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Darkness stretches endlessly - swallowing sound, swallowing warmth. It presses down on him, heavy and suffocating, a blanket of silence that wraps itself around his chest, making it hard to breathe. The cold here is different—not just the bite of winter, but something deeper, something that seeps into the bones and lingers long after the air turns warmer. It’s a cold that lives inside, in the marrow of his limbs, a constant ache he can never shake. It’s the kind of cold that burrows into him, settling deep past his core, scraping into his soul. A reminder that there are parts of the world he can never escape.
Hunger is the same. It isn’t sharp anymore, not like it used to be. There’s no more stomach twisting in desperation, no more moments where he could almost taste the relief. Instead, it’s a constant, gnawing ache, a dull throb that settles deeper, like a weight he’s grown accustomed to carrying. It doesn’t scream for attention anymore—it just exists, lingering in the background of every waking moment, a hollow pit that never fills. His body has learned to live with it, to adapt, but his mind never forgets.
He can’t remember the last time he felt full. Maybe he never has. The idea of satisfaction is foreign to him now, a memory he can’t quite reach, like a dream fading with the morning light. It’s as if his stomach was always meant to be empty, like he was born to feel this hunger, this void. It is as much a part of him as his own ribs, each breath a reminder of the space inside that can never be filled.
A low hum of voices drifts from the alley. He presses himself against the crumbling wall, heart hammering, breath slow, measured. Not too loud. Not too fast. The wrong sound at the wrong time is enough. He learned that early. The air stinks of damp concrete and rot. What is rotting? He’s never been sure; but he’s smart enough to never ask. Those kinds of questions only ever lead to answers you wish you never knew.
The voices get louder. A heavy thud. A sharp cry. He doesn’t look, doesn’t move. Looking is a mistake. Looking makes it real.
His stomach clenches, not just from hunger but from the sick weight of knowing. Knowing that whoever screamed will not scream again. Knowing that if he had been slower, if he had taken the wrong turn, it could have been him.
The wind shifts, sharp and cutting, slipping through the holes in his jacket like knives. A sliver of moonlight glints off something metallic—boots, polished and cruel. His breath catches. He presses himself further into the shadows, as if they might swallow him whole.
A dog barks. Too close. Too loud.
The boots stop. Turn. The world stills.
Then—movement. A door slams open. More shouts, sharp and commanding. Someone is running. Footsteps hammer against the pavement, frantic, desperate. He doesn’t realize he’s moving until his own feet hit the ground. Run. Run. Don’t stop. Don’t think. His lungs burn, his legs threaten to give out, but stopping is worse.
The air is thick with rain, but it doesn’t fall. The sky rumbles, deep and angry. Then, light—blinding, electric.
Thunder cracks like a gunshot.
Seok gasps awake, his hands clenched so tightly in the sheets they shake. The air is too warm, too still. No alleys, no cold, no boots in the dark. Just the dorm, just the soft hum of the city outside, the storm rolling overhead.
Then the thunder crashes.
The entire dorm seems to rattle with it, the walls trembling as if the sky itself is tearing open. A second later, rain hammers against the window in waves, drowning out everything else. Seok flinches before he can stop himself, his breath still too shallow, too fast.
A hand on his shoulder grounds him. Warm. Real.
“Hyung?” Kenny’s voice is careful, unsure. His Korean is always a little slow, like he’s pulling the words from somewhere deep in his head, piecing them together before speaking. “You—uh—wake now? I mean, awake?” He frowns at himself, shaking his head. “Bad dream?”
Seok swallows, nodding once. His throat is too tight to speak yet.
Kenny doesn’t move his hand away, but he hesitates, searching for the right words. The next roll of thunder is closer, louder, and Seok feels the tremor in his own chest. He grips the blanket, trying to steady himself.
“Storm… loud,” Kenny says finally. “You, uh—” He gestures vaguely, then sighs, switching to English. “You okay?”
Seok understands the words but hates answering in English. His own comes out choppy, uncertain. “Not… good.”
Kenny nods like he gets it, like he doesn’t need more. “Not good, yeah,” he echoes. His hand squeezes Seok’s shoulder lightly before pulling back. “Want—uh, go outside?” He gestures toward the door, then sighs after a moment when he can’t remember the word, switching back into English. “Wanna get food? Ramen? Seven Eleven?”
Seok hesitates. The storm outside is violent, relentless. But the air in the dorm is thick, pressing against his lungs and swelling in his throat. His skin still crawls with the remnants of the dream, the weight of memories too close to shake off completely.
“…Okay,” he says, voice rough. “We go.”
Kenny grins, relief flickering in his eyes. “Good. I get—uh, clothes.” He points at his sleep shirt, switching back to talk in his limited Korean. “You too.”
Seok nods, slowly pulling himself from the tangled sheets. The dream still lingers at the edges of his mind, but the storm inside the dorm feels worse than the one outside. The thunder rattles the walls, deep and shuddering, a reminder that the night isn’t finished with him yet. He exhales slowly, eyes still heavy, dragging himself through the haze of exhaustion and memories.
Maybe the neon lights will help. Maybe the silence between them will be enough.
Kenny, already half-dressed and pulling on his sneakers, glances at him. His eyes are tired, but there’s a flicker of something else there—concern, maybe, or just an understanding that doesn’t need to be said. Without asking, he pulls off his hoodie, the fabric worn and faded with time.
Seok hesitates, confused for a second, but Kenny just holds it out to him. “You’re not gonna freeze, hyung,” Kenny says, his voice still gruff from sleep. His casual grin is a mask, something Seok can read between the lines of. “Besides, you look like you could use something warmer than just those thoughts rattling around in your pretty head.”
Seok stands still for a moment, staring at the hoodie in Kenny’s hand. It’s black, with bold, faded lettering across the chest that reads Los Angeles—a place he’s never been, a place that feels as distant as the dreams he can’t escape. He doesn’t understand why the sight of it makes something in him soften. The hoodie is like a thread to a world he’s never touched, something alien but, somehow, comforting in its foreignness.
Slowly, he pulls it over his head, the fabric soft against his skin, the warm sunny smell that is distinctly Kenny enveloping him. The irony of it all doesn’t escape him—how something so distinctly American, a city he has no connection to, could bring him a strange sense of comfort, as if the very distance between where he’s from and where he is now is the thing that makes it feel safe.
Kenny watches him, an eyebrow raised, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s no need.
As they step out into the rain-soaked streets, the city’s neon glow reflects off the puddles, flickering in time with the storm overhead. Seok feels the weight of the hoodie on his shoulders—something simple, something tangible—and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t feel as if he’s drowning in the silence of his thoughts. The world outside is alive, noisy, almost chaotic, and yet somehow, it brings a peace that settles inside him.
The rain is relentless. Thick sheets of water crash onto the pavement, sending ripples through the neon reflections bleeding across the wet streets. Wind howls between the buildings, carrying the scent of damp concrete and fried food from a nearby stall that hasn’t yet closed for the night. Seok pulls his hood up, the fabric quickly growing heavy with rain.
Kenny does the same, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he falls into step beside him. He walks a little too close, like he’s unsure if Seok is steady on his feet, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he tilts his head toward the sky, wincing when another crack of thunder rolls overhead.
“Gurl, you loud,” he mutters, shaking the rain from his hair with an exaggerated flourish that has Seok smiling to himself.
Seok just hums softly to himself. He doesn’t mind the rain itself—he’s lived through worse—but the sound, the weight of the storm, lingers in his chest, tangled up with too many memories he’d rather leave behind. He focuses on the pavement instead, the way their feet splash in puddles, the way the city is still alive even at this hour.
Kenny nudges his elbow lightly, pulling him from his thoughts. When Seok glances up, Kenny points to the Seven Eleven ahead. “Run?” he asks, grinning.
Seok raises an eyebrow. “No.”
Kenny gasps dramatically. “Ugh, you’re so boring.” Then, before Seok can respond, he breaks into a jog anyway. His sneakers slap against the wet pavement, and he nearly eats it on the curb.
Seok sighs and follows at his own pace.
Inside, the store is bright and humming with the buzz of fluorescent lights. Kenny shakes himself off like a wet dog, sending droplets of water flying. “This rain is homophobic,” he declares.
Seok gives him a blank stare. “What?”
“The way it’s personally attacking me? Rude.”
Seok rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches into another smile, subtle yet soft. Kenny moves toward the instant noodles, scanning the shelves like he’s searching for the meaning of life.
“Hungry?” he asks, glancing at Seok before grabbing a random bowl of ramen.
Seok shrugs. “Maybe.”
Kenny squints, analysing Seok’s words. “Not yes, not no…” He taps his chin like he’s deep in thought. “So…yes.”
Seok huffs a small laugh, and Kenny grins, triumphant, before thrusting the ramen toward him. “This one?”
Seok studies it for a second, then shakes his head and points to another. “Better.”
Kenny gasps. “Oh, I see. Mister Refined Taste.” But he swaps the ramen without hesitation. No arguments, no complaints. Just trust.
They move through the aisles like that—gestures, glances, small nudges to guide each other without the need for perfect words. Kenny holds up a bottle of banana milk, raising an eyebrow. Seok shakes his head.
Kenny gapes at him. “You—no banana milk?”
Seok shakes his head again, smirking slightly. “No.”
Kenny clutches the bottle dramatically to his chest. “I’m rethinking this friendship.”
Seok exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Okay.”
Kenny gasps. “Wow. Ice cold.” But his grin doesn’t fade as he tosses the banana milk into their basket anyway.
They pay quickly, the cashier barely looking up as they step back into the night. The storm is still raging, but the world feels softer now, the weight of Seok’s dream fading into something quieter. The neon lights blur in the puddles at their feet, and for a moment, it almost feels like a different city.
Kenny nudges him again, this time with his elbow. “Hyung,” he says, voice a little more careful now. “You okay?”
Seok doesn’t answer right away. He watches the rain for a moment, the way it distorts the world into something unfamiliar yet safe. Then he exhales, slow and steady.
“…Better,” he says at last.
Kenny doesn’t press for more. He just nods, bumping their shoulders together lightly before unwrapping a candy bar and stuffing half of it in his mouth.
As they walk, Kenny gestures at the wet streets, the rain still pelting them mercilessly. “Okay, but for real, I did not move all the way to Korea for this weather. Where’s my K-drama sunshine? Where’s my aesthetic cherry blossoms?”
Seok side-eyes him. “It’s… March.”
Kenny waves him off. “Okay, and? What I’m hearing is that Korea is a scam.”
Seok exhales, but it almost sounds like a laugh. Kenny smirks. “See? You love me.”
They keep walking, and though the silence between them is broken up by Kenny’s occasional grumbling about the rain, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s steady. It’s real.
And maybe that’s enough.