#kimwoonhak

the gallery lights were dimmed just right—soft but intentional, casting golden glows against white walls where every photo sat neatly framed. you stood near the far end, fussing over a crooked label, when you heard it.

“hey… is that my good side or what?”

you froze in place because no one else would say something so unserious in the middle of an art exhibit, and definitely not in front of a photo they weren’t supposed to recognize.

you turned, and sure enough, kim woonhak, was standing in front of your favorite shot—head tilted, one hand on his chin like he was trying to interpret the meaning of some abstract piece of art when, in reality, the photo was a portrait of his face.

you still remember the day you took it. it was a candid you took during a club bonding trip to the beach. he was laughing in it, eyes half-closed, hands mid-gesture, teasing jaehyun over the way he stumbled into the waves that crashed along the shoreline. you had barely realized you’d taken it until weeks later, going through the gallery of your camera and finding him right in the center of everything—sun-kissed, loud, alive.

“woonhak,” you hissed with slight embarrassment in your tone, walking over quickly, clipboard tucked against your side. “what are you doing here?”

he turned to you with a smile that was too wide for comfort. “enjoying the art, obviously,” which was followed by a fake gasp, “wait—you’re the curator?”

you narrowed your eyes. “you knew that.”

“did i?” he gave a dramatic shrug. “i just followed the posters. they said there’d be free food and artistic enlightenment.”

“so, you just wanted the free macarons.”

“okay, but i stayed for the unauthorized woonhak retrospective,” he said, gesturing behind him. “seriously—this one? that one? that one, too? oh, and what do you know—me again?”

he moved down the line of prints, pausing at each photo you’d taken over the semester. some at school events. others in quieter moments—him walking ahead during the club outing, him sleeping on a bus with his cheek smushed into the window, him in the background of a class picture, his figure blurry from movement but he was unmistakably grinning.

you didn’t follow. 

you simply watched in place as he looked and observed each picture of himself. he eventually turned to you slowly, an eyebrow raised. “why didn’t you invite me personally? i thought we were best friends?”

you clutched your clipboard like it was your last line of defense. “you’re not supposed to be here. i- i wasn’t really expecting you.”

“kind of hard not to when i’m in, like, half the gallery,” he said, clearly amused. “is this some kind of soft-launch for your not-so-secret crush on me?”

you nearly choked on thin air. “what?”

“because i’m honored,” he continued, completely ignoring your mortification. “but also a bit concerned ‘cause that’s, like, a lot of me.”

“you just show up in everything!” you said, flustered as you try coming up with a lame excuse. “you’re always around so...”

he shrugged, like that was obvious. “yeah, because we hang out all the time.”

“exactly,” you added, trying to sound normal. “of course you’d be in the background.”

he grinned. “or the spotlight, apparently.” you groaned, turning to walk away, but he caught up easily—hands behind his back like he wasn’t casually dismantling your sense of composure.

“you know,” he said, glancing sideways at you, “you could’ve told me. i would’ve posed more. y’know, given you my whole emotional range.”

you scoffed. “i didn’t need all that. you’re dramatic enough without trying.”

he laughed, bumping your shoulder with his. “so you're saying your work is… capturing the truth of me? sounds like someone’s a little obsessed—”

you stopped and gave him a look. “do you want me to crop you out of all of them?”

he held up both hands in surrender. “okay, okay. i’ll behave. kinda flattering, though. having a whole wall that says someone sees you like that.”

you looked at him—really looked at him. teasing as always, but it's softer now. there was something about the way his voice dipped when he said that, like he truly meant it, like he saw you too.

there was a beat of silence as you reached the end of the gallery wall. someone across the room pointed at one of the group photos and smiled. woonhak’s eyes followed.

“you really like this, huh?”

you glanced at him, giving a questioning look that urged him to continue.

“this,” he repeated, nodding toward the gallery. “catching people when they don’t know they’re being seen.”

your grip on the clipboard eased a little. “yeah. it’s like… everyone forgets the small moments, but cameras don’t.”

he nodded, eyes drifting to another photo of himself—laughing, mid-motion, alive in a way that didn’t always show up when he was trying too hard.

“i forget i looked like that,” he murmured. “that happy.”

you nudged his arm. “you still look like that.”

he turned to you. “yeah, but only when you’re around.”

you blinked, mouth parting—caught between a smile and confusion.

“…are you serious?”

his grin came back—softer this time, but still him. “i mean… you’re kind of my favorite person. that’s a thing best friends can say, right?”

you looked away before your brain could spiral. “only if they say it less dramatically.”

he leaned in. “i’ll work on it. but for now…” he tapped the camera still hanging around your neck. “can i request an updated portrait? you know. to commemorate this historic moment of accidental fame.”

you rolled your eyes but lifted the camera anyway. “fine. one photo.”

“make it iconic,” he said, throwing a peace sign and angling his face like a mock model. “i need something to autograph later.”

you snorted. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet,” he said, eyes twinkling, “you still point that thing at me every time.”

click.

the shutter snapped, and for once, he was actually looking at the lens.