#almost lovers

The guitar hums low, distant, and he finally looks back at you.

“You hate this one,” he says.

“I don’t,” you lie, because you know he loves it.

He doesn’t argue. He just nods and pushes himself up, dragging a hand through his hair, messy in that careless way that took him too long in the mirror to pretend he did not try. There is a bruise blooming faintly near his wrist. You notice it because you always notice things like that. He does not explain it because he never explains anything.

“Come here,” he says, like it is the easiest thing in the world.

It is not. It never is.

You pretend to hesitate, just for a second, just enough to keep whatever this is from feeling too real. Then you slide off the bed anyway, your socked feet dragging against the worn carpet. The room smells like dust and something sweet, something he sprays too much of to cover up the cigarettes he swears he does not smoke anymore.

He takes your hand without asking.

That is how it always starts. No warning, no buildup. Just his fingers wrapping around yours like he has already decided you belong there.

“You always look like you’re about to leave,” he murmurs.

“Maybe I am.”

“You’re not.”

You hate how sure he sounds.

You hate that he is right.

His hand shifts, sliding from your fingers to your waist, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his. It is not a question. It has never been a question with him. You let yourself fall into it anyway, because there is something about the way he holds you that makes everything outside this room feel less important. Less real.

The music swells quietly behind you.

“You ever think we’re weird?” you ask, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“We are weird,” he says. “But not in a bad way.”

You almost laugh. You almost ask what way, then.

Instead, you tilt your head, studying him. “So what are we, then?”

There it is. The question you always circle but never land on.

For a moment, he says nothing. His grip tightens just slightly, like you might slip through his hands if he does not hold on hard enough.

“Why do you always do that?” he mutters.

“Do what?”

“Try to ruin it.”

It stings more than it should.

You pull back a little, just enough to look at him properly. “Ruining it would be pretending this is normal.”

“It is normal.”

“Juhoon.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, already irritated, already closing off. “We’re here, aren’t we? Isn’t that enough?”

No. It is not.

But you do not say that.

Because the truth is, you are scared of what happens if it is not enough. Scared that if you push too hard, he will let go completely. And he looks like the kind of person who would do that. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just one day, gone. Like he was never there to begin with.

So you swallow it.

“Fine,” you say, quieter now. “It’s enough.”

The tension does not disappear, but it softens, folding into something easier to ignore. He studies your face like he is trying to see if you mean it, then sighs and pulls you back in, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You think too much,” he murmurs.

“And you don’t think at all.”

“Works out.”

You almost smile. Almost.

His thumb brushes against your side absentmindedly, tracing slow circles through the fabric of your shirt. It is a small thing, barely there, but it sends something warm and heavy through your chest. This is what he does. He gives you just enough to keep you here. Just enough to make leaving feel impossible.

“You skipped school again,” you say after a while.

“So did you.”

“I had a reason.”

“So did I.”

“What was it?”

He shrugs, careless. “Didn’t feel like going.”

You pull back slightly, frowning. “You’re gonna fail everything.”

“Not everything.”

“Most things.”

He grins, that crooked, infuriating grin that always shows up at the worst times. “You’ll help me.”

You stare at him. “That’s your plan? Just drag me down with you?”

“You’re not exactly climbing anywhere.”

You go still in his arms, your expression tightening before you can stop it. For a second, you think he is going to apologize. You can see it flicker across his face, something uncertain, something almost soft.

Then it is gone.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

He hesitates. “Maybe a little.”

You let out a breath that sounds more tired than angry. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Still here, though.”

There it is again. That confidence. That assumption that you will not leave, no matter what he says, no matter how careless he gets with you.

And the worst part is, he is right.

You reach up before you can think too much about it, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down just enough to press your lips against his. It is not gentle. It is not soft. It is messy and a little desperate, like you are trying to shut him up, like you are trying to prove something to both of you at once.

He freezes for half a second.

Then he kisses you back like he has been waiting for it all night.

His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer, like he is afraid you will change your mind. Maybe you are. Maybe you should. But right now, the music is too loud in your ears, your heart is beating too fast, and his mouth is warm and familiar in a way that makes everything else feel distant.

You break away first, breathing uneven.

Neither of you says anything.

The song keeps playing.

Outside, somewhere down the street, a car passes with its radio blasting something loud and distorted. Laughter follows, then fades. The world keeps moving like this is nothing, like this moment does not matter.

But inside his room, everything feels like it is balancing on the edge of something fragile.

Juhoon rests his forehead against yours again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“See,” he says, like he has already won. “It’s fine.”

You close your eyes.

It is not fine.

But you nod anyway.

The song ends with a soft click.

Neither of you moves right away.

It lingers there, in the quiet, in the space between your breathing and his, like something waiting to be acknowledged. His hands are still on your waist, lighter now, like he is not sure if he is allowed to keep them there.

“You always do that,” he says finally.

“Do what?”

“Act like everything’s about to fall apart.” His voice is softer this time, not annoyed, not defensive. Just tired. “Then you kiss me like it isn’t.”

You pull away from him slowly, just enough to put space between your bodies. It feels wrong almost instantly, like stepping out into cold air after being somewhere warm too long.

“Maybe it is falling apart,” you say.

He lets out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair again. “Or maybe you just want it to.”

That makes you laugh, but there is no humor in it. “Why would I want that?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “You’re the one who keeps asking what this is.”

“Because you won’t answer.”

“I don’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “You don’t need to, or you don’t want to?”

He does not respond. He turns away instead, walking back to the stereo, crouching down like the conversation ended on its own. Like it did not matter.

It always ends like this.

You watch him flip the cassette over, press it back in, rewind it halfway like he has done it a hundred times before. There is something frustrating about how normal he makes it look. Like this is just another night, just another song, just another version of the same argument that never gets finished.

“You’re leaving again tomorrow?” you ask.

He pauses for a second, barely noticeable, then presses play.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“A few days.”

“You said that last time.”

He shrugs without turning around. “Plans change.”

You stare at his back, something sharp and quiet building in your chest. “You didn’t call.”

“I was busy.”

“You’re always busy when you’re not here.”

“And you’re always complaining when I am.”

That hits, fast and clean.

You step closer without thinking, your voice tightening. “I’m not complaining. I just—” You stop yourself, shaking your head. “You disappear, Juhoon. You just vanish and then come back like nothing happened.”

“And you’re still here when I do,” he shoots back, finally turning to look at you. “So what’s the problem?”

The problem is that he sounds so sure.

Like no matter what he does, you will stay.

You hate that he is right.

“I’m not gonna keep doing this,” you say, even though you already know you will.

“Then don’t.” His tone is flat, but his eyes flicker, just for a second. “No one’s making you.”

That silence again. Heavy. Pressing down on everything.

You look at him, really look this time. At the way his shoulders are slightly tense, like he is bracing for something. At the way his jaw tightens like he is holding something back. He always does that, pushes first so he does not have to be the one left behind.

“You think I stay because it’s easy?” you ask quietly.

“I think you stay because you want to.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He does not answer. Of course he does not.

You let out a slow breath, your hands curling slightly at your sides. “Do you even miss me when you’re gone?”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

For a second, he just looks at you. And there it is again, that flicker. Something real. Something unguarded.

Then he looks away.

“I don’t think about it,” he says.

It feels like something drops inside you.

You nod slowly, even though your throat feels tight. “Right.”

The music keeps playing, too loud now, filling up the space where his answer should have been.

You turn away before he can see your face properly, before he can notice the way your expression shifts, the way something in you pulls back just a little.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s fine.”

You head toward the window, pushing it open just enough to let the night air in. It is cooler outside, carrying distant noise from the street below. Someone shouting, a bike passing, the low hum of a city that does not care about whatever this is.

Behind you, you hear him move.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Shut down like that.”

You almost laugh again. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the one who started it.”

There is a pause.

Then, quieter, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You never do.”

The room goes still.

For a second, you think he is going to argue again, push back, turn it into something easier, something careless. That is what he always does.

But he does not.

Instead, he walks up behind you, slower this time, like he is not sure how close he is allowed to get. His hand hovers near your arm before finally resting there, light, uncertain.

“I do miss you,” he says.

It is so quiet you almost do not hear it.

You close your eyes.

“Then why does it feel like you don’t?” you whisper.

He does not answer right away. His grip tightens just slightly, like he is trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admits.

That hurts more than if he had said nothing.

Because it is honest. Because it is not enough.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. He looks different like this. Not distant. Not careless. Just… lost.

And for a moment, you want to forgive everything.

That is the worst part.

“You don’t have to do it perfectly,” you say softly. “Just… don’t disappear on me.”

He nods, quick, almost too quick. “I won’t.”

It sounds like a promise.

It feels like one.

But something in your chest twists anyway, like you already know how this ends.

Still, you turn fully this time, stepping back into him, letting his arms wrap around you again. It is easier like this. Warmer. Safer, even if it is only for now.

His chin rests lightly against your head, his breathing evening out like nothing happened.

Like nothing ever happens.

“Stay tonight,” he murmurs.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then, quietly, “Okay.”

And that is how it always begins again.

The next time he disappears, it is not for a few days.

It is two weeks.

No calls. No notes left at your place. No showing up outside your school like nothing happened. Just silence that stretches so long it starts to feel intentional.

You tell yourself you are done this time.

You mean it for the first three days. You avoid his street, stop carrying the tape he gave you, even force yourself to sit with other people at lunch like it does not feel wrong.

By the end of the first week, you start checking the Nokia flip phone which he gifted you last year on your birthday just so he can communicate better. Just so he can still hear your voice while having another girl in his arms.

By the second, you pick up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

There is a pause.

Then his voice, quiet, familiar, like nothing ever broke.

“Hey.”

Your grip tightens around the receiver. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Another pause. You can hear something in the background, muffled voices, laughter that does not belong to you.

“I was busy,” he says.

“You were gone.”

“I told you I had stuff to deal with.”

“You didn’t tell me anything, Juhoon.”

Silence again.

You hate how familiar it feels. Like slipping back into something you swore you were done with.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he says finally.

And that is all it takes.

Your anger does not disappear, not really, but it softens, bends in a way it should not. You close your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cold metal of your balcony railing.

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But you picked up.”

You should hang up.

You do not.

After that, it gets worse.

Not all at once. Not in a way you can point at and say this is where it broke.

Just small things.

He starts showing up less, but when he does, he is softer than ever. Like he is making up for something you cannot see. He holds you longer, kisses your temple absentmindedly, lets his guard down just enough to make you forget everything else.

Then he leaves again.

It becomes a pattern you cannot escape.

He calls when he cannot sleep. When something goes wrong. When he needs someone who already understands him without asking too many questions.

And you are always there.

Even when you tell yourself you will not be.

You hear about the girl from someone else.

It is stupid, the way it happens. Passing conversation, someone mentioning his name like it does not make your chest tighten.

“He’s been around that girl a lot lately,” they say. “You know, the one from the record shop.”

You laugh it off like it means nothing.

It should mean nothing.

But later, you find yourself walking past that shop without thinking, slowing just enough to glance inside.

And there he is.

Leaning against the counter, smiling in a way you have seen a hundred times before. Easy. Effortless. Like he has not spent weeks disappearing from your life.

She says something that makes him laugh.

You do not hear it.

You do not need to.

You walk away before he can see you.

That night, the phone rings.

You let it ring three times.

Four.

Five.

Then you pick up.

“Yeah?”

“Where were you today?” he asks, like he has any right.

You let out a sharp breath. “That’s funny.”

“What?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“I was out.”

“I saw you.”

That stops him.

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

Silence stretches between you, heavier than usual.

“It’s not like that,” he says.

You laugh, and this time it actually sounds broken. “It’s never like that with you, is it?”

“You’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”

“Then tell me what it is,” you snap. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you disappear on me for weeks and then show up somewhere else like I never existed.”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.”

He exhales sharply, frustrated now. “Why do you always do this?”

“Because you give me nothing else to go on!”

The words come out louder than you expected, echoing slightly through the line.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for everything,” he says.

Something in you snaps.

“Then what do you owe me, Juhoon?” your voice shakes now, anger mixing with something worse. “Because I’m always here when you need me. I pick up every time you call, I listen to your problems, I wait for you to come back like an idiot so what do I get?”

“You get me,” he says, like that should be enough.

It isn’t.

It never was.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not here,” you say, your voice breaking despite everything. “You’re only here when it’s convenient for you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this!”

The silence that follows is sharp, cutting through everything.

For a second, you think he is going to hang up.

Instead, he says your name, quieter now. Careful.

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make it into something it’s not.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Then tell me what it is.”

He does not answer.

Of course he does not.

You pull the phone away slightly, staring at nothing, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“I’m done,” you say finally. “I can’t keep doing this.”

You move to hang up.

“Wait.”

His voice is quick this time. Urgent.

You freeze.

“Just don’t hang up,” he says.

“Give me a reason not to. Give me a reasons we should be complete."

Another silence.

Longer this time.

He is not used to this version of you. The one that does not bend immediately. The one that actually sounds like she might leave.

“Please,” he says, softer.

That is not enough.

“Juhoon,” your voice steadies, even though your hands are shaking. “Give me one good reason why I should stay.”

Nothing.

“Give me a reason why we should be… anything,” you push, your throat tightening. “Why I should keep picking up when you call. Why I should keep letting you come back like this.”

You can hear his breathing now. Uneven. Close to the receiver.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.

It lands.

It always does.

But this time, it is different.

Because you are starting to realize that not wanting to lose you and actually keeping you are not the same thing.

“That’s not a reason,” you whisper.

“It is to me.”

“It’s not enough for me.”

The words hang there.

Heavy. Final.

For once, he has nothing to say.

And for the first time, you are not sure if you are going to stay.

The days stretch long and empty. Every morning feels heavier than the last. Juhoon disappears in ways you can’t track anymore. No calls, no texts just silence that feels louder than any argument. You start counting again the hours he’s gone, then the days, then the moments when the world seems like it’s moving faster than you can keep up.

You begin to feel it the creeping edge of insecurity. Maybe he’s with her. Maybe he’s laughing with her, holding her hand the way he used to hold yours. You tell yourself it shouldn’t matter. He should be with her. That you aren’t his anymore, that you shouldn’t feel like you’re losing something that’s never fully been yours.

But every corner of your apartment reminds you of him. The scratch on the record player where he leaned over, the faded poster he stuck up crookedly, the lingering scent of his cologne on your jacket. You play your cassette tapes over and over, hoping to hear him in them again. Hoping to hold onto him through music because he refuses to hold onto you in reality.

You feel yourself fading in the dark. Slow dancing in the dark. Friends’ voices feel distant. Even laughter in the halls of school feels alien, like you’re watching it from the other side of a glass wall. Every night you imagine him somewhere else, somewhere with her, and it pulls a weight into your chest that won’t let up.

Then, one night, just when you’ve almost convinced yourself that this is over, that he belongs with her now, the phone rings at midnight.

You hesitate. You shouldn’t pick up. You know better. And yet your thumb presses the receiver anyway.

“Hey.” His voice is low, almost broken, not the careless tone you know, but something quieter, ragged, almost desperate.

“Juhoon,” you whisper, heart lurching. “It’s… late.”

“I know,” he says. Pause. Then a quieter confession you can’t ignore, “I—I messed up.”

Something in you tightens. “What happened?”

The line goes silent for a long second before he mutters, “I… fought. With her.”

You don’t speak. Your chest is tight. Part of you wants to hang up. Part of you wants to run out the door. Part of you wants to tell him to go back to her and leave you alone. But none of that happens. You are too tangled in him. Always too tangled.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be alone right now,” he admits. His voice cracks slightly, the kind of rawness that makes you want to drop everything and fall into him.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving. You’re out the door, running through empty streets, the faint hum of a cassette playing in your mind, and you’re at his apartment in less than ten minutes. You don’t knock. You don’t hesitate. You just push the door open, and there he is. Hair messy, eyes darker than usual, cheeks flushed from shouting or crying it’s impossible to tell.

“Juhoon,” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls you in immediately, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead pressing into yours like he’s grounding himself through your body. And for a moment, it feels like the world stops. Like the silence of the city outside, the noise of his apartment, even the fighting he just had all of it evaporates.

You can feel the tension in his body, sharp and unrelenting, like he’s carrying every argument he’s had and every mistake he’s made straight into you. Your hands move up, threading through his hair, gripping him tightly as if you could hold him together just by being there.

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have come,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

Juhoon shakes his head violently, almost impatiently, but doesn’t pull away. “I don’t care about her right now,” he mutters. “I just… I need this. I need you.”

It stings. It hurts. Every word he says is like a knife coated in sugar. Because you know he’s telling the truth, but you also know the truth doesn’t make the rest of it any less messy, less toxic, less dangerous for your heart.

And then the music starts. He always has something playing. Tonight, it’s faint, almost static, the slow strumming of a guitar echoing through the dimly lit room.

“You remember this?” he murmurs against your hair.

You nod. Every line, every note, it’s burned into your memory. You’ve listened to this tape a thousand times in the dark alone, imagining him, imagining holding him. And now he’s here, finally, and it’s worse than you thought it would be.

He steps back slightly, enough to take your hand, and then carefully, almost painfully he pulls you into a slow dance. A dance of desperation. Every step is deliberate, but there’s uncertainty in the way he sways, a tremor in his grip that tells you he’s holding onto you for safety, for stability, for something he can’t find anywhere else.

You press your face to his chest, inhaling, clinging, letting him ground you like he’s doing for himself. Your hands rest lightly on his shoulders, though every instinct tells you to hold on harder, to never let him go.

“This… this is wrong,” you whisper. “It shouldn’t feel like this.”

He doesn’t answer. He just hums along to the song, eyes closed, and for a moment you let it wash over you the ache, the longing, the impossible closeness.

Minutes pass like hours. And in this room, with his arms wrapped around you, with the low static of the music filling every corner, it’s both beautiful and devastating. Because you know this is temporary. You know he will leave again. You know it won’t be long before he drags you back into the darkness alone, leaving only the memory of him and a faint echo of the song.

You want to push him away. You want to yell, demand, make him choose, make him give you something solid.

But you can’t.

So you sway, so slowly it almost feels like time has stopped, letting yourself be pulled into him one last time, letting the darkness settle around you both, knowing fully well that when it ends, you’ll be alone again but for now, this moment is enough to hurt in all the ways that only love like this can.

And in the stillness between heartbeats and the quiet strum of a guitar, you realize that loving Juhoon is always going to be like slow dancing in the dark intoxicating, impossible, and utterly, painfully unforgettable.

The sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp slats, hitting the wooden floor where you were last night. The air smells faintly of cigarettes, faintly of him, faintly of everything you’ll never be able to touch again.

Juhoon stirs first, blinking against the harsh morning light. His hand reaches out instinctively, half expecting you to be there, curled against his chest like yesterday never ended. But there’s nothing. Just the quiet, the stale warmth of the bed, the fading hum of the cassette he never bothered to rewind.

He notices the envelope first handwritten in your careful, messy scrawl propped against the edge of the nightstand.

He picks it up slowly, hesitantly, as if touching it might undo the fact that you’re gone. He tears it open, unfolding the paper inside.

Juhoon, it begins.

I don’t know how to tell you this without breaking completely, so I’m just going to. I can’t stay. Not here. Not in the streets we walked together, not in the rooms where you left pieces of yourself that I can’t live with anymore. Every corner of this town whispers your voice, your laugh, your stupid, stubborn presence, and I can’t do it. I can’t watch you live a life I’ll never be a part of while I’m trapped in the memory of us.

You’ve been everything and nothing all at once. You pull me close, you push me away, and somewhere between the two I lost myself. I loved you more than I should have, maybe too much, maybe the wrong kind of love, but it was mine. And I can’t give it to you anymore. I can’t keep walking behind you like a shadow that only exists when you need it. You looked at me like I was someone else. I’m tired of fading into the dark just to come alive for you in the middle of the night.

I’m leaving. I’m leaving the streets, the rooms, the songs, the memories. I’m leaving the town where your name is written in every corner. I’m going to disappear completely because maybe somewhere else, I can find myself again. Somewhere else, I can breathe without thinking about how much I needed you when you barely needed me.

Please don’t come after me. Don’t call. Don’t leave me messages or chase me through the streets. I have to do this for myself. I will always remember the way you held me, the way your arms felt like home for a little while, the way we burned fast and reckless and loud in a world that didn’t belong to us.

I love you. That won’t go away. But staying? Staying would kill the part of me that still breathes.

Goodbye, Juhoon. I hope one day you understand why I had to leave.

There’s no signature. Just a pause between the lines that screams everything you can’t say aloud.

Juhoon drops the letter, staring at the empty bed, the empty room, the empty air where you used to be. His fingers trace the edge of the paper like it might somehow hold you there, tethered to him.

Outside, the streets hum with life. Cars pass. A dog barks. Somewhere, a cassette clicks into place and music begins, echoing faintly from a passing car. It’s almost like a soundtrack to a memory he’ll never get to repeat.

You are gone.

And for the first time, he understands the full weight of what he’s lost. The love that burned too hot and too reckless is gone. The girl who stayed in the dark for him has walked out of the dark completely and taken herself away from the town, away from him, away from the memory of the life you almost had.

He collapses back into the bed, letting the sunlight cut across his face. And somewhere deep down, he knows that you were right. That staying would have been impossible. That loving him was never going to be simple.

And somewhere else, miles away, you breathe for the first time without him. The roads are unfamiliar. The air smells different. There’s a quiet freedom in the distance, a fragile hope that one day the pieces of yourself you left behind can finally start to breathe again.