourself and found that your life had been full after all. Hope, despite his disbelief in its usefulness, and despite his attempts to rip it out of its roots. Hope, hope, hope. The damned word, the only one left to him now, and there is nothing left to do with it except keep it alive. 

When Juhoon glances to the side, he finds a tree your mother told him about earlier, one you had insisted she planted a while ago. Until now, it has kept watch over you. It gathered rain before it could reach your stone, lent its shade to the midday rays, and every so often surrendered a handful of leaves to the wind. Only when he looks closer does he notice the fruit. Small suns suspended among the branches. Oranges. 

How funny. You couldn’t let me have one visit without getting the last word. Is this how you haunt people? 

He’s strangely amused at this dramatic sense of symbolism. So this is where you’ve been hiding all your little metaphors. Juhoon lowers his head and laughs before he can help it, then shakes it off with a small helpless motion and looks back up at the tree. He steps closer, and the bark scrapes under his palm when he reaches for the fruit, twists it loose from the branch, and holds it in his hand for one brief second before the peel starts to come away beneath his thumbs. He does it the way he’s always done it over the years. For himself, for you, for no real difference at all. Rind curling down in strips, white thread clinging to his fingers, and the smell of citrus opening in the air like something alive. By the time he gets to the flesh, he bites hard, juice spilling at once over his mouth.

It’s kind of humiliating, being this primitive over a fruit. Juhoon understands what he’s doing, and it’s to possess in the oldest possible sense. Now he’s not especially hungry, but touch has never been enough for some kinds of wanting, and taste is the only thing he thinks of. So he bites down hard enough and feels he’s crossed a border. He hates the shame of the impulse. Hates the animal part of it. Hates that it resembles love, and most of all, how much relief it gives him. 

The fruits of your labor. He thinks you wouldn’t mind, not after all the things he’s only just learned to see.

Live your life. Live it angrily, live it not wanting to live, live out of spite. It doesn’t matter. Live just to live. Live because you can live. Live because you spend time, and live because you can never save it. Live because in the end and as the beginning, there is nothing you have done but that. A life, in the grand scheme of all lives, has never needed to be justified to be worth the trouble of having, just as the love that brought all lives into being was never justified by anything beyond the fact that it was love. 

Isn’t it astonishing, every now and then, to wake up inside yourself? Does it not make you happy to think that you are conclusively free? You may be bound by physics, morality, and the ordinary maintenance required by your body. But your actions are hinges, and your dreams can change the course of a day or a year, or the world as we know it. You are free. As free as not merely having the privilege of choosing, but holding the burden and ecstasy of understanding that your choices matter too. And no matter how often people like to say they are being carried forward by time, you are, albeit small, actually carrying every last bit of it with you. 

And what a peculiar leverage to entrust to creatures who forget their keys and cry over ballads, and do all these horrible things. 

What a strange privilege. What a terrible, beautiful freedom. 

You tell a person you love them. You board a train and leave. You say yes and, every so often, you say no. You loosen your grip. You permit yourself to change. You awaken, and you rest, both never for long because this has always been such restless work. It means you are also a force of your own. It’s frightening to discover just how wonderful that is. 

You have to understand that these are, in the end, just different names for that same magnificent act of being alive. 

So Juhoon thinks, calmly and surely, that he will carry on. In spite of everything, and in spite of himself, he knows he still has his time. So he will spend it all down to the edge, the seam, and the thin shining end of the brightest nickel in his pocket. And when his account’s finally come due and he’s bidded home at last, he’ll look over his shoulder and find the conclusion’s much simpler than he fears: Some achievements, a handful of proofs that he was once a man named Juhoon, you, and a small number of others. The rest can keep to themselves. 

It’s a small tally, and it is enough. 

A life is fortunate if it asks for nothing more. A room, a body, a few names, and a hand to hold. As Juhoon walks on home once more, leftover fruit peels in his pocket and a restful smile on his face, he thinks, finally, that maybe he could live with that. 

_________

i finally made a perm taglist guys are you proud of me (pls lmk if u wanna be added!): @reysblr @schatjze @pinkiwinkiminki @marsgirltyshi @hyuneskkami @nayamk6 @ava-io @itsredxctedstan @jjuhyeons

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It had all started a few months into your first year of high school. You had been walking home, earbuds in, the entire world muted. Your mind was already halfway through the chapters you needed to read for tomorrow, your fingers tracing the spine of your worn-out library book.

A blur of motion, a flash of dark blue fabric, and a solid thud sent you stumbling sideways. Your earbuds ripped out of your ears, your book flew from your hands, and you were suddenly very, very aware of a warm grip on your elbow keeping you from face-planting into the concrete.

"OH SHIT—I'M SO SORRY—ARE YOU OKAY—"

The voice was a cannon blast to your carefully constructed silence. You blinked, disoriented, and glanced sideways.

Keonho stood beside you, eyes wide with genuine panic as they scanned your face, his school blazer half-falling off one shoulder. His hair was a disaster, like he'd run through a wind tunnel, and his backpack was hanging open, pens and crumpled papers threatening to escape. He was still gripping your elbow like you might evaporate if he let go.

You quickly regained your footing, standing upright. His hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer before he dropped it, flustered.

"I'm so sorry, Seonghyeon was being an idiot and—" his lips moved at a thousand miles a minute as he crouched down, his hands scrambling across the floor to pick up the small pile of scattered books. You bent down beside him, attempting to help though it became impossible when his fingers latched onto each spine just as you reached out, leaving you squatting there awkwardly whilst words continued to pour out of his mouth. "—I really should have been looking where I was going—wait, are you hurt anywhere? Please tell me you aren't injured—hang on… aren't you in my chemistry class?"

To be completely honest, you were unable to process any of the rapidfire comments thrown at you, far too enclosed in your own mind's attempt to make sense of the situation you now found yourself in.

You stood up slowly, deeming it far too awkward for you to remain at eye level with the boy. He was soon to follow, his hands fiddling with the books as he tried to organise them, clearly stalling.

"Uh—here—" He thrust them toward you, his fingers fumbling. "Your books. I think they're all here. I didn't—I hope I didn't bend any pages—"

You took them carefully, clutching them to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured. "They're fine."

"Oh. Good. That's—good." He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting everywhere except your face. "I really am sorry. I wasn't looking. Seonghyeon bet me I couldn't make it to the fountain before he counted to ten, and I'm an idiot who takes dumb bets—"

"Keonho."

He stopped and blinked. "Yeah?"

You didn't say anything else. Just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment that held a hint of forgiveness, and turned to leave.

You made it three steps before his voice caught up to you.

"Wait—I never got your name."

You paused and glanced back over your shoulder. He was standing there, his fingers fiddling with the ends of his untucked shirt, looking almost nervous.

"Y/N." You told him quietly, then you turned back around and kept walking, tucking your earbuds back in, drowning out the world.

You thought that would be the end of it. An awkward collision that would be instantly forgotten by the likes of someone like Keonho, but the next day in chem class, you felt eyes on you.

You turned to see Keonho sat across the room, chin propped on his palm, head tilted. When your eyes met his, he didn't look away. Instead, his lips curved into a smile: small and almost private, nothing like the loud, performative grins you'd seen him flash at everyone else.

He raised a hand in a tiny wave.

You stared at him for a beat, then turned back to your notes, your face unexpectedly warm.

After that, Keonho couldn't help but notice you at school now, and much worse, he wouldn't stop trying to talk to you.

The next morning, you spotted him in the hallway before he spotted you. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends, laughing at something one of them had said. His head was thrown back, the sound of it carrying easily over the morning chaos, bright and unguarded. 

You ducked your head and kept walking, fingers tightening around the spine of your book.

Despite your best efforts he noticed you and ran to catch up to you by the lockers, slightly out of breath. "Hey," he said, falling into step beside you. "You walk fast."

You didn't stop. "I have class."

"I know, me too." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, his steps slightly uneven as he matched your pace. "I just wanted to say sorry again for yesterday. I felt bad all night."

"You said sorry already."

"Yeah, but I meant it." He shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second. "I don't usually—I mean, I'm not usually that clumsy. Well, okay, I am—but I don't usually knock people over. That was a first."

You glanced at him. He was looking at you now, his eyes earnest in a way that caught you off guard.

"You already said sorry," you repeated, softer this time.

"I know but I still feel bad." He kicked at an invisible pebble on the floor, his sneaker scuffing against the tile. "So I was thinking… I owe you a hot chocolate… To make up for it."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know but I want to."

You didn't respond to that and he didn't push, he just walked beside you in surprising silence, his usual energy dialed down a few notches. It was almost comfortable, as though he already knew you weren't going to fill the space, and he was okay with that.

When you reached your classroom, he stopped at the door. His hand came up, hovering for a second like he wanted to touch your arm, then dropped back to his side. "See you around, Y/N," he said softly.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of students.

The next day, he waved at you from across the cafeteria. You pretended not to see, and in response he only waved harder, nearly smacking the person next to him, and you could feel his eyes on you even through the chaos of the lunch rush.

You gave a tiny nod and turned back to your tray.

Mina followed your gaze, her line of sight slightly blocked by the passing students. "Who's that?"

"No one."

"He's staring at us."

You didn't look up. "He's not."

"He definitely is." Mina leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Wait… Is that Keonho? The Keonho? The one who's literally everywhere and in, like, every club ever and knows everyone?"

You shrugged, pushing rice around your bowl.

Mina's eyes widened. "How do you know him?"

"I don't. He ran into me."

"He ran into you." Mina's voice went flat with disbelief. "And now he won't stop staring at you?"

"It's not—" You glanced up despite yourself. He was still looking, a small smile on his face. When your eyes met his, he tilted his head, like he was checking if you were okay. You looked away quickly. "It's nothing."

"It's definitely something." She let you brood with that comment, choosing not to push you any further.

He found you in the library after school a few days later. Not intentionally—at least, you assumed not. He walked in with a friend and spotted you in your usual corner before you could disappear behind your book.

"Oh hey!" He dropped onto the chair across from you without asking, his bag thudding onto the floor. His friend lingered awkwardly for a moment, clearly not expecting to be ditched, before wandering off toward the fiction section. "Didn't peg you for a library person. Actually, wait, that's exactly what I'd peg you for. That came out wrong."

You closed your book slowly, marking your page. "What are you doing?"

"Studying. Obviously." He pulled out a crumpled worksheet from his bag, its edges soft and worn from being shoved around. "I need help with chem. You're good at chem, right? You look like you're good at chem."

"I'm average."

"Average is better than my 'please don't fail me' energy." He slid the paper across the table, his fingers tapping against it. "One question, that's all I'm asking, then I'll leave you alone."

You stared at the worksheet. The handwriting was messy, loops and squiggles in places where he'd clearly rushed. The first problem was partially solved, the steps correct until they suddenly weren't.

You pulled the paper toward you.

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, the tension leaving his frame. "Thanks."

It quickly became a routine. He'd show up at the library, always with "one question" that somehow stretched into an hour of him talking about everything except chemistry.

His dog named Cookie who he claimed was smarter than him and had once eaten an entire pizza off the counter. His failed attempt at baking a cake for his sister's birthday that caused the smoke alarm to go off and the fire department to almost show up, and somehow the cake was still raw in the middle. Seonghyeon, who apparently had the worst impulse control of anyone he'd ever met and had once thrown his phone into a tree just to prove he could.

You'd half-listen, half-study, and he never seemed to mind that you barely said two words. Sometimes you'd glance up and catch him watching you, eyes boring into you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he found interesting. His gaze would flick away immediately, but not before you saw the faint flush creep up his neck.

One day, he didn't show up.

You told yourself it was fine, he didn't owe you anything. You weren't friends, and this totally wasn't a thing.

Though you spent the entire hour staring at the same paragraph in your textbook, reading it seven times and even then still had no idea what it said.

By the time you packed up your bag, you were annoyed at yourself for caring as much about that strange boy as you now apparently did.

The next morning, he appeared at your locker before you even had your combination turned.

"Sorry about yesterday," he said, slightly breathless, he'd apparently run the entire way. "Seonghyeon dragged me to some event. His younger sister's band was playing and he made me go. I didn't want to, I wanted to come with you. I swear I didn't ditch you on purpose."

You pulled out your textbooks, keeping your face neutral. "You don't have to come every day."

"I know." He leaned against the lockers, arms crossing loosely. "But I like coming, you're good company."

"I don't talk."

"That's what I like about you." He said it simply, without his usual theatrics. "You don't fill the silence with nonsense. You just sit there and listen. It's nice. Peaceful."

You didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever called your silence peaceful before. Most people found it uncomfortable, a void they needed to fill or else it felt like the ground would swallow them whole from awkwardness.

He held out a granola bar, slightly crushed at the edges. "Here, to make up for yesterday."

You took it slowly, your fingers brushing his though he didn't flinch or pull away. "You don't have to keep making up for things," you said.

"I know." He shrugged, already falling into step beside you as you started walking. "But I want to."

It went on like that for weeks, and somewhere along the way, you started noticing things.

His laugh changed when something genuinely caught him off guard—loud and surprised, all of his usual composure crumbling. His hands moved when he talked, always in motion, sketching shapes in the air. His voice dropped just slightly when he said your name, like it was something delicate he was handling carefully.

But most of all, he never pushed, never asked why you were so quiet, never made you feel like you needed to perform for him.

He just stayed, and you didn't quite know what to do with that.

It was Mina who finally asked, after watching him wave at you across the courtyard for the third time that week.

"So what's the deal with you two?"

"There's no deal."

"He follows you around like a puppy."

"He's just apologetic for running into me." You kept your eyes on your book, even though you'd stopped reading. "He only appears, like, once a day."

"Okay, first of all, it's been weeks since then, he should be over it by now. And second of all, that's literally following." Mina poked your arm. "And you just let him."

You didn't have a response to that because she was right, you did let him. You could've walked away, told him to leave you alone, stayed quiet and distant in the way you did with everyone else.

But when he sat across from you in the library, chattering away about nothing, you found yourself glancing up more often, even listening closer. You didn't mind his noise the way you minded everyone else's.

At some point across the many days Keonho spent in your orbit, your feelings about him began to shift.

It wasn't a single moment. There was no dramatic realisation, no sudden bolt of lightning. It crept in slowly, quietly, the way morning light fills a room before you notice it's no longer dark.

You caught yourself looking for him in the hallways. Your eyes would just wander, scanning the crowd, and when they landed on his familiar mop of messy hair, something in your chest would settle as though you'd been holding your breath without realising it.

You started noticing the small things he was doing for you. The way he always made sure to leave you the last bite of whatever snack he brought, and he'd angle his body toward you when he talked, like you were the only person in the room. He'd also pause mid-sentence when you finally spoke, giving you his full attention like what you had to say mattered more than whatever he'd been saying.

The library became a sacred place for the two of you.

He'd show up after school, drop his bag on the floor, and slide into the seat across from you like he belonged there. Which, you realised, he kind of did now.

Sometimes he studied, though more often he talked. 

You never offered much in return, but he never asked for more than you were ready to give.

"I don't even know your favourite color," he said one day, looking up from his worksheet.

You blinked. "Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't, I just want to know." He shrugged. "I want to know everything about you."

You told him it was purple. Deep purple, like the sky right before it goes dark. He smiled because you'd finally, finally,  given him something personal. "The color of the sky," he repeated. "That's really pretty."

You felt heat creep up your neck and looked back at your book.

It was on one of these evenings that you realised it had already happened.

He was rambling about something you could no longer remember, and you were pretending to read, but really you were just watching him be his naturally extroverted self.

And you thought, oh.

You liked him. Not just tolerated him, not just got used to him. You genuinely, completely, helplessly liked him.

You didn't know what to do with that. You'd never felt this pull toward someone before, this warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

You didn't tell him in that moment because you weren't sure you could.

But he noticed something had changed. Of course he did, he was far too observant of your tells for you to be able to hide something as big as, what you believed to be, unrequited love from him

"You're staring," he said one afternoon, looking up from his phone. "Not that I mind, but you're staring."

You looked away quickly. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying." He leaned forward, a teasing grin on his face. "You're thinking about something. What is it? Are you finally going to admit I'm charming?"

"You're insufferable."

"Keep telling yourself that."

You laughed and his grin softened into something deeper, warmer.

"I like that sound," he said quietly.

"What sound?"

"You laughing." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like making you laugh."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest as you quickly moved your gaze downward, hoping he didn’t notice the blush rapidly creeping onto your cheeks.

The weeks blurred together. His presence became a constant in your life, something you'd started to rely on without admitting it to yourself.

He'd find you in the mornings, falling into step beside you with a half-eaten breakfast bar or a coffee he'd grabbed for you. He'd walk you to class, talking the entire way, and you'd listen and nod and pretend you weren't memorising the way his hair fell across his forehead. He'd wave at you across crowded rooms, his grin wide and unashamed, and you'd feel a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You noticed how he was different with you than with everyone else.

Around his friends, he was loud and performative, always the center of attention, always making people laugh. But around you, he dialed it back. He still talked—he'd never stop talking, you were absolutely sure of that—but it was quieter. More genuine, as though he felt like he didn't need to impress you or perform.

"You're the only one who sees me," he said one evening, his voice soft. "The real me, not the show."

You looked up from your book. He was staring at the table, his fingers tracing the wood grain.

"What do you mean?" You asked, brows furrowing.

"I mean—" He paused, searching for the words. "Everyone expects me to be a certain way. Loud, funny, always on, and I can do that. It's easy. But sometimes it's exhausting pretending to be that version of myself all the time."

He looked up at you. "With you, I don't have to pretend. You don't expect anything from me, you just let me be."

Something in your chest tightened. "I like the real you," you said quietly.

His eyes met yours properly, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't awkward. It felt like something was being shared.

"Yeah?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

He smiled softly as you both continued what you had been doing before, choosing to ignore the way something in your gut had flipped.

It was late November when the first real change happened.

He'd walked you to the bus stop like usual, but the bus was late. The sky was dark, the air cold, and you were shivering in your thin jacket.

"Here." He shrugged off his hoodie and handed it to you without a second thought.

"You'll be cold."

"I'll survive." He shoved his hands in his pockets, not taking it back. "You need it more than me."

You hesitated, then pulled it on. It was too big, drowning you in fabric, but it was warm and smelled like him: something clean and faintly sweet.

He stared at you for a second longer than necessary, then cleared his throat. "It looks better on you anyway."

You rolled your eyes at his attempt to flirt, but you were smiling.

Then one afternoon following the weather turned. A grey sky that had been threatening rain all day finally opened up, dumping sheets of water across the pavement. You'd left your umbrella at home.

You stood under the overhang of the school entrance, watching the rain come down, mentally calculating your chances of making it to the bus stop without getting soaked. Your jacket was thin. Your books would be ruined. You'd survive, but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"Forgot your umbrella?"

You turned. Keonho was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a knowing smile on his face.

You sighed. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I was just going to say," he said, stepping beside you, "that I have an extra. Because I'm always prepared. Very responsible, ask anyone."

He pulled out a large umbrella, bright red, and held it out to you.

You stared at it. "You brought an extra just in case?"

"I brought an extra because I know you never carry one."

You blinked. "You’re watching me?"

"Always." He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he seemed to realise what he'd said, his ears turning pink. "I mean—I noticed. In passing. I pay attention to things."

You didn't say anything. Just took the umbrella, your fingers brushing his.

"It's too big for one person," you said quietly. "You should share."

He blinked at you, like he hadn't expected that. Then his smile widened, slow and surprised. "Okay," he said, stepping under the umbrella with you. "Okay. Yeah, that works."

You walked to the bus stop together, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The rain pounded against the fabric above you, loud and steady, but underneath it, everything felt strangely quiet.

He didn't say much and neither did you.

The bus arrived just as you arrived, and you moved towards it. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your wrist.

"Hey." You turned. His face was close, closer than it had ever been. "Can I ask you something?"

You nodded, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you feel?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for weeks, and I think I know, but I don't want to assume, and—"

"Yes."

He stopped, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Yes?"

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it, your palms were sweaty, and you'd never felt more exposed in your entire life. Every instinct screamed at you to look away, to retreat back into the safety of your silence, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I like you," you said, the words barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just happened. And I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know if you'd want someone like me when you could have anyone, but—"

You didn't get to finish.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, his lips brushed against yours gently, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't want to, you couldn't imagine wanting anything else in that moment.

Your eyes fluttered closed and everything else faded, there was only him, the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the softness of his lips, the faint scent of him that you'd grown so familiar with over the past weeks.

His thumb traced a gentle path along your jaw, and you felt yourself lean into him, your body moving on its own accord. Your free hand came up to grip the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, needing something to anchor yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed and his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When he opened them, they were bright, almost dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. I just needed to know you felt something too. I didn't want to—"

You pulled him back.

This time you kissed him like you meant it, like you'd been holding it in for weeks and finally had permission to let it out.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, threading through your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled into his warmth, into the circle of his arms, into this moment that felt both terrifying and right.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours again, his eyes still closed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. That was—"

"Yeah," you agreed, your voice coming out shaky.

He laughed, bright and surprised, and pulled you into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear.

His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured into your hair. "You have no idea. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, every time you said my name—I just wanted to—"

He broke off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're really something, you know that?" He said. "You're quiet and you keep to yourself and you never told me how you felt, and somehow you're still the most interesting person I've ever met."

You pulled back to look at him, your face warm. "I'm not interesting."

"You're the most interesting person I know," he insisted. "You have a whole universe inside your head, and you let me see little pieces of it. And I just—" He shook his head, smiling. "I love that. I love you."

Your heart stopped.

He seemed to realise what he'd said, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn't take it back. He just looked at you, vulnerable and hopeful.

"I mean it," he said, his voice softer now. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't even been—but I've felt it for a while. I didn't want to say it too soon, but—"

"Keonho."

He stopped.

You reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw the way you'd wanted to for weeks. "I love you too," you said.

His face broke into the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on him: wide and unguarded and full of so much emotion it made your chest ache.

"Yeah?" He whispered.

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. His lips were warm and soft, his hand gentle on your waist, and you felt like you were floating.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "So," he said, his voice breathless. "Does this mean I can walk you to the bus stop holding your hand now?"

The days that followed were different. Not in any huge, obvious way—he was still loud, still talkative, still showed up at your locker every morning. But something had shifted between you to the point where there was a new awareness, a new intimacy.

He started holding your hand everywhere: in the hallways, at the library, at the bus stop. He'd lace his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you'd let him, surprised by how right it felt.

His friends noticed. Seonghyeon had raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you two together. "So this is the quiet girl?" He’d asked, looking you over. "The one you've been obsessed with?"

"I'm not obsessed," Keonho said, his ears turning red. "I just—"

"You literally followed her around for months."

"I didn't follow—"

"You made a spreadsheet of her favourite books."

Keonho groaned. "Seonghyeon, shut up."

You blinked. "You made a spreadsheet?"

"To figure out what you'd like," he mumbled, not meeting your eyes but keeping his hand locked onto yours throughout. "For future gift purposes. It was strategic."

You laughed, bright and surprised, and he looked at you like you'd just handed him the world.

"You're so weird," you said.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

You did. You really, really did.

The two years passed in a blur of shared moments.

Winter mornings where he'd show up with two cups of hot chocolate, one for each of you, his nose red from the cold. Spring afternoons where you'd study in the library, his head resting on your shoulder while he pretended to read. Summer evenings where you'd walk home together, the sun setting behind you, his arm slung loosely around your shoulders. Fall days where he'd kick through piles of leaves just to watch you smile.

He was still loud, still talkative, still the boy who knew everyone and was friends with everyone.

But he was yours, and somehow, impossibly, you were his.

Something in Keonho seemed to switch off whenever he was around you.

It was the first thing you'd noticed about him, back when he'd started showing up at the library—how the loud, performative energy that he carried everywhere else would dim the moment he settled into the chair across from you. His shoulders would drop, his voice would soften, and his hands would still. 

You'd never said anything about it. You weren't sure he even noticed himself, but it was there, always, a quiet shift that happened the moment he was in your orbit.

Now, two years later, you were sitting on his parents' couch in his living room, your legs tucked beneath you, a book resting open atop the little space remaining on your lap. Keonho was sprawled across the length of the couch, his head resting in your lap, his eyes closed. His hair was a mess—it always was—and his shirt was rumpled from a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

His parents had gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you alone in the house. It wasn't unusual, you'd spent countless evenings here, the two of you sprawled across this same couch, doing nothing and everything.

His hand was resting on your knee, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the fabric of your jeans. His breathing was slow and even, the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders completely gone.

"Are you asleep?" You asked quietly.

"Mmm." He didn't open his eyes. "Maybe."

"You can't sleep. You're supposed to be spending time with me."

"I am spending time with you." His lips curved into a lazy smile. "I'm lying on you. That's quality time."

"That's not how quality time works."

"Sure it is." He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, his hair tickling your bare arm. "I'm touching you, I'm breathing your air, I'm in your presence. This is the most quality time I've had all week."

You shook your head, but you were smiling. "You're such a know it all."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"I do," you said, and the words came easier now than they used to. "Somehow."

He opened one eye, turning to peek up at you. "Somehow?"

"You're very high maintenance."

"I'm not high maintenance." He closed his eye again, nuzzling the side of his face against your thigh. "I'm just... particular."

"You're particular."

"Very particular. About you. I'm particular about you."

Your heart did that thing it always did when he said things like that—that soft flutter that had become so familiar over the past two years.

"You're also very cheesy," you said.

"Cheesy and yours." He grinned, still not opening his eyes. "That's the deal."

You went back to your book, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His hand on your knee had stilled, his fingers loosely curled around your leg.

The house was quiet, the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. The winter sun was setting outside, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.

It was peaceful, perfect, and so utterly Keonho and you that you couldn't imagine it any other way.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, barely above a murmur.

"Hmm?"

"Remember how we met?"

You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed, but his smile had softened into something thoughtful.

"You mean when you tackled me when I was walking home?" You said, raising your eyebrows slightly. "And nearly killed me?"

"I didn't nearly kill you." He opened his eyes, turning and looking up at you with mock offense. "I gently collided with you. Don’t be so dramatic."

"You knocked me over and my books went flying."

"Okay, but I picked them up for you." He grinned. "That was very chivalrous of me."

"You just shoved them in my hands while apologising at a thousand miles an hour."

"I was panicking." He reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "I'd just run into the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. What was I supposed to do? Stay calm?"

You felt your face warm. "You didn't think I was pretty then."

"I did." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought you were pretty the moment I looked up and saw you standing there. I just didn't say it because I was too busy apologising and making a fool of myself."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Really." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "I went home that night and told Seonghyeon I'd met the most beautiful girl in school and I'd nearly murdered her."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "You did not."

"I did." He was grinning now. "He told me I was being dramatic, and I told him he didn't understand. I was very dramatic about it. That's just who I am."

"I know. I've noticed."

"Yeah, but you don't mind." His voice was warm. "That's why you're my favourite person."

Your heart swelled at his words, the feeling of heat creeping up your neck. "You're my favourite person too."

You felt him smile against your leg. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and sure. "I don't say it enough. But I love you."

"You say it plenty."

"I know. But I still don't say it enough." He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek. "I love you, Y/N. I love the way you read books and ignore me. I love the way you laugh when I say something stupid. I love the way you let me be quiet around you, even though I'm not good at being quiet."

"You're good at being quiet around me."

"Because you make it easy." His thumb traced your jaw. "You make everything easy. You make me feel like I don't have to perform all the time. Like I can just... be."

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You can just be," you whispered against his skin. "That's the whole point."

He closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

You went back to your book, and he went back to tracing patterns on your knee. The sun dipped lower, the room growing dimmer, but neither of you moved to turn on a light, existing in your own, quiet, ecosystem.

Of course, though, Keonho was still Keonho. And that meant he'd still have moments where his usual energy would come roaring back, filling whatever room he was in with noise and chaos. But even those moments—especially those moments—somehow made you love him more.

One Saturday afternoon you were curled up on his couch again, a book in your hands that he had recently gifted you. Keonho was in the kitchen, supposedly making cookies, though you'd been hearing a lot of noises: cabinet doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes, something that sounded suspiciously like a pan being dropped on the floor.

"Are you okay in there?" You called out, glancing down the hall.

"FINE!" His voice was too loud, too cheerful. "EVERYTHING IS FINE. I AM VERY CAPABLE."

You were about to go back to your book when you heard a crash followed by a rapid string of curses that would've made your grandmother faint.

You sighed, marking your page, and made your way to the kitchen.

Keonho was standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the countertops, the floor, his shirt, and somehow even his hair. A bowl was overturned in the sink, and there was something suspiciously charred smoking in a pan on the stove.

He turned to you with a sheepish grin, his face dusted with white powder.

"Hi," he said. "I was making you cookies. It's not going well."

You looked at the chaos around him. "I can see that."

"It's okay. I have a plan." He held up a bag of pre-made cookie dough. "I was going to do it from scratch, but then things happened, so I'm pivoting."

"Things happened."

"Things happened." He gestured vaguely at the mess. "I don't know what things, they just happened."

You bit back a smile. "You set the kitchen on fire."

"It was a small fire! A contained fire! I put it out immediately!" He paused. "Okay, the fire alarm went off, but I handled it."

"How?"

"I waved a towel at it."

You couldn't help it and laughed, bright and surprised, his face lighting up like you'd just given him a gift.

"You're laughing!" He said. "At my pain. You're laughing at my suffering."

"I'm laughing at your baking," you corrected. "Never your pain."

"The baking is the cause of my pain." He grabbed the bag of cookie dough and held it up triumphantly. "But this is my redemption arc. Watch and be amazed."

He tore open the bag with more force than necessary, and a puff of flour exploded in his face, leaving him standing there frozen and blinking.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Don't," he warned. "Don't you dare."

You immediately burst out laughing, bending over slightly to catch yourself.

He groaned, but he was smiling. "This is bullying. This is emotional abuse."

"You're the one who decided to bake."

"I was trying to do something nice!"

"I appreciate the effort." You walked over, brushing a smudge of flour off his cheek with your thumb as your palm cupped his jaw. "But next time, maybe just buy cookies."

"Where's the fun in that?" He leaned into your touch, his eyes soft and shining as they looked into your own. "I wanted to do something special for you."

"Keonho, you're special enough."

He dropped the bag of cookie dough and pulled you into his arms, flour and all. His chin rested on top of your head. "You're too good to me," he murmured.

"You're the one who almost burned down your kitchen."

"I would burn down a thousand kitchens for you." He paused and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. "Wait, that's a terrible thing to say. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Mmhm." You pulled back to look at him, his face still covered in flour. "You're ridiculous, but you're my ridiculous."

He grinned, wide and unguarded. "I love you."

"I know." You reached up, wiping a smear of flour from his nose. "I love you too. Even if you can't bake."

"That's offensive. I can bake. I'm an excellent baker in fact. This was just a test run."

"Of what?"

"Of my ability to make cookies." He paused. "I failed, but I'll get there, just give me time. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Rome didn't have you."

"Exactly. So imagine what I can do."

The sun had fully set by the time you moved to your natural positions on the sofa, the room dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight outside. 

"Hey," you said softly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you tackled me on my walk home."

He laughed, quiet and warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I wouldn't change a thing."

He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, and pulled you down for a proper kiss. You both melted into it, the pure feeling of love swelling so deeply in your chest you couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was soft and slow and full of everything he couldn't say.

When you pulled back, he was smiling.

"Me neither," he said. "Not a single thing."

On paper, you and Keonho made absolutely no sense.

You were polar opposites. A quiet girl who disappeared into the background and a boy who lit up every room he walked into. 

But none of that mattered because somewhere along the way, you'd realised that opposites didn't have to clash. Sometimes, they just fit perfectly and effortlessly.

He was the sun, bright and uncontainable, and you were the moon, steady and still, and you'd learned that the sky was big enough for both. That the most beautiful moments happened when the sun and moon shared the horizon—when the world was painted in shades of gold and silver, light and shadow dancing together in perfect harmony. The sunset wasn't beautiful despite the coexistence of day and night, it was beautiful because of it.

The sun didn't dim for the moon and the moon didn't fade for the sun, they simply existed together, each making the other more breathtaking.