NOW PLAYING: BESIDE YOU
âIâve changed.â It wasnât entirely true. Or maybe it was, but in a way too complicated to explain. He couldnât talk about Yejoon, about that night. About the first time he had felt seen without shame.
COLLECTION: ASTRAL WEEKS
pair: leeknow x oc genre: AU, (kind of) coming of age words: 13k
warnings: mature content (mdni), cheating, age gap (both consenting adults), internalised homophobia
notes: when I first came up with the plots for the collection, this was the one I couldn't wait to write. however, for months I couldn't find the right words to get started. a few weeks ago, I finally found them, and from that moment on, I couldn't stop until I was done. it usually takes me forever to write the first draft, but this one only took me three or four days. I even considered calling in sick to work just so I could keep writing. after almost three weeks of editing, it's finally ready! it's been a long time since I've felt this inspired, and I'm really happy with what I've created. I really hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Üž.ËŹ.Üž if you'd like, please share your thoughts, I'd really appreciate it. Ę âĄ Ę .
âYejoon.â
The name hung in the afternoon air, suspended between the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled shuffle of footsteps in the corridor. Minho stilled, the tip of his pen hovering over the medical chart he had been filling in. Mr Park hadnât spoken for days, only shallow breaths and vacant looks. He slept most of the time now. Minho had been surprised to find him awake when heâd entered the room that morning.
He turned towards the old man and set the chart down on the empty bedside cabinet. Bending slightly, he rested a hand on his forearm, thin beneath the cotton of his pyjamas, careful not to startle him.
âMr Park?â he said gently. âIs everything alright?â
âYejoon,â the old man repeated, eyes clouded with sleep and medication. âYouâre here.â
Minho smiled, the smile he had perfected over years of work, carefully measured, designed to reassure and offer nothing more. He tightened his fingers just slightly around the frail arm. He had lived through this moment before. Lived through it many times. It had been repeating itself for months. Each time it left the same residue behind. Not sadness. Not quite. Something closer to compassion edged with anger. Something he had never found the right word for.
Mr Park was dying, and moments of clarity were becoming rarer. Minho could have told him the truth. Could have said that his name wasnât Yejoon, that he was Minho, his nurse. That he had been caring for him for the past two years, in the care home where Mr Park had lived for more than five. He could have watched panic seize what little strength the old man had left. Instead, he chose to play along.
âIâm here,â he murmured quietly. âDonât worry.â
Mr Park seemed to exhale in relief. His thin lips curved into something resembling a smile, barely there, but enough. Minho watched as sleep claimed him again, eyelids lowering slowly, and only then loosened his hold.
He picked up the chart and finished noting the last details before placing it at the foot of the bed, where it always went. Movements automatic now, repeated so often they had become choreography. He moved towards the door and opened it quietly. But he stopped when he heard the faint rustle of sheets behind him. He turned. Mr Park was looking at him.
âYejoon,â he whispered, voice reduced to little more than breath. âForgive me.â Then his eyes closed again.
Minho stood there a moment longer before closing the door behind him. He returned to the nursesâ station and dropped into one of the worn chairs. His shift had only just begun, and already he found himself counting the hours until he could go home. He watched the clock hands inch forward with suffocating slowness and let out a long, controlled breath.
He was about to stand when the door opened abruptly behind him. In the reflection of the window overlooking the small garden, he saw a slight figure enter the room. Outside, a handful of residents were gathered around the granite table for afternoon tea, watched over by a couple of nurses.
âCoffee?â a womanâs voice asked.
Minho turned and offered Myungok a polite smile. She returned it easily, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening.
He sat back down and waited while she set a steaming mug in front of him. He sighed again, barely noticing.
âOh, Minho,â she laughed, taking the seat beside him. âYouâve only just started and youâre already sighing? At this rate youâll run out of breath before the end of your shift.â
He pulled his mouth into a thin smile but said nothing. He attempted a sip; it was far too hot. He drew back with an involuntary grimace that made her chuckle.
âHe called me Yejoon again,â he said after a while.
âWho?â Myungok leaned slightly closer. âMr Park?â
Minho nodded. âI think heâs forgotten me.â
She laughed softly. âImpossible. Youâre still his favourite. When youâre not around, heâs much more restless.â
Minho lifted the mug again to hide the smile threatening to surface. âDo you know who this Yejoon is?â he asked.
Myungok nodded, a trace of foam still on her upper lip. âHis son.â
Minhoâs eyebrows rose slightly. âHis son?â he repeated, surprised. âI didnât know he had one. He never mentioned him. Not even when he was well.â
She made a vague gesture with her hand before reaching for a napkin. âItâs a sore subject for Mr Park,â she explained. âI donât know what happened between them, but I donât think theyâre on good terms.â
Now that she mentioned it, Minho realised he had never seen anyone visit Mr Park in the two years heâd worked there. No one at Christmas. No one for his birthday. He had always been alone. And yet he had never complained about it. Minho had simply assumed there was no one. That he and his wife, who had died many years ago, had never had children.
âHe said something strange earlier,â Minho went on after a pause. âHe asked me to forgive him.â
âFor what?â
He shrugged. âI donât know. Just âforgive meâ,â he said. âMaybe he was delirious.â
Myungok smiled at him again, that expression she had learned from working too long in close proximity to endings. âMaybe.â
âDo you think we should contact him? This Yejoon, I mean.â He spoke as though she hadnât responded. âItâs obvious heâs dying. Mr Park, I mean. Shouldnât we let his son know? Even if theyâre not closeâŠâ
She nodded slowly. âWe have an emergency contact number on file, but Iâm afraid it may no longer be active. From what I understand, the son lives abroad.â
Minhoâs expression tightened.
âYouâve grown attached to that old man, havenât you?â
He let out a small, embarrassed laugh and shook his head. âDonât be ridiculous.â
He raised the mug once more and took a long sip. The coffee had gone cold.
The hallway light flicked on automatically above his head, harsh and unforgiving. He slipped off his shoes, steadying himself against the wall, and dragged his rucksack down the corridor before dropping it wherever it landed. He yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth, filling the flat with sound.
There was nothing Minho disliked more than the morning shift. Waking before dawn. Leaving the house when the sun was barely visible between the buildings. That dull, dragging exhaustion that clung to him for the rest of the day. Once home, he was capable of very little. He would lie on the sofa and stare at the ceiling for hours, as though waiting for it to collapse on top of him. Only when darkness settled fully, when he could no longer make out the shapes of the furniture, did he begin to feel vaguely present again.
That day did not seem inclined to be any different. He shuffled to the sofa, pushed his trousers down and let them fall to the floor before collapsing face-down. He exhaled into the cushion, warm with his own breath, then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Was there a stain above him, or was it just his imagination?
He closed his eyes and let his thoughts blur. He did not think of anything. He may even have drifted off. He only became aware again when he felt a distant vibration, muffled, as though coming from another galaxy. Slowly, he sat up, elbows resting on his knees, hands threaded through his hair to support the weight of his head. He stared at the trousers on the floor. Rubbed his eyes. Stood with a quiet groan. He retrieved his phone from the pocket and looked at the screen. The light hit him full in the face and he squinted before the name came into focus.
Hyunwoo.
His thumb trembled slightly before he opened the message. Minho sat back down, spine straight, rigid. He tilted his head from side to side until his neck clicked.
Are you alive or do I need to report you missing?
He read it once. Twice. A third time. Then he placed the phone beside him and let himself fall back against the sofa, eyes returning to the ceiling. He half closed them.
Hyunwoo. On that very sofa. Those sharp eyes looking at him the way Minho had always wanted to be looked at, with want, with urgency. Hands marked by cuts and calluses brushing over him with a gentleness that did not match the rest of him. Lips warm and insistent against his own. Softer than Minho had allowed himself to imagine during the months he had pretended not to think about it.
He opened his eyes abruptly and shook his head. He stood, ignoring the still-lit phone beside him. He would not reply. There was no reason to.
In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and searched the cupboards for the tea bags his mother had brought during her last visit. She had said they would help him sleep. When he found them, tucked behind a jar of unopened jam, the water was already boiling. He poured it slowly into a mug and watched the steam rise.
The images began to circle again.
Hyunwoo above him. That crooked smile. That loud, rough laugh. The way he had held him afterwards, as if Minho had been more than just a body to touch.
Minho clenched his jaw and shook his head again. He mustnât think about it. He couldnât.
He pulled the tea bag out too soon, abruptly, not allowing it time to brew properly. He needed something else to fill his head. Different images. Anything that would take him away from that night.
His cats, still living with his parents. He had wanted to bring them with him, but his shifts kept him away from home too long. They would have suffered. Myungok, close to retirement, telling him about the small house in the countryside she and her husband had bought. A place with a wide garden where her grandchildren could play safely. Mr Park, fading slowly, steadily. Barely recognising him now, yet never forgetting to smile. The new name he had given him.
Yejoon.
It had been a week since Minho had discovered he existed. He had tried to ignore the curiosity that had settled under his skin, tried to continue as he always had. Since starting this job, he had made it a rule not to interfere in matters that were not his own.
He had seen countless people beg for forgiveness at the edge of death. He had felt his chest tighten watching them lie alone in hospital beds, waiting for someone to relieve them of burdens they had carried for decades. But he also knew it was not right to force the living to forgive the dying. Not everyone was good. Not everyone deserved redemption. It was not his place to decide what was right.
And yet this time he had not managed to restrain himself. He had asked questions. Quietly at first. Then more insistently. To colleagues. To reception staff. To other residents willing to talk. Even to Mr Park, in the rare moments when his mind was clear enough to remember.
One night, during a particularly quiet shift, he had sat in Mr Parkâs room, on the chair the old man had not used for months and which no one else ever occupied. He had watched him sleep, his body trembling faintly beneath the blankets. Minho had taken his phone from his pocket and stared at the screen for a long moment before typing the few details he had into the search bar.
Park Yejoon. Berlin. University. Professor.
It had been easier than expected. The third result led to the Freie UniversitÀt Berlin website. Scrolling down, he found the name listed among faculty members.
Park Yejoon. Researcher. Professor of History.
The first thing Minho had thought, looking at the photograph beside the name, was how much he resembled Mr Park. The same downward tilt at the eyes. The same aquiline nose. The same thin lips and restrained smile. Only fuller hair. Softer cheeks. The picture must have been old; he looked younger than Minho had imagined. There was no doubt.
He took a sip of tea. It was still too hot and tasted of almost nothing, but he swallowed it anyway.
Back in the living room, he set the mug on the dining table and picked up his phone. No new notifications.
He reopened the browser. The university page was still there. He scrolled back to the top, then down again slowly until he reached Yejoonâs profile. He studied the photograph once more. Yes. There was no doubt.
He inhaled deeply and clicked on the email address. He wrote. Deleted. Wrote again. Deleted again. Rewrote. He kept at it for what felt like hours. Then, when his flat had fallen completely into darkness, he pressed send.
Park Yejoon looked exactly as he had in the photograph.
Minho had expected someone older. A face more deeply lined, perhaps streaks of grey threading through his hair. Someone closer to Mr Park than to the man in that faculty portrait. Instead, the man sitting opposite him could not have been much past forty. He wore a white linen shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled to mid-forearm. His arms were folded across his chest. A simple gold wedding band on his left hand and a leather-strapped watch were his only accessories.
Perhaps it was the fact that he was a university professor. Or perhaps it was the stillness of his expression, almost impassive, that unsettled him. Without quite meaning to, Minho found himself lowering his gaze, hands planted firmly on his knees.
âThank you for coming,â he said, trying to mask the agitation in his voice. He gave a brief bow, automatic, almost misplaced in a space as informal as this one.
Yejoon inclined his head and leaned forward. For a second Minho thought he was returning the gesture, but instead he reached for the coffee cup in front of him.
The care home café was quiet. Afternoon light streamed through the windows, filling the room with a pale warmth. Apart from them, only an elderly woman sat with her daughter, and a few members of staff were on break nearby.
âI hope the journey wasnât too difficult,â Minho continued, unsure how to proceed. âI imagine it was rather long.â
Yejoon gave a small nod. âIt was fine,â he replied, his voice low and resonant. âA few screaming children, but one has to factor those in when travelling.â
Minho nodded politely, though he did not entirely share the sentiment. He cleared his throat, feeling the tension creep up the back of his neck. âI imagine you were surprised to receive my email, Mr Park,â he began, choosing each word carefully.
âYejoon, please,â the man interrupted gently, lifting a hand. âThereâs no need to be so formal.â
Minho looked at him for a moment too long, caught off guard. âAs I was saying,â he resumed, âI imagine you were surprised.â
The soft clink of porcelain against a saucer broke the silence. âI realise it may have been unprofessional of me,â he went on, âbut recently Mr Park⊠your father began asking for you.â
Yejoon tilted his head slightly and folded his arms again. âFor me?â
âYes,â Minho replied. âMost of the time he isnât lucid. I believe he has convinced himself that I am you.â
For a brief second, something like disbelief crossed Yejoonâs face. Then he let out a short laugh, quickly subdued. He shifted in his seat and took another sip of coffee, longer than necessary.
He said nothing. Minho took it as permission to continue. âThe doctor has informed us that Mr Parkâs condition has deteriorated significantly,â he explained, searching for a balance between professionalism and gentleness. âIt isnât my practice to contact family members directly, especially when Iâm aware that it may not be⊠welcome.â
He paused again, lifting his eyes to gauge Yejoonâs reaction. The man merely gave a faint nod.
âBut I thought that perhaps he had something important to say to you,â Minho finished, this time forcing himself to maintain eye contact. âAnd that it was only right to let you know.â
âThank you,â Yejoon said, with a calmness that felt almost rehearsed. âI admit your email took me by surprise. At first I considered ignoring it. But it also gave me an opportunity to stop and think.â
Minho offered a tentative smile. Even now, sitting across from him, he could not shake the lingering sensation of waiting, as though their meeting had not quite begun yet.
The reply to his email had arrived several days later, from a private address. Formal. Almost impersonal. Thanking him for the information and informing him of Yejoonâs intention to return to Korea in three weeksâ time. During those weeks Minho had lived in a kind of suspended state. He had prepared meticulously for the meeting. Reread Mr Parkâs medical file repeatedly so as not to be caught unprepared if questions arose. He had even asked Myungok for advice: what tone to adopt, which words to avoid, where and when to meet. More than anything, he had hoped that Mr Parkâs condition would remain stable long enough for his son to arrive.
Yet despite all that preparation, the fear of rejection had never truly left him.
âItâs been more than ten years since my father and I last saw one another,â Yejoon said, turning his gaze towards the garden outside the window. âI thought I would never want to see him again. Evidently, I was wrong.â
Minho wanted to respond, but found no adequate words. So he remained silent.
âAnd there are matters to sort out,â Yejoon continued, running a hand through his thick dark hair. âAdministrative things I knew nothing about. In any case, I would have had to come back eventually. You were right to write.â
This time, his smile was easier. Minho returned it, more shyly.
âI only ask for a little more time,â Yejoon added before Minho could speak. âTime to readjust to this part of the world. As I said, Iâve been away for over a decade.â
Minho nodded. They both stood slowly. Yejoon extended a hand; Minho took it carefully, their grip light, almost formal. They exchanged another small bow.
âThank you again,â Yejoon said, before turning to leave.
Minho watched him for a moment. âThank you,â he murmured to himself, as Yejoon disappeared through the cafĂ© doors.
There was a crack in the wall, just beside Mr Parkâs room.
Minho had never noticed it before. But now, standing in the corridor with nothing to do but wait, he could see it clearly. It began at the ceiling and ran halfway down the wall, thin as a thread.
Forty-three minutes had passed since Yejoon had gone into that room. Forty-three minutes during which Minho had devised every plausible excuse to knock and remain inside, to observe, to listen. Check an IV. Straighten the sheets. Bring water. He had even wished, absurdly, that he might turn into a fly and slip in unnoticed.
Yejoon had appeared without warning, two days after their meeting in the cafĂ©. He had left no phone number, nor asked for Minhoâs. Email had been the only way to reach him. Minho had decided to respect his wish, to wait, to grant him the time he had asked for. Even as, with each passing day, anxiety carved out more space inside him. What if he did not return? What if he chose not to see his father at all?
It should not have mattered. And yet every time Minho saw Mr Park lying in his bed, his sonâs name forever poised on his lips, something shifted inside him. He hoped it was not too late.
His shift had ended. He had been changing in the staff room when Myungok walked in without knocking, apparently unbothered to find him half-dressed, and informed him that Yejoon had arrived. Minho had dressed hurriedly and gone up to the second floor. But when he reached the room, the door was closed.
He did not even know why he remained there, waiting. His task ended with the email. He had done what he set out to do: inform the son, allow the father the chance to see him. The outcome was none of his concern.
And yet he stayed until the door opened.
Yejoon lifted his head and met his gaze. He seemed surprised to find him there in civilian clothes, as though seeing him without his uniform momentarily unsettled him. Then he offered a faint, almost embarrassed smile and walked towards him.
In that instant, Minho realised he had nothing prepared to say.
âYouâre still here,â Yejoon observed. âYour colleagues told me youâd already left.â
Minho ran a hand through his hair. âI was about to go home, but they told me you were hereâŠâ
Yejoon gave a small, almost indulgent nod and began walking towards the lift. Minho followed without thinking, keeping what he considered a reasonable distance.
âIâm sorry you stayed longer than you needed to just to wait for me,â Yejoon said, pressing the button for the ground floor. Minho was about to respond, but Yejoon lifted a hand slightly, forestalling him. âIf itâs not inconvenient, though, would you mind staying a little longer?â
They stepped into the lift together. Minho found himself staring at the back of Yejoonâs shirt.
âHas something happened to Mr Park?â he asked, unable to stop himself.
Yejoon did not answer directly. He turned slightly. âI just need some advice,â he said. âAnd⊠I think youâre the right person to ask.â
Minho nodded, uncertain. His stomach tightened. They waited in silence until the lift gave a soft jolt at the ground floor and the doors slid open. They walked slowly towards the entrance.
âI could get you something in the cafĂ©,â Minho offered, noticing Yejoon heading for the exit.
âIf you donât mind,â Yejoon said. âIâd rather leave this place.â
Minho nodded again, mechanically. Swallowing felt difficult. What had happened in that room? What had they said to each other? Had Mr Park been lucid enough to recognise him? Had he managed to apologise? He searched Yejoonâs face for clues. There was no visible trace of emotion. No tears. No anger. Was he relieved? Disappointed? Sad? Minho could not tell.
âThereâs a bar at the end of the street,â he said, indicating a side road to the left.
Yejoon checked the time on his watch and looked back at him. âIs it too early to start drinking?â
Minho blinked, caught off guard. âI⊠Iâm not sure,â he stammered. âI donât think there are strict hours forâŠâ
Yejoon was already walking in the direction Minho had indicated, hands slipping into his pockets. Minho hesitated only a moment before following.
They sat at a small table by the window, traffic crawling past outside. Yejoon ordered two beers. Minho did not object. Perhaps a little alcohol would help him as well.
âDid it go all right?â he ventured when the waiter set the glasses down.
Yejoon took a long sip and smiled, but not in response to the question. âI spoke to the doctor,â he said, wiping his lower lip with his thumb. âHe explained my fatherâs condition. Thereâs nothing to be done, is there?â
Minho watched a bead of condensation slide down the side of his glass, tracing an uneven line.
âThere is a treatment,â he said, slipping back into a more professional tone. âBut given Mr Parkâs overall condition, full remission would be unlikely. Heâs elderly. The therapy would be invasive. Recovery would be⊠extremely difficult.â
Yejoon nodded. For a moment he said nothing, lost in thought. âHe mentioned the possibility of transferring him to⊠what did he call it? An hospice? For palliative care.â
Minhoâs throat felt dry. He took a sip of beer but barely managed to swallow it. He had had this conversation too many times in recent months. He had discussed it at length with the doctor. And yet each time he found himself wishing for another option.
âI wanted your opinion,â Yejoon continued. âYou know his situation better than I do.â
Minho drew in a slow breath. âGiven the circumstances,â he said carefully, âit would be the most appropriate course. Especially for him. To keep him as comfortable as possible.â
Yejoon let out a short, almost bitter laugh. âI felt sorry for him,â he admitted, leaning back in his chair. âSeeing him there. Not even strong enough to sit up.â
Minho said nothing, staring into his glass.
âItâs strange,â Yejoon went on, as though speaking more to himself than to Minho. âMy parents had me late. My father was always the oldest among the other fathers. And yet he was the most energetic. The loudest one at school matches. Who would have imagined it would end like this?â
Minho looked up at him. He wanted to ask a hundred questions. What Mr Park had been like when he was young. What kind of man. What kind of father. But he held back. It was obvious Yejoon was not here to revisit the past. âWere you able to talk?â he asked instead. In truth, it was the only thing he really wanted to know.
Yejoon shook his head. âHe wasnât very present.â
Minho lowered his gaze. âThat happens more often now, Iâm afraid.â
Yejoon shrugged, as though discarding the entire conversation. He drained his beer in one go, stood abruptly, and adjusted his shirt. He checked his watch again.
âIâm sorry, but I have to go,â he said with a faint smile. âThank you for your help.â
Minho rose as well. âI didnât do anyâŠâ
âGood afternoon,â Yejoon interrupted gently, already turning away.
Minho sank back into his chair. His glass still half full in front of him.
Minho wasnât entirely sure why he had agreed.
The day before, he had received another email from Yejoon. The tone had been the same as always, polite, detached. He was asking whether Minho might be available to help him with one of the many practical matters he needed to deal with.
Minho could have said no. In fact, he probably should have. It was not part of his job. He had no obligation to involve himself in family affairs that did not concern him. He and Yejoon were certainly not friends. He owed him nothing. And yet he had not hesitated. He had not paused to consider what was appropriate. He had replied within minutes, perhaps with a willingness that bordered on excessive.
Now he was behind the wheel of his car, hands tight on the steering wheel. Yejoon sat beside him, gaze fixed out of the window. They were driving towards a house in the countryside Minho had never seen, to deal with matters that were not his to manage.
âIt should be here, on the right,â Yejoon said suddenly, leaning forward to point towards a dirt track.
The GPS had failed them as soon as they had left the main road and entered the narrow lanes of a small hillside village. From then on, they had relied on the blurred remnants of Yejoonâs childhood memories. âI havenât been here in nearly thirty years,â he had said earlier. Before I was even born, Minho had thought.
The house stood surrounded by overgrown greenery, the garden thick with weeds that had not been cut in at least a year. It had a red roof and large modern windows that clashed awkwardly with the cracks in the walls and the old wicker chairs abandoned beneath a plastic awning. A satellite dish and an external boiler were the only signs that someone had lived there in recent years.
âIt belonged to my grandparents,â Yejoon had explained during the drive. âWhen they died, my father and his sister inherited it. For a long time they rented it out to a local family. But after they moved out a few years ago, itâs mostly stood empty. Apart from the occasional weekend when someone felt like escaping to the countryside.â
Minho had nodded to show he was listening, eyes on the road.
âMy aunt passed away last year,â Yejoon had continued. âMy cousin would like to sell the house. But because of my fatherâs condition, sheâs never been able to obtain his consent. Technically, half of the proceeds belong to him.â
He had paused briefly. âI doubt heâd object. He was never sentimental about things like this. But legally, heâs no longer capable of making decisions.â
At that point, Minho had braked sharply to avoid a stray dog that had darted across the road, and the conversation had fallen away.
âAnd you?â Minho asked now, once they had parked. He stepped out of the car and closed the door gently. âAre you all right with selling it?â
Yejoon turned towards him, the house at his back. He shrugged. âI have good memories of this place,â he said. His gaze drifted past Minhoâs shoulder towards the driveway. âWhen I came back and spoke to my cousin, for a moment I thought about buying it myself. Paying her share and restoring it.â
Minho waited, saying nothing.
âMy husband and I have often talked about buying a place in Korea,â Yejoon added, almost casually. âJust as an excuse to come back.â
Minho froze. The words reached him a fraction too late.
My husband.
He felt his lips part slightly. Yejoon was still looking at him, eyebrows faintly raised, as though he had noticed the hesitation. Minho cleared his throat and looked away, stepping closer to the house as if studying the façade.
âBut then I thought about it properly,â Yejoon went on. âAnd it would just be a waste of money.â
He unlocked the door and they went inside. The air was stale, heavy with a faintly sweet smell Minho could not quite place. Dust. Old wood. Damp. Yejoon moved quickly to open the large windows, letting fresh air in.
The furniture was solid and old-fashioned, dark sideboards, a long low table, sofas and armchairs with wooden arms. All coated in a thick layer of dust.
âThe family who lived here after my grandparents werenât particularly well-off,â Yejoon said, running his fingers along the back of a chair. âThey kept all the furniture. In a way Iâm glad. Almost nothing has changed since I was last here.â
Minho watched him move through the space with surprising familiarity. It was striking, he thought, how time never truly erased memory.
He found himself imagining a much younger version of Yejoon, a child running through these rooms, laughing. He imagined Mr Park too, younger and strong, smoking on the patio, so like the Yejoon standing before him now. He wondered whether either of them could ever have imagined that thirty years later they would no longer be speaking.
âThere should be some boxes in the wardrobe in the bedroom,â Yejoon said, opening a door to the right and stepping inside.
Minho followed quietly, almost on tiptoe, as if afraid to disturb a past that was not his. He found Yejoon kneeling in front of an open wardrobe, pulling out a couple of cardboard boxes marked by time and damp. Minho knelt beside him. Inside were smaller boxes, carefully wrapped in old Christmas paper. Each bore a label with neatly written dates.
Yejoon picked one up and opened it. Minho saw him smile. âMy grandmother was meticulous. Almost obsessive,â he said, touching a stack of documents. âWhen I was little it drove me mad. I wasnât allowed to touch anything without putting it back exactly where it belonged. But now Iâm grateful.â
Minho opened another box slowly. Photographs. Receipts. Papers folded with near-maniacal precision. âWhat exactly are you looking for?â he asked.
There was no immediate answer. Minho looked up. Yejoon was smiling faintly to himself, a small binder open in his hands. He was looking at old photographs. Minho leaned closer, curious. Yejoon startled slightly at the sudden proximity, then laughed, embarrassed, and angled the photographs so Minho could see.
âThatâs my cousin,â he said, pointing to a girl in a pale blue hanbok, no older than ten. âAnd thatâs me with my mother.â A baby in the arms of a woman with voluminous eighties hair.
Yejoon turned another page and stopped at a photograph of a group of men in military uniform, all smiling. Minho recognised Mr Park immediately. His smile was more restrained than the othersâ, almost shy, but he looked undeniably happy. In that photograph, he was identical to Yejoon.
âYou look very alike,â Minho found himself saying.
He heard Yejoon exhale softly. âI know,â he said with a quiet laugh. He stared at the image for a moment longer. âSometimes I wonder how two people can look so similar and yet be so different.â
Minho did not answer straight away. He shifted back to the other boxes, arranging them chronologically across the floor. âAre you looking for something specific?â he tried again, without looking at him.
Yejoon seemed to pull himself back to the present. He replaced the photographs and smiled at Minho. âIâve been thinking about what the doctor said. About the hospice,â he said. âI think itâs the best solution.â
âI think so too,â Minho replied.
âAnd all of this,â Yejoon continued, gesturing at the boxes scattered around them. âWonât matter once heâs gone. My cousin asked me to sort through everything. Keep whatâs important. Get rid of the rest.â
He opened another box and paused. âBut Iâm not sure what counts as important,â he admitted, almost sheepishly. âI thought you might help me.â
Minho waited until Yejoon looked at him again. âOf course,â he said.
Yejoon nodded but did not immediately return to the boxes. He remained still, hands resting on his thighs. âI donât hate my father,â he said suddenly. âEven if it might seem that way. I donât. Truly.â
âI never thought you did,â Minho said gently. âAnd even if you did, there would be nothing wrong with that.â
Yejoon looked at him, surprised. âYou think so?â
Minho nodded. âI donât believe weâre obliged to love our parents,â he said quietly. âGiving us life doesnât automatically make them good people.â
Yejoon lowered his head and smiled sadly. âOur society would collapse if everyone thought like you.â
Minho laughed softly. âPerhaps. But itâs true. Weâre not required to care for people whoâve hurt us.â
Yejoon let himself fall backwards onto the floor among the open boxes, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. âDo you have a difficult relationship with your parents as well?â
âNo,â Minho replied. âQuite the opposite. But Iâve seen many situations like this in my work.â
Yejoon gave a small nod but said nothing.
âPeople are afraid of death,â Minho continued. âAfraid of what might be waiting for them. So they think back over everything theyâve done wrong. All the harm theyâve caused. And they hope to be forgiven, so they can leave with a lighter heart.â
He glanced at Yejoon. When he saw no reaction, he went on. âBut it isnât the responsibility of those who remain to carry that weight for them. Forgiveness shouldnât be assumed.â
âIf thatâs what you believe,â Yejoon said, sitting up again, âwhy did you write to me?â
Minho began stacking the boxes simply to keep his hands occupied. âBecause I think everyone deserves the chance to try,â he answered. âTo make amends. To apologise. Itâs up to the other person to decide whether to forgive. And whatever that decision is, it has to be respected.â
Yejoon was silent for a moment. Then he stood slowly and picked up one of the piles Minho had arranged. âShall we start taking these to the car?â
âMinho,â Mr Park called. âCould you help me?â
Minho looked up at him. He was sitting upright in bed, picking at the lunch Minho had just arranged on the tray table. He seemed better that day. There was a clarity in his gaze Minho had not seen in some time. He did not know how long that moment of lucidity would last, but he had learned to accept them for what they were: rare intervals of light in an otherwise clouded world.
âIâm thirsty,â the old man continued, gesturing faintly towards the small bottle on the tray. Minho had already loosened the cap, but perhaps he feared he would not have the strength to pour it himself.
Minho stepped closer and poured some water into the glass. He helped him lift it to his lips and waited while he drank before placing it carefully back on the tray. âDo you need anything else?â he asked gently.
Mr Park shook his head. âNo, thank you.â
Minho remained by the bed for a few moments longer, just in case he changed his mind. It happened often. He watched him: the uncertain movements, the food chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. He thought of what his son had said, how he had described him as energetic, strong. The young man in uniform smiling in that photograph. Minho had only ever known him like this: already ill, his mind drifting in and out of reach. It was difficult to reconcile that image with Yejoonâs memories.
âI donât want any more,â Mr Park complained suddenly, pulling Minho from his thoughts. âI canât.â
âYou should try a little,â Minho encouraged. âYouâve barely eaten for days.â
Mr Park grimaced and pushed the plate away with a tired but decisive gesture. âEnough.â
Minho did not insist. He gathered the almost untouched tray and turned towards the door.
âMinho,â the old man called again. âHas he been here?â
Minho paused. For a few seconds he stood still, unsure how to respond. Then he walked back, set the tray down on the bedside table and asked quietly, âWho do you mean?â
âMy son. Yejoon.â
Minho held his breath. Did he truly remember their meeting?
âYes,â he said at last. âA few days ago.â
Mr Park exhaled, almost in relief, and leaned back against the pillows. âI thought Iâd dreamt it,â he murmured. âI canât remember what we said.â
Minho pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. âI donât know,â he replied. âIt was just the two of you.â
Mr Parkâs expression tightened slightly. âI need to apologise,â he whispered, his breath already growing shallow. Speaking for too long exhausted him now.
Minho opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
He knew he was straying beyond his role. He was only a nurse. His responsibility was to monitor symptoms, administer medication, check vital signs. Not to mend fractures that had split open decades ago.
And yet for days he had been unable to stop thinking about his last conversation with Yejoon.
My husband.
Yejoon was gay. Married to a man. Minho had replayed those two words again and again. Spoken so simply. So naturally. As though there were nothing extraordinary in them at all.
Minho was not naĂŻve. He had spent days wondering what could have driven father and son apart for more than ten years. What wound had Mr Park inflicted that had pushed Yejoon to move across continents and sever all contact? After what Yejoon had said, the answer seemed obvious. And it hurt in a strange, muted way.
The thought had not left him since. Looking at the frail man in the bed, he found himself wondering what Mr Park would think of him, of Minho, if he too were to admit the truth. If he found the courage to say aloud what he truly was. The idea that Mr Park might reject him saddened him. But it did not surprise him.
Minho knew the cruelty of the world. The cruelty of the society he lived in. He was not ready to feel that rejection on his own skin. That was why he had remained silent all his life. Why he had accepted solitude. Just as Mr Park had.
âIâm sure heâll come and see you again,â Minho said finally, offering a small smile.
âWho?â Mr Park asked, his gaze already unfocused.
Minho exhaled softly. A brief moment of clarity, already gone.
Minho should not have been there, in a hotel room with a man he had known for only a few weeks.
He had found Yejoon sitting on one of the benches in the care home garden, looking towards the entrance as though waiting for someone. That someone, evidently, was him. Minho had watched him rise and walk over, slow but purposeful. Without meaning to, he had found himself holding his breath.
âHave you come to see your father?â he had asked, adjusting the strap of his rucksack.
Yejoon had not replied. He had simply fallen into step beside him, silent. For reasons he could not explain, Minho had not protested.
Only once they had passed through the gate did Yejoon turn to him, tone light, almost cheerful. âWhat do you like to do in your spare time?â
Minho had stopped walking, staring at him. âSorry?â
Yejoon had laughed softly at his expression. âIâve done nothing these past few days but run from one place to another,â he said. âI meant to take a day to enjoy the city. Then I realised I donât really know it any more.â
Minho said nothing. He wondered how much had truly changed in ten years. Was the country so different from the one Yejoon had left?
âI was hoping you might give me a few recommendations,â Yejoon added, resuming his pace.
Minho followed. âI donât do much, to be honest. Work and sleep. I box sometimes, but I havenât trained in a while.â
âBoxing,â Yejoon repeated thoughtfully. âI suspect thatâs not quite my thing.â
Minho laughed but did not argue.
They walked all the way down the slope to the main road where Minho usually caught the bus home. His plan for the afternoon had been simple: return to his flat and stare at the ceiling until evening. The morning shift had exhausted him. But for some reason, he let the bus pull away without him and continued walking beside Yejoon.
They talked as they drifted into smaller streets away from the traffic. Now and then Minho pointed out restaurants he liked, bars where he met friends. Other times, it was Yejoon's turn to revisit places he had been to in the past. Bars that had now become convenience stores or fast-fashion chains, old flats belonging to friends who, like him, no longer lived there. Only when they stumbled upon a pub Yejoon had frequented during university, apparently still run by the same owners, did they finally stop.
âItâs strange,â Yejoon said after a long swallow of beer. âSeeing how much has changed in such a short time.â
âHas it?â Minho asked, more at ease now. âIt seems the same to me.â
Yejoon shook his head, his gaze faintly distant. âItâs hard to notice change when youâre inside the aquarium,â he said. âItâs like ageing. You think youâre exactly the same, and then one day you wake up, look in the mirror, and find your first grey hair. Itâs been there for months. You just never paid attention.â
âDo you miss it?â Minho asked. âLiving here, I mean.â
âNo,â Yejoon replied with disarming certainty. âI missed people. Friends. The food, sometimes. But I knew almost immediately after I left that this part of the world wasnât made for me. For people like me.â
Minho did not press. They changed the subject, and the hours slipped past unnoticed. He learned that Yejoon had moved after obtaining a position as a doctoral student at the university where he now taught. He did not mention why he had chosen one so far away.
At first, Germany had only been meant for his studies. But during that time he had met Mathias, who would later become his husband. The ease with which he said it left Minho breathless. He noticed the way Yejoon watched him as he spoke, as though checking for hostility, measuring whether he could be trusted. Minho had smiled, gently, in reassurance.
Yejoon had done most of the talking. Yet there were still so many things Minho wanted to ask. When the owner informed them the pub was closing, it had felt natural, almost inevitable, to accept Yejoonâs invitation to continue the evening at his hotel.
And so now Minho stood in a sixth-floor room, a beer from a minimarket in his hand, looking out at the buildings opposite, most windows dark. He checked the time. Past two.
âCan I ask you something?â he said at last.
He had debated whether to speak. Perhaps it was the alcohol lending him courage. Or perhaps it was the fear that if he did not ask now, he never would.
Yejoon nodded. âOf course.â
âThe reason you donât speak to your father,â Minho began carefully. âIs it because⊠youâre attracted to men?â
Yejoon did not seem surprised. He did not stiffen or look away. He simply sat down on the sofa opposite the bed and placed his beer on the glass table. Some of it spilled and spread across the surface, but he did not notice.
âThere were many things my father and I never agreed on,â he said, eyes bright. âBut he always forgave me. Everything, except this.â
Minho stayed still.
âThe fact that I loved people of my own sex,â Yejoon continued. âThat was something he could never understand. Or accept.â
Minho moved away from the window, set his beer down beside Yejoonâs, and sat next to him.
âIâm sorry,â Yejoon went on with a bitter smile. âI donât want to ruin the image you have of him. I can see how fond you are of him. Heâs not a bad man. But heâs a man of old principles. Like many of his generation. There are things he simply cannot conceive of.â
âYou donât have to excuse him,â Minho said quietly.
Yejoon gave a short, strained laugh. âBut itâs the truth. This society doesnât allow difference. It doesnât tolerate what falls outside its boundaries. My father is the perfect product of the world that shaped him.â
âIâm sorry,â Minho whispered, inching closer. He wanted to take his hand but stopped himself. âIâm sorry it turned out that way.â
âThereâs one thing my father and I are terribly alike in,â Yejoon said, as though he had not heard. âWe donât know how to face our problems.â
Minho frowned slightly. âWhat do you mean?â
âIt took me nearly thirty years to admit to my parents that I was gay,â Yejoon said, letting his head fall back against the edge of the bed. âYou probably imagine he shouted. Threw me out. Something dramatic.â
He paused. âHe didnât. He simply started ignoring me. As though I were a problem that shouldnât exist.â
Minho opened his mouth, then closed it. There were no words that could soften that.
âAnd I wasnât any better,â Yejoon continued. âI already had plans to move to Berlin. Iâd been accepted. For more than ten years, all Iâve done is run. I ran from my family, from my friends, because I was afraid of their judgement.â
Minho sensed there was more.
âWhen my doctorate was nearly finished,â Yejoon went on, voice tightening, âI asked Mathias to marry me. So I could stay in Germany. So I wouldnât have to come back here.â
He drew a breath, his face twisting slightly, as though speaking hurt.
âAnd even now Iâm running,â he murmured. âYour email arrived at exactly the right moment.â
Minho blinked. âMy email?â
Yejoon turned to him, offering a sad smile. âMathias wants to start a family. To adopt,â he said. âIâm not sure itâs what I want. I started wondering if I rushed into marriage. When you wrote to me, it felt like the perfect excuse to leave. To run again. I promised him Iâd think about it. That Iâd come back with an answer. But now I feel suspended between two places. I donât want to return. But I donât want to stay here either.â
Minho moved closer until their knees touched. He placed a hand on Yejoonâs arm, fingers closing gently, the same way he did with his father, so as not to startle him.
âYejoonâŠâ
âIâm sorry,â Yejoon interrupted, trying to stand. Minho stopped him. âIâm rambling. You canât possibly understandâŠâ
Minho tightened his grip slightly. âI do,â he said, voice low.
Yejoon turned towards him, eyes widening. âYouâŠâ
Minho did not let him finish. He took Yejoonâs face in his hands and pressed his lips to his.
Minho realised what he had done only when he pulled away from him.
For a moment he hovered there, suspended, his lips still only a breath from Yejoonâs, their breathing tangled together. His heart was hammering, too fast, too loud. So loud he was certain the other man could feel it.
Yejoon was looking at him. Minho couldnât tell which emotion was moving across his face. Curiosity? Disapproval? Disappointment? Anger? Perhaps a fragment of all of them. But there was something else too. A flicker. A hesitation Minho feared might harden into rejection. He saw Yejoon part his lips, as though about to speak.
Minho didnât give him the chance.
He couldnât let the fragile bubble theyâd stumbled into burst. If Yejoon spoke, the moment would dissolve. Words would bring everything else rushing back in: Berlin, Mathias, the ring on his finger, the weight of guilt. And with them would vanish that sudden, feral courage Minho wasnât sure he would ever find again.
He leaned forward and kissed him again. Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands rose to frame Yejoonâs face once more, thumbs pressing lightly against his cheekbones. His mouth moved with an urgency that wasnât only desire, it was the need to be seen, to be recognised, to be chosen.
The kiss deepened. Their tongues brushed, tentative at first, then surer. Minho felt Yejoonâs breathing grow uneven, a hand lifting and hovering uncertainly before settling against his hip.
That touch made him tremble.
It wasnât just skin against fabric. It was the consent within it. The decision to stay.
He slid his fingers into Yejoonâs hair and drew him closer still, as though letting go even for a second would make everything disappear. Yejoonâs hands gripped his shirt, fists tightening in the fabric. Minho pushed him back against the sofa. He was afraid to stop, even to breathe. Because he knew that if he allowed himself a moment of clarity, he would realise what he was doing, and he would stop.
His hands travelled down Yejoonâs neck, over warm skin, across his chest. He felt the rapid pulse beneath his fingertips, the unsteady breath. His fingers caught the hem of the polo shirt and tugged it upwards with an impatience he couldnât control. He was moving too fast, he knew. But slowing down would mean thinking, and thinking was impossible.
Yejoon pulled back just long enough to let the shirt be removed. When it fell to the floor, Minho bent over him again, tracing an uncertain line of kisses along his neck, lower, to his collarbone. He tasted salt on his skin, soap mingled with something warmer, more intimate. It made his head spin.
His fingers found Yejoonâs belt. They trembled slightly as he undid it. He forced his movements to appear steady, controlled. He didnât want Yejoon to sense how out of his depth he was, how natural and unfamiliar it felt all at once. He eased the trousers and underwear down more slowly this time.
Then he knelt between his legs.
For a moment he looked up. Yejoon was watching him. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his eyes fixed on Minho. There was surprise there, yes. But desire too. And something more complicated, a subtle tension, as though he were still measuring the boundary they were crossing.
Minho lowered his head before he could think.
The first touch was uncertain, almost shy. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the noise in his mind. With Hyunwoo it had been different. Hyunwoo had led, in the dark, swift and decisive. Minho had never really had to learn. He had never had to choose.
Now it was his turn.
He used his mouth slowly, trying to recall sensations rather than technique. The taste was vivid, alive. He wondered if he was doing it right, if this was what Yejoon truly wanted. Doubt thudded in his temples, but he didnât stop. He let himself be guided by Yejoonâs reactions, by the smallest shift, every held breath.
He felt fingers slide into his hair. Not forcing. Not pulling. Simply holding him there. The contact made his heartbeat ache in his chest.
He found a rhythm. Gradually he felt Yejoon give way. The grip in his hair tightened, fingers curling and uncurling as though seeking purchase.
A low, broken groan. âFuckâŠâ
Something opened inside Minhoâs chest. Relief. Want. A flicker of pride that made him shake. Yejoonâs breathing deepened, roughened. Minho understood. He moved with more confidence, guided by the shared rhythm, by the unconscious lift of Yejoonâs hips.
âWaitâŠâ Yejoon murmured, voice fraying. âWait, IâŠâ
Minho stopped at once and looked up.
Yejoonâs lips were parted, damp. âCome here.â
He pulled Minho up and kissed him hard, as if he needed him closer, needed to erase all distance. Their hands moved urgently now, less hesitant. Minhoâs shirt was stripped away, then his trousers. Every gesture was hurried and inevitable at once.
Minho couldnât think any more. Not about Mr Park. Not about the care home. Not about what could go wrong. There was only the heat of Yejoonâs skin against his, the weight of his body, the sound of their breathing weaving together.
They stumbled towards the bed, nearly laughing against each otherâs mouths, a fleeting break in the tension, before falling onto the mattress together.
Minho found himself above him, their bare bodies pressed together. He paused for a second. Yejoonâs chest rose beneath him, hair falling over his forehead, his gaze open and steady.
It was all unbearably beautiful.
He bent to kiss him again, slower now. His hands slid down Yejoonâs chest to his hips, exploring with a mix of desire and the need to prove himself. He wanted to continue. To lead. To show he knew what he was doing.
But something fractured.
The question hit him without warning. What now? With Hyunwoo it had been different; rushed, confused, Hyunwoo taking control before he could hesitate. Minho had never had to choose the next step. Never had to expose himself like this.
Panic rose quietly but fiercely. His hands stilled. His breathing changed, shorter now, uneven, not with desire but with fear. He was about to sleep with a married man. A man with an entire life on the other side of the world. Who was he to step into that space? And what if he didnât know how? What if he proved clumsy, inexperienced?
He was too far inside his own head. Too aware of every gesture, every hesitation. The more he tried to appear sure, the more exposed he felt. Yejoonâs body was beneath him, warm, real, present. And Minho felt suddenly distant, frozen.
Was this truly who he was?
Yejoon noticed. His hands settled at Minhoâs waist, steady, grounding. There was no impatience in his touch. Gently he guided him onto his side, the movement slow, reassuring, as though telling him he wasnât doing anything wrong. Then he followed, positioning himself behind him.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he whispered against Minhoâs shoulder.
His voice was different now. Lower. Softer. No judgement. No urgency. Only a tenderness that loosened something inside Minhoâs chest.
Yejoon pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, then lower. His hands moved over Minhoâs hips slowly, deliberately, as though they had all the time in the world. As though nothing needed proving.
He reached towards the bedside table. Minho heard the soft click of a cap. Then Yejoonâs fingers returned to him, patient, careful, exploring with a gentleness that was almost disarming. The first touch made him tense. It was really happening.
âBreathe,â Yejoon murmured against his skin.
Minho obeyed.
He drew in a slow breath, trying to release the tightness in his muscles. Yejoonâs fingers moved with care, never forcing. The initial discomfort made him stiffen, but it wasnât unbearable. It was a boundary shifting gradually. An unfamiliar pressure that, with time, ceased to feel entirely foreign.
When Yejoon moved into him, Minho clutched the fabric of a pillow beside him. It hurt. But not in a way he wanted to escape. It was a pain that anchored him, that forced him to remain inside his own body. It told him: this is you.
Yejoon stilled almost immediately. A hand slid along his back, drawing slow circles, a reminder that he could stop at any moment.
âIs this alright?â he whispered.
Minho nodded, unable to form words.
Yejoon moved again, carefully. Deeper this time. The pain softened gradually, transforming into something broader, fuller. A sensation spreading from the centre of him outward, splintering his thoughts.
There was no room left for fear. Only the rhythm they found together. Slow at first, then steadier. Minho moved with him almost without thinking, hips responding instinctively. It didnât feel forced. It didnât feel wrong. It felt inevitable.
A hand slid around his body, brushing against his manhood. The contact drew a muffled sound from him into the pillow, uncontrolled. It was too much, the feeling of being filled, touched, seen, wanted all at once. Each movement seemed to reach something deep within him, something he had never dared to name.
âYouâre perfect,â Yejoon whispered against his shoulder.
The word struck him like a current. Perfect. No one had ever said that to him like that. No one had ever looked at him in such vulnerability and made him feel there was nothing to correct.
The tension built, rising, unbearable. A pressure spreading through him, erasing everything else. He couldnât hold back. He let go with a muffled sound, his body tightening.
Behind him, Yejoon stiffened, breath breaking against his skin. For a moment they remained still, joined, Yejoonâs chest rising and falling against his back.
Then slowly, he withdrew. Minho rolled onto his side, exhausted. He had never felt so emptied and so full at the same time.
Yejoon lay beside him and slipped an arm around his waist. His warmth was steady, reassuring. Minho closed his eyes.
And he understood. With a clarity that was almost painful. This was who he was. Not a mistake. Not an accident. Not a deviation.
For the first time in his life, he did not feel the need to hide.
âIâve never told anyone.â
Yejoon switched off the hairdryer even though his hair was still damp. He must have caught Minhoâs reflection in the mirror. He turned. âDid you say something?â
Minho was still sitting in the bed where he had woken that morning. For a brief second, when he had surfaced from sleep, heâd been afraid he was alone. Then his senses had sharpened and heâd heard the rush of water from the shower. When Yejoon finally came out of the bathroom they hadnât said anything, only exchanged a smile. Minho had understood there was no room for awkwardness.
He had stayed there, naked beneath the sheet. He could have dressed and left, ended it neatly, pretended none of it had happened. But something unresolved still hung in the air, something he needed to let go of.
âIâve never told anyone,â he repeated, adjusting the pillow behind his back.
âTold anyone what?â Yejoon asked, setting the hairdryer down before coming closer. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing lightly through Minhoâs hair.
Minho swallowed. âThat Iâm gay.â
Yejoon smiled and touched his cheek gently. âAnd how do you feel, now youâve said it?â he asked, a trace of teasing in his voice. âBetter?â
Minho pushed his hand away, laughing softly. âMaybe. A bit.â
They looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Minho expected him to stand up again, to go back to drying his hair. Instead Yejoon kept watching him, body angled slightly towards him, as though weighing his words.
âCan I ask you something a bit personal?â he said at last.
Minho nodded.
âWas it your⊠first time?â Yejoon asked. âWith a man, I mean.â
âNo,â Minho admitted. He hesitated, then added, âThereâs someone I⊠someone Iâm interested in. Weâve⊠well.â
Yejoon tilted his head, smiling faintly. He wasnât mocking him. There was something almost tender in the way he looked at him. For the first time Minho felt the difference in their ages with uncomfortable clarity. He hadnât truly noticed it before, but now, confessing his foolish crush, he felt like an awkward boy.
âOh, really?â Yejoon prompted lightly.
Minho nodded, cheeks burning. He lowered his eyes, unable to suppress the embarrassed smile. âYes. But I think I ruined it. I⊠I got scared.â
âOf what?â
âOf admitting what I am,â Minho said, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding his face against them. âI always thought there was no need. That I could just live on my own. Without ever having to say anything out loud.â
He coughed, trying to steady his voice. âMaybe thatâs what drew me to your father,â he added quietly.
He couldnât see Yejoonâs face, but he imagined the surprise there. âMy father?â
âYes.â Minho nodded. âThe fact that he didnât seem to suffer from being alone. A lot of people, when they move into a care home, begin to complain. Even if theyâre surrounded by others all the time. Sometimes they feel abandoned. Sometimes theyâre grieving the people who are gone. Eventually they start to feel the loneliness.â
He paused, thinking. âBut your father never complained. Not once. I thought⊠maybe we were alike in that way.â
He felt the mattress dip as Yejoon lay back. When Minho looked up, he found him stretched out on the crumpled sheets, arms open, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
âYou know, Minho,â he said slowly, âthere are so many things I regret. So many things I would do differently if I could go back.â
He hesitated, as if afraid of choosing the wrong words. âBut Iâve never regretted admitting who I am. Not once.â His voice grew firmer. âRunning away wasnât the right way to handle it. I should have stayed. I should have been braver. But I couldnât go on living the way I had before, hiding, pretending to be someone else. It was eating me alive.â
He rested the back of his hand against his forehead. âIf I hadnât told my parents I was gay, I donât think I would have had the courage to date a man in Germany either. I would have lived in constant fear that someone would find out somehow.â
Minho lay down beside him, careful not to touch him. He looked up at the ceiling too, as he had done so many times before. But for the first time in a long while, he hoped it wouldnât collapse.
âYou donât have to shout it to the world,â Yejoon continued. âNot if youâre not ready. But donât bury it inside yourself. Donât deny yourself the chance to be happy.â
Minho let the words settle. Then, quietly, âAre you happy? Despite everything?â
âIt may sound absurd, given the circumstances,â Yejoon said, his voice trembling slightly, âbut I love Mathias. I truly love him. Iâm happy with him. Happy with the life weâve built, despite everything. I donât regret marrying him. I donât regret the choices I made.â
His eyes widened, as if holding back tears. âBut when youâve spent your whole life running, itâs hard to stop. Even when you donât need to any more.â
Minho turned onto his side, propping himself up on one arm to look at him directly. âI think youâre much braver than you give yourself credit for,â he said, surprised by his own certainty. âYou built a life that makes you happy and you protected it. Itâs normal to be afraid that a child might change everything.â
Yejoon reached up and ruffled his hair. âYou should listen to yourself more often,â he said with a soft laugh. âIf you followed your own advice, youâd already have the answers youâre looking for.â
Minho grumbled and dropped against his chest, fingers gripping the edge of his T-shirt. âIâm sorry,â he murmured. âAbout last night. I shouldnât have.â
Yejoon made him lift his head and look at him. âDonât apologise,â he said firmly, though his smile was gentle. âLetâs pretend it never happened.â
Minho knew he would never be able to pretend that night hadnât happened. He would never forget it. But he nodded anyway.
âAre you still here?â Myungok asked when she found him in the cafĂ©. She sat down opposite him, still in uniform, a steaming coffee in her hands.
Minho only looked up after a moment, then nodded. His shift had ended more than an hour earlier, yet he hadnât gone home. âYejoon⊠I mean, Mr Parkâs son came to see him,â he explained, turning the empty teacup between his fingers. âHe said he wanted to speak to me. Iâm waiting.â
Myungok gave a small nod, studying him. âI heard theyâre transferring Mr Park to another facility in the next few days,â she said carefully. âHow are you feeling?â
Minho shrugged. âIâm fine,â he replied. âThey donât come here to get better.â
âMinhoâŠâ she began, reaching across the table to place her hand over his.
He offered her a faint smile. âReally. Donât worry.â
She sighed. âYouâre impossibly stubborn,â she muttered, getting to her feet and picking up her coffee. âIâd better get back to work. See you tomorrow.â
âAre we on together?â he asked.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. âIs that a problem?â she teased.
Minho laughed and shook his head. âNot at all.â
He watched her leave the café, then drew in a slow breath.
Yejoon had appeared that morning as he always did, without warning. For a moment Minho had thought heâd done it deliberately, to avoid running into him. Instead he had seen him walking down the corridor towards him while Minho was clearing the lunch trays into the trolley.
âHello,â Yejoon had said, wearing that same stoic, unreadable expression.
âHi,â Minho had replied, wiping his hands against his uniform trousers.
âI came to see how my father is,â Yejoon had explained, almost apologetically. âCould we talk later?â
âMy shift finishes in a few hours,â Minho had said. âIf you donât want to wait hereâŠâ
âI think Iâll still be here,â Yejoon had cut in.
Minho had simply nodded, glancing towards Mr Parkâs door.
âIf youâd like,â Yejoon had added, âyou can come in as well.â
Minho had wanted to say yes. He had wanted to be there with them. But he knew it wasnât right, so he shook his head and went back to work.
The hours had passed more slowly than usual. As soon as four oâclock struck, heâd hurried to the staff room, changed, and gone straight to the cafĂ©, certain he would find Yejoon at one of the tables. He wasnât there. Had he left without waiting? Had he changed his mind?
Minho had gone back upstairs and knocked on Mr Parkâs door. He had waited a few seconds before stepping inside. Yejoon was still there, sitting beside his father. Neither of them was speaking. Yejoon had turned and smiled at him. His eyes had looked swollen. Had he been crying? âIâll join you in a moment,â he had said simply.
Minho had returned to the cafĂ© and ordered tea just to fill the waiting, though he didnât want it. Another half hour passed before he saw Yejoon step through the door.
âSorry,â Yejoon said, sitting down opposite him. âI didnât realise how much time had passed.â
âDid it go all right?â Minho asked at once, unable to hold back. His fingers twitched against the table; his legs refused to stay still.
Yejoon didnât answer. He only smiled, a slightly crooked smile that gave nothing away.
âI just wanted to tell you Iâm leaving tomorrow,â he said carefully. âGoing back to Germany. Iâve sorted the most urgent matters. My cousin will handle the rest. Sheâll be the contact person from now on, if anything happens.â
Minho nodded to show he understood.
âAnd I wanted to thank you,â Yejoon went on, more hesitant now, as if the words cost him something. âFor everything youâve done. For taking care of my father. And for caring about him⊠in my place.â
Minho looked away. His eyes burned; his throat tightened. He forced himself not to give in to it. âI was just doing my job,â he managed, his voice unsteady.
âItâs funny,â Yejoon continued, trying to lighten the mood. âFor months he called you by my name. And now that I was there in front of him, he didnât stop talking about you.â
Minho let out a soft laugh, trying to push back the strange feeling rising inside him. He didnât reply.
âHe said, âMinho, if you see Yejoon, ask him to forgive me.ââ He spoke the words quietly, as though they were meant for Minho alone, a secret to remain between the two of them.
Minho stared at him, startled and, unexpectedly, glad. Glad that, in his own way, Mr Park had managed to pass on the message he had been carrying for months. Perhaps for more than ten years. He wanted to ask whether Yejoon had forgiven him. Whether he ever could. But what Yejoon said next answered the question without his having to ask it.
âI probably wonât come back,â Yejoon said, lowering his gaze briefly. âIf anything happens, Iâve asked my cousin to contact you.â
Minho gave a small nod. âOf course. Thank you.â
There were no embraces. No promises. Yejoon offered him one last smile before standing. âThank you.â
Minho watched him disappear beyond the café doors and, somewhere deep inside, knew he would never see him again.
Minho could have gone home as he always did after a morning shift. Instead, he left his rucksack by the door and picked up the gym bag he had packed the night before.Â
He didnât think too much about it. If he had, he would have found a thousand excuses to postpone it. Tomorrow. Next week. Never. He walked out without looking back.
The gym was twenty minutes from his flat, tucked away in the basement of an anonymous building. Minho had discovered it by chance years earlier, walking past and hearing the dull thud of fists hitting heavy bags. He had stepped inside out of curiosity and never really left.
He went down the stairs and pushed open the door. The smell hit him immediately: sweat, rubber, disinfectant. A familiar scent he had missed more than he cared to admit.
âLee Minho!â
He turned. One of the trainers came towards him with a wide grin and clapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly lost his balance.
âWhere the hell have you been?â he asked. âWe thought youâd moved away without telling us.â
âI had to cover shifts for some colleagues,â Minho lied with a smile. âDidnât have time.â
âFor months?â someone else chimed in. âThey must pay you well for overtime.â
Minho laughed but didnât answer. He dropped his bag in the changing room and headed back out. There were about ten people training, some on the bags, others sparring in the ring. He tried to focus on wrapping his hands, but his eyes kept roaming the room.
And then he saw him.
Hyunwoo was at a bag, punching with almost brutal precision. He wore only shorts and a tank top soaked through with sweat. The muscles in his arms tightened with every strike. Minho watched him for a second too long before looking away.
Hyunwoo hadnât looked up. Hadnât greeted him. Not even a nod.
Minho tightened his wrapped fists and stepped up to an empty bag. He began to punch: jab, cross, hook. His rhythm was rusty, his movements less fluid than before. But the dull ache spreading from his knuckles up his arms was strangely comforting. It was something real. Something solid.
He didnât look at Hyunwoo. Or at least he tried not to. But every now and then, between combinations, his gaze slipped back to him. Hyunwoo kept training as though Minho didnât exist.
Twenty minutes passed. Minho was about to give up, perhaps coming here had been a mistake, when he saw Hyunwoo step away from the bag and head towards the changing rooms. He didnât think. He pulled off his gloves, let them fall to the floor, and followed.
The changing room was empty apart from them. Hyunwoo stood in front of his locker, tank top already off, a bottle of water in his hand. He turned when he heard Minho come in.
âYouâve got some nerve showing your face here after all this time,â he said flatly.
Minho closed the door behind him. âHyunwoo, IâŠâ
âIâm not interested in listening,â Hyunwoo cut in, slamming the locker shut. âI donât care.â
Minho stepped closer. Hyunwoo instinctively took a step back. But Minho didnât stop. He cupped his face and kissed him.
For a moment, it felt like the first time. Months earlier, in that same changing room after a particularly intense session. They had been alone. Hyunwoo had looked at him in a way Minho had never forgotten, and then, without a word, had kissed him. It had been quick, desperate, full of something neither of them had known how to name.
But this time was different. Hyunwoo shoved him away hard.
âHave you lost your mind?â he hissed, glancing around to make sure they were alone. âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â
âIâm sorry,â Minho said, breathless. âI was wrong. I was scared.â
Hyunwoo laughed, but there was no humour in it. âScared,â he repeated. âYou disappeared without saying a word. You couldnât even be bothered to reply to a few stupid messages. And now you come back and apologise? What exactly do you want from me?â
Minho lowered his gaze. The words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. âIâve always been afraid to admit the truth,â he said quietly. âTo be⊠to be what I am. When we were together that time, IâŠâ
He faltered, searching for the right words. âI panicked. I thought that if I kept seeing you, sooner or later someone would find out. And I wasnât ready.â
âAnd now you suddenly are?â Hyunwoo asked, arms folded across his chest. âWhatâs changed?â
Minho looked up at him. âI have,â he said simply. âIâve changed.â
It wasnât entirely true. Or maybe it was, but in a way too complicated to explain. He couldnât talk about Yejoon, about that night. About the first time he had felt seen without shame. He couldnât speak of Mr Park, of the realisation that living hidden meant dying alone. But something inside him had shifted. Something had cracked open.
âI know I messed up,â he continued. âI know I hurt you. But Iâm ready now. To take a step forward. To really try. If youâŠâÂ
His voice trembled slightly. âIf you still want to.â
Hyunwoo held his gaze for a long moment. His eyes were hard, wary. âAnd how do I know you wonât run again?â he asked. âThat in a week you wonât stop answering messages and disappear?â
âYou donât,â Minho admitted. âYou can only trust me.â
âTrust you,â Hyunwoo echoed, almost scoffing. âEasy to say.â
âI know.â
A long silence settled between them. Minho could hear his own heartbeat, loud in his ears. Then, slowly, Hyunwoo exhaled and ran a hand through his damp hair.
âFine,â he said at last, his voice quieter. âBut donât expect everything to go back to how it was. You canât vanish for months and then return like nothing happened.â
âI know,â he repeated.
âAnd if you disappear again,â Hyunwoo went on, pointing a finger at his chest, âdonât come looking for me. Understood?â
Minho nodded. âUnderstood.â
Hyunwoo watched him a moment longer, then turned and reopened his locker. He pulled out a clean T-shirt and slung it over his shoulder. âIâm going to shower,â he said without looking at him. âWait outside, if you want.â
Minho stepped out of the changing room. He went back into the gym, picked up his gloves, said goodbye to the others. Told them heâd be back soon, and meant it this time.
When Hyunwoo came out, hair still damp, Minho was leaning against the wall outside the gym. Hyunwoo stopped in front of him.
âWant to grab something?â he asked, with studied casualness.
âYes,â Minho replied.
They walked side by side for several minutes in silence. They didnât touch. They didnât look at each other. But something hung in the air between them, something different from before.
Minho thought of Mr Park, of Yejoon, of everything that had happened in the past few weeks. He thought of how often he had been afraid; afraid of being seen, judged, rejected. And for the first time, he felt that fear, though not entirely gone, had grown smaller. Manageable.
He didnât know what would happen with Hyunwoo. Perhaps they would work. Perhaps they wouldnât. But at least this time he was trying. This time he wasnât hiding. He wasnât running.
And perhaps, he thought as Hyunwoo cast him a brief, almost imperceptible sideways glance, perhaps that was already enough.
The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.
Yejoonâs cousin went straight to the point: Mr Park had taken a turn for the worse. He didnât have much time left.
Minho dropped everything and went to the hospice.
Mr Park looked frailer than he remembered. His body almost swallowed by the blankets, his face hollowed, his skin grey. Minho pulled the chair closer to the bed and took his hand.
Mr Park opened his eyes slowly. It took him a few seconds to focus. When he saw Minho, he managed a faint smile.
âYejoon,â he whispered.
Something tightened painfully in Minhoâs chest. He nodded, unable to speak.
âYou came,â Mr Park said, his voice barely audible. He paused, as if searching for air. âForgive me.â
Tears slid silently down Minhoâs cheeks. He clasped the old manâs hand between both of his and leaned closer.
He knew he shouldnât do it. But he did. He drew a breath and said, softly, âI forgive you.â












