saraa

It was in a flower shop, one tucked between the cracks of the bustling city, filled with the scent of fresh petals and damp earth. You were there to buy flowers for yourself—no particular occasion, just the quiet yearning for something beautiful. He was there for his mother, as you would later come to know.

Even in a place overflowing with color and life, with beauty and extravagance, your eyes had found him first.

Beomgyu stood near a display of yellow tulips, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the petals as he spoke to the florist, his voice too light for you to catch. The way he moved, the way he laughed at something the florist said, how the golden afternoon light filtered through the shop’s windows and painted warmth into the edges of his silhouette—it all had the energy of a song that made you want to sway.

“You’re taking your time,” he then remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he glanced at the bouquets before you. “Can’t decide?” 

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden conversation. “I just… I don’t know which ones to get.”

Beomgyu glanced at the flowers surrounding you, then tilted his head slightly. “Well, what do you want them to say?”

His tone was a little playful, but there was a quiet kindness in it, too. And when you looked into his eyes, the melody shifted. There, in the warm brown depths, you traced out not quite sadness, but a knowing sort of wistfulness, like a song whose lyrics carried a weight that didn’t match the lightness of its tune.

“Flowers can talk now?” you were caught off guard. 

He chuckled. “No, and yes. They have meanings. Like those peonies you keep glancing at? They symbolize good fortune and love. Sunflowers over there? Adoration and loyalty. And these?” He gestured to the violets beside you. “Faithfulness. Devotion.”

Something in the way he spoke made your heart clench, like he wasn’t just reciting definitions but holding pieces of himself within each word. You listened, caught in the strange contradiction of him. His laughter was bright, his words gentle. And yet, beneath them, there was an ache woven between the notes, the quiet sorrow nestled within the joy.

A song that made you want to dance, but left your heart aching by the time it ended. Yet somehow, you wanted to memorize every word.

That was your first impression of Beomgyu. 

Beomgyu was happiness as bright as yellow and sadness as deep as blue. Both hues always morphed into longing, into yearning.

Your friendship had come as easily as breathing, slipping into your life like sunlight through an open window. He was golden in the way he laughed, in the way he leaned into you during late-night conversations, eyes crinkling, voice bubbling over with warmth. Beomgyu could fill a room with his brightness alone, and you—helplessly drawn to the sun—found yourself chasing after his light without realizing you had begun to run.

And yet, in the quiet, you learned of the blue that floated beneath. You caught glimpses of it in the moments he thought no one was looking—in the way his fingers hovered over the keys of a piano, pressing down with a softness that made his melodies ache. In the way he gazed at the sky, not with admiration, but with a wistfulness you wished you could gently wipe away. In the pauses between his laughter, when silence pressed in like an ocean tide retreating from the shore.

Perhaps that was why loving him came as easily as befriending him. He was both the sunlight and the shadow it cast, and you wanted to know every shade of him. You wanted to soak in his laughter and cradle his sadness, to learn the melodies he hummed absentmindedly and understand the thoughts he never voiced.

He became your muse before you even knew it, weaving himself into your words, your art, the very fabric of your days. And as much as he was yellow and blue, he was yours—etched into your heart in colors only you could see.

Beomgyu felt like autumn at its peak.

The world turned golden in his presence—maple reds, sunflower yellows, the rich ochre of leaves crunching beneath your feet. He was crisp air against your skin, warm drinks cupped between chilled fingers. He was the golden hour glow spilling through branches, the scent of earth after a night’s rain. He was laughter in the wind, a sweet hum carried through rustling leaves.

You realized it one afternoon, walking beside him on a path littered with amber and rust-colored leaves. The sun hung low in the sky, gilding everything in soft light. Beomgyu walked with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, his hair a tousled mess from the breeze. He kicked at a stray leaf, sending it spinning into the air, and when he turned to you, grinning, you swore you had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Autumn suits you,” you had said, the words slipping out before you could think twice. Honestly, you didn’t need to. 

He blinked, surprised. Then, his lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “How so?”

You brushed your thumb against his cheek, smiling softly. “Falling... it doesn't feel as painful or haunting as I always imagined. You helped me realize that what I've been fighting all along was actually what I needed the most.”

But seasons change, and autumn never stays.

You learned to love him when autumn was ending—when the trees were stripped bare, their branches skeletal against a slate-gray sky. When the wind grew sharp and cold, biting through layers of fabric and stinging your cheeks. When the last of the leaves clung desperately to thinning branches before surrendering to the earth.

And yet, even when winter kissed the ground and the north wind carved itself into your bones, you found yourself loving him still.

You loved him when his warmth turned to silence, when his golden glow faded into something softer, something more fragile. You loved him when his laughter quieted, when he stood beneath the barren trees with his hands still stuffed into his coat pockets, staring up at the sky like he was waiting for the first snowfall.

Because Beomgyu was not just autumn in its splendor. He was also the bare branches left behind. The final leaf drifting to the ground. The moment the cold settles in, biting and real—and the moment you decide that even then, you will stay.

You loved him through the changing seasons. You loved him, all of him.

Your first kiss with Beomgyu did not feel like fireworks like how the authors in their books promised you. It was not a dazzling burst of color, nor a sharp, fleeting spark that set the night ablaze. No, it was quieter than that. Softer. Like the swell of waves that kissed the shore—gentle and lulling, a pull and retreat that never truly left.

You remembered the way the world seemed to hush around you, how the distant hum of the cicadas melted into the rustling leaves. The lanterns overhead bathed everything in gold, but all you could focus on was him—the way his hands cradled your face, hesitant but wanting. The way his breath fanned over your lips, warm and steady, before he finally closed the distance.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hurried. It was the slow kind of falling, the kind that felt like a secret between just the two of you. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, as if he was memorizing the way you felt beneath his touch. And when he pulled away, your heart still chased the warmth he left behind.

Much like the sea always reached for the shore, you knew you would always find your way back to him.

His hugs felt like the solace of scented candles and the soft glow of lights that fill a room. On days that have stretched too long, coming back to your shared apartment, he knew when to hold you.

On such a particular day, you found him in the living room, sitting on the couch with his guitar resting in his lap, playing a tune you recognized as one of his many unfinished songs he played for you. You leaned against the wall, fondly watching him. It was stupefying how his presence alone could make you forget about all the noises in your mind. 

When he saw you, he didn’t ask. No words were ever needed. One look at you and without a single question, he opened his arms to you, waiting for you to accept it.

Resisting the pull for him and the safety he provided you is like the tide resisting the moon. Futile.

You fell into his embrace like two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together. His arms closed around you, drawing you in, and the weariness from your day began to fade. You nestled against him, your cheek resting in the curve of his collarbone. You exhaled a breath, letting the ugliness of the world wash out that was buried deep in your heart, followed by a long inhale of his scent which instead made its home there. Him, the rightful owner of your heart.

Pulling you down on the couch he held you close, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he whispered against your hair. “Rest, my love. You are deserving of it.” His voice is full of quiet admiration. “Stay in my open arms and rest.”

You close your eyes, the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear grounding you. Being near him, surrounded by him, it’s like the calm after a storm—the world hushing, the air softening, everything falling into place. It felt like returning home.

Beomgyu is home.

Beomgyu is the embodiment of pure love and comfort.

He never needed grand declarations, never needed to string together poetry in an attempt to express what was already woven into his every gesture. His love was in the silent things, the unnoticed things—the way he refilled your coffee when you weren’t looking, how he made sure your scarf was wrapped properly before you stepped out into the cold. It was in the soft hum of his voice when he thought you were asleep, in the way his fingers smoothed over your knuckles absentmindedly as he read beside you.

You never liked oranges.

But they tasted sweet when he peeled them for you, his fingers deftly working through the rind with the kind of care that made your heart ache. He would press a slice to your lips without a word, waiting for you to take it, his gaze warm with an affection too vast to be contained in something as simple as language. And maybe that was why you took it, why you chewed past the tang and the bitterness—because when love was given so gently, so earnestly, how could you not accept it?

Much like the love that had brewed in the home you built together, his presence seeped into every corner of your life, turning the ordinary into something golden. You found yourself enjoying things you never had before, simply because they were wrapped in him. The mundane had never felt so tender. Love had never tasted so sweet.

With him it did, it always does, and you knew—it always will.