#ppusamz

Matthew is in love.

Hopelessly, irrevocably, pathetically in love—with a boy who doesn’t look at him the way he wants to be seen.

Hanbin laughs too brightly for someone who always seems miles away. He’s warm, soft-spoken, with a careful touch that lingers too long on Hao’s shoulder. He does this thing where he pulls his sleeves over his hands when he’s nervous and pretends he doesn’t notice Hao leaning into him like he’s gravity.

Matthew notices. He notices everything.

He notices how Hao’s eyes crinkle when Hanbin brushes a strand of hair behind his ear. How Hanbin only ever saves a seat in the cafeteria for him. How, during group projects, their chairs end up too close, knees always knocking, breaths always shared.

He sees it all. Every quiet, unspoken thing. And still, he hopes.

Like a fool.

The idea to confess had been stupid from the start.

Matthew had planned it all out, down to the second. Catch Hanbin after literature club. Walk him to the bus stop. Smile, maybe tremble a little, and say, “I like you.”

He even rehearsed it in the mirror, a dozen times. Took Jiwoong’s teasing with a laugh, too distracted by his own heartbeat to care.

But fate doesn’t wait for the perfect moment.

Sometimes it rips it away from you.

Matthew turns the corner by the old music room, steps slowing when he hears voices.

Hanbin’s.

And Hao’s.

“…just say it,” Hao murmurs, voice low and impossibly close.

Hanbin’s laugh is soft. Nervous. “You’re going to make this harder than it already is.”

“Then stop making it hard.”

Matthew stops breathing.

From where he’s standing, just out of sight, he can hear the scrape of shoes, the shuffle of movement—and then the unmistakable sound of lips meeting.

Not a quick kiss. Not a mistake.

A promise.

Matthew feels it in his chest, the way something precious splits down the middle. His fingers tremble. His throat tightens. He wants to move, to run, to scream. Instead, he stands there frozen as reality crushes him in slow motion.

Hanbin doesn’t love him.

Hanbin never did.

He doesn’t remember how he gets to the rooftop.

Only that it’s cold, and the wind stings his eyes, and he’s trying so hard not to cry but his chest hurts too much.

He sinks to the ground, presses his forehead to his knees, and lets it all come apart.

“Matthew?”

He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

Jiwoong.

Of course.

Jiwoong, who always lingers a little too long around him. Who brings him banana milk without asking. Who smiles a little softer whenever Matthew’s laugh slips out unguarded.

Jiwoong, who should’ve been the one he saw sooner.

“I messed up,” Matthew whispers, voice shaking. “I really thought… I thought maybe I had a chance.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy—it’s warm. Like a blanket. Like arms, metaphorically stretched open.

Jiwoong doesn’t say I told you so, or he doesn’t deserve you. He just walks over and sinks down beside him, their shoulders brushing.

“I know,” he says gently. “I saw them too.”

That breaks something in Matthew. Because Jiwoong had seen it too—and still followed him. Still came.

Still stayed.

“I feel so stupid,” Matthew chokes. “Why did I think he’d ever—?”

“You’re not stupid,” Jiwoong says firmly. “You loved someone. That’s… that’s brave.”

Matthew laughs bitterly. “It doesn’t feel brave. It feels pathetic.”

“It’s not.” Jiwoong’s voice is soft, but resolute. “It’s human.”

Matthew looks up, finally meeting his eyes—and that’s when he sees it. The quiet ache. The tired understanding.

Jiwoong knows what unrequited love feels like.

Because he’s lived it too.

“Who was it?” Matthew asks quietly.

Jiwoong looks down. Hesitates. Then, so softly Matthew almost misses it—

“You.”

Matthew’s breath catches.

Jiwoong lets out a quiet laugh, self-deprecating. “I didn’t plan to say that. I’m sorry.”

“No—” Matthew grabs his wrist before he can stand. “No, don’t go.”

Jiwoong freezes. Looks at him.

“I… I didn’t know,” Matthew says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want you to,” Jiwoong murmurs, sitting back down slowly. “You were so happy whenever Hanbin looked your way. Even when he didn’t see you properly, you still lit up. I couldn’t take that away.”

Matthew’s heart twists. This boy—this patient, kind boy—has been holding him all this time. Steady. Silent.

Loving him quietly while he chased someone else.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew says. “I was so blind.”

Jiwoong smiles, eyes sad. “It’s okay. You’re seeing now.”

And maybe it is okay. Maybe this is how healing begins—not with grand gestures or new confessions, but with presence. With quiet truths finally spoken.

With someone who stays when everyone else is kissing someone else behind a door.

The days pass slower after that.

Matthew stops waiting by the music room. He deletes the drafts of his confession texts. He returns Hanbin’s smiles with polite nods, nothing more.

It hurts.

But not as much as it did before.

Because now Jiwoong walks him to class, their steps in sync. Now Jiwoong waits at his locker, holding out his favorite snack without saying a word. Now Jiwoong is there in every silence, offering comfort without demand.

It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic.

It’s real.

Two weeks later, they’re back on the rooftop.

The sky is soft and overcast, a gray blanket draped over the city.

Matthew leans against the railing, hair tousled by the wind. Jiwoong stands beside him, close enough that their pinkies brush.

“Do you still like me?” Matthew asks suddenly, without looking over.

Jiwoong goes still.

“…I do,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “But it’s okay if you don’t feel the same.”

Matthew turns, eyes searching.

“I don’t know what I feel yet,” he admits. “But I want to figure it out—with you.”

Jiwoong’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really.”

And then Matthew reaches out, curling their fingers together.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a dramatic confession.

But it’s a beginning.

Somewhere else on campus, Hanbin holds Hao’s hand beneath the art building stairwell, unaware of the boy who once waited for him under different skies.

And Matthew, heart still mending, lets himself fall.