Archive of Our Own

They met on a strange night.

Minho was walking back to his apartment. It was dark and cold—really cold—but the rain had stopped, so he decided to walk. He crossed a bridge that offered a beautiful view of the deep river slicing through the city, dark and glassy under the streetlights.

That’s when he saw him.

A boy, standing too close to the edge. A cigarette dangled between his fingers. He looked too young to be smoking.

“It’s bad for your health,” Minho said, a little too loud, not really thinking. His body was tired. His brain was even worse—fried from work, dulled by the cold.

The boy flinched but didn’t run. He turned slowly, eyes shadowed but curious.

“Should’ve told that to the younger me who thought it looked cool,” he said with a strained chuckle.

Minho took a breath. “I’m Minho. You?”

The boy stared at him for a second too long. His eyes were tired. Maybe he wasn’t that young after all.

“Jisung,” he said. “Han Jisung.”

“What are you doing here at this hour, Jisung?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Jisung said, turning his gaze back to the river. “You know, talking to strangers. I could be dangerous.”

“I was walking from the bookstore where I work. Decided to stop for a minute,” Minho said, stepping forward. “Won’t you answer me?”

“It’s a beautiful river, don’t you think?” Jisung said instead. “Why are you getting closer? I could kill you right now.”

He crushed the cigarette against the railing, then looked at Minho with a faint smile.

“Then I’d hit you with my backpack and run,” Minho said, now beside him. He said it lightly, teasing.

“I could chase you. You wouldn’t get far with that bag,” Jisung said, already digging in his coat pocket for another cigarette. “You got any valuables in there?”

“I’ve got more important things at home,” Minho said, laughing a little.

“Then maybe you should keep walking.”

“And where will you go?”

“Maybe skinny dip a little,” Jisung said, a wry twist to his smile.

Minho laughed. Jisung smiled, softer this time.

“It’s cold as fuck,” Minho said. “You should go home too.”

“Yeah,” Jisung murmured, taking one last drag. “I will.”

“Good night, Jisung.”

“Be careful. I might follow you and your precious backpack.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Minho walked a few steps before glancing back.

Jisung hadn’t moved.

He was still leaning on the railing, staring down into the black water like it might have something to say. The glow of his cigarette flared once, then faded as he exhaled. The smoke curled up and disappeared into the night.

Minho hesitated.

He didn’t know why. He just…did.

The city was hushed around them, the kind of silence that only comes after rain—the world damp and waiting. A car passed below the bridge, headlights carving through mist. Then it was quiet again.

“You okay?” Minho asked, not sure if he should.

Jisung looked over. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his face. Surprise, maybe. Or just exhaustion pretending to be emotion.

“Define ‘okay,’” he said.

Minho shrugged. “Not about to jump, for example.”

Jisung scoffed. “Wouldn’t give the river the satisfaction.”

“Right. Because it’s out to get you.”

“You don’t know what rivers are capable of,” Jisung said, turning back to the water. “They’re quiet. You never hear them complain. They just take what’s thrown into them. Bottles. Trash. Bodies.”

Minho leaned against the railing beside him, but didn’t look at him. “You’ve got a poetic streak.”

Jisung flicked ash off the side. “I read a lot as a kid. Helps you get creative when you’re trying to make sense of shit.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for Minho to notice the ache in his shoulders. The cold nipping at his ears.

“You hungry?” he asked suddenly.

Jisung blinked. “What?”

“There’s a place a few blocks from here that stays open stupid late. Sells spicy tteokbokki. It burns your tongue but it’s warm, and you seem like you could use warm.”

Jisung studied him. His eyes were sharp now, focused.

“You always offer street food to guys who threaten to kill you?”

Minho smiled faintly. “Only the ones who look like they need a hot meal more than they need an alibi.”

Jisung laughed. It was short, but real. His smile lingered a second longer this time.

“Alright then,” he said, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “Lead the way, Mr. Bookstore.”

The streetlights were few and far between on this side of the city, casting long shadows and pale halos of white that flickered on the wet asphalt. As they walked, Minho kept glancing over, catching little pieces of Jisung in better light.

That’s when he saw it.

His hair—blue. Not a bright, electric kind, but something softer. Muted. Like the last shade of dusk before the sky turns black.

“Is your hair blue?” Minho asked, blinking like he wasn’t sure if the light was playing tricks on him.

Jisung smirked without looking. “Took you long enough.”

“Well, it was dark.”

“It still is.”

“I mean, darker,” Minho said. “Bridge-light dark.”

“That’s a specific kind of dark?”

“Very,” Minho replied.

Jisung snorted. “Yeah. It’s blue. Dyed it a week ago.”

“Looks good,” Minho said, then instantly wished he hadn’t. Not because he didn’t mean it—but because it sounded too easy. Too soft.

Jisung didn’t say anything for a few steps. Just walked. The wet pavement made their footsteps sound louder than they were.

“Thanks,” he said finally. “Did it myself.”

That surprised Minho, but he didn’t push. There was a sort of pride in Jisung’s voice, not loud, but firm enough. Like he wanted Minho to know he was capable of coloring his own hair and probably surviving the apocalypse, too.

They reached the corner where the tteokbokki place sat tucked between a laundromat and a closed flower shop. A red neon sign buzzed faintly above the door, and the smell of chili paste and fried fish cake hit them as soon as Minho opened it.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around them instantly.

“Two, please,” Minho said to the ahjumma behind the counter.

She didn’t ask questions, just pointed to a table near the window.

Jisung slid into the seat, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to wake them up. “This is already the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Minho raised a brow as he sat across from him. “You’ve known me for forty minutes.”

“Exactly. High bar.”

The food came quick. Piping hot, the sauce thick and angry red, steam rising like it wanted to kiss their faces.

Jisung took a bite and immediately winced. “Shit, that’s hot.”

Minho laughed. “I did warn you.”

“No you didn’t, you just said ‘it burns your tongue.’ That’s not a warning, that’s a dare.”

They ate in silence for a while, just the sound of chopsticks scraping against metal trays and the occasional hiss of breath as the spice hit the back of their throats.

After a while, Jisung spoke again, voice quieter.

“Thanks. For this.”

Minho looked up. “It’s just tteokbokki.”

Jisung shook his head. “Nah. It’s not.”

They stepped back out into the night, the cold nipping harder now that their bellies were warm and the world had gone quiet again. The streets glistened under the streetlights, slick with leftover rain.

They walked in step without saying much. Not because there was nothing to say—just because saying anything might break the strange, delicate thread between them. The kind that didn’t need explaining.

The corner came too soon. The one where Minho turned left, and Jisung went right.

“So…” Jisung said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His hair caught in the wind, a flash of blue again under a flickering lamp. “This is me.”

Minho nodded, teeth pressing into his bottom lip like they were trying to hold something in.

He wanted to ask.

For his number. His socials. Anything that would make this night not just a moment, but the start of something. But the words sat in his throat and refused to move.

Instead, he said, “Get home safe, Jisung.”

Jisung looked at him for a second. That unreadable expression again. Something behind his eyes, like maybe he was waiting for Minho to say more.

But Minho didn’t.

“Yeah,” Jisung finally said. “You too, Mr. Bookstore.”

He turned, and just like that, he was walking away. Down the empty sidewalk. Blue hair fading into the dark.

Minho stood there for a while, watching until he was out of sight. Only then did he let the breath out of his lungs.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself. “Coward.”

He walked home slower than usual. The silence felt louder now, like something had been carved out of the night and taken with Jisung.

Still, at least he knew his name. Han Jisung.

And now he knew his age, too. Twenty-one.

Old enough to stand on a bridge and talk like someone who’d lived too many years in too short a time.

Minho got home and dropped his bag by the door. He stared at it for a moment, remembering the dumb joke about hitting Jisung with it. He smiled.

Then sighed.

He didn’t have a number. Or an Instagram. Or anything.

Just a name.
Han Jisung.

He repeated it in his head like a lyric stuck on loop.

Maybe that was enough. For now.

Maybe, by some stupid twist of the universe, he’d see him again.

Maybe.

༄.°

Jisung turned right, like he said he would.

But the truth was—he had nowhere to be.

No home waiting with lights on. No roommates to ask if he wanted ramen. No cat curled up on a windowsill. Just a small studio somewhere in the city with a mattress on the floor, a cracked phone charger, and silence thick enough to drown in.

Still, he walked.

He always did this—played the part. Said goodbye like he had a destination. Like he wasn’t just going to wander for a while until his legs got tired or the sky started bleeding blue again.

The cold slipped through his sleeves as he tucked his hands deeper into his coat pockets. His fingers still smelled faintly of smoke and chili sauce. His mouth still burned from the food, but it was fading.

Everything faded too fast these days.

Minho hadn’t asked for his number. Jisung had waited, just for a second, after the “get home safe”—long enough that if Minho wanted to reach for something more, he could have.

He didn’t.

And Jisung didn’t offer.

He told himself it was fine. No expectations. No attachments. Just one strange, kind night shared with a stranger on a bridge. That was more than he usually got.

But still.

His name was Minho.

He worked at a bookstore and wore tired eyes and a heavy backpack and talked to strangers too easily. He laughed like he hadn’t in a while. He looked at Jisung like he was trying to understand something he’d forgotten.

Jisung wondered if he’d ever see him again.

He reached into his coat and pulled out another cigarette, holding it between his lips without lighting it. Just the shape of the habit. Just the ritual. He didn't even smoked much.

A wind passed through the street, making the streetlights flicker. He stood under one, still and quiet, and looked up at the dull orange sky above the buildings.

Maybe Minho was home by now. Maybe he was sitting on a couch, thinking about the boy with blue hair and bad jokes and a cigarette he never quite finished.

Or maybe not.

Jisung smiled, just barely.

He whispered to the cold, “See you around, Mr. Bookstore.”

Then he kept walking.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to be.

But somehow, still hoping to run into fate again.
Maybe at the same bridge.
Maybe under better lighting.
Maybe when one of them is brave enough to ask.

༄.°

Days pass. Then weeks.

Jisung goes to class.

He shows up early, leaves late. Not because he wants to impress anyone—just because the rooms are warm, and the silence there feels less lonely than the silence in his apartment.

He studies audiovisual production. Films, cameras, editing. Stories.

But most days, he feels like he’s not part of any story.

More like someone watching from just outside the frame. A silhouette in the background. A blurred figure passing by a window in a scene no one will remember.

His classmates talk to each other in half-loud whispers and inside jokes he’s never invited into. He doesn’t mind. Not really. It’s easier not to explain himself. Not to lie about the empty spaces in his life.

He has a scholarship. It’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he stays.

That, and the need to keep running.

Running from a house that never felt like home. From a past that whispers through nightmares. From the version of himself that never got the chance to feel real.

He eats alone. Studies alone. Walks alone.

And at night, he thinks too much. About the choices that led him here. About the fact that he doesn’t know if he made them, or if they were made for him. It’s hard to tell sometimes. Maybe that’s the worst part—when you start to believe you’re just watching your life happen, instead of living it.

Like he’s just the antagonist in someone else’s story. The tragic side character with blue hair and a cigarette habit. Someone people write off as “complicated” without asking why.

And still, in quiet moments—when the sky is heavy and the city hums low—he thinks of Minho.

Not often. But just enough.

He wonders if Minho ever walks that bridge again. If he looks out over the river and thinks about that strange night. If he remembers his name. Han Jisung.

He never told Minho his age, not really. Just dropped the number casually over spicy tteokbokki like it didn’t matter. But maybe Minho remembers anyway.

Maybe Minho felt something, too.

Jisung never expects to see him again. But part of him hopes for it anyway. And that part—small, bruised, but still alive—hurts the most.

Because it wants.
And wanting always comes with disappointment.

༄.°

He didn’t like white lights.

Too harsh. Too cold. Too honest.

They didn’t try to hide anything, didn’t flatter skin or soften shadows. White lights just were. Brutally even. Unforgiving. Clinical. The kind of light that didn’t let you pretend.

Sometimes, in class, they’d talk about it—how balanced white light keeps a scene grounded. “Neutral,” someone would say, as if that were a good thing. A way to avoid emotional manipulation. “Let the actors carry the moment. Don’t use light as a crutch.”

But to Jisung, it always felt like a lie disguised as truth. Like filmmakers were saying, This is just life. Look at it. No filters, no shadows, no mystery. Just the plain thing in front of you.

And he hated that.

He shouldn’t. Not as a film student. He understood the purpose. Knew how light could shape a scene—how color temperature could tilt a viewer’s heart without them even noticing. He knew white light had its place. It was versatile, functional. Realistic.

Interrogations? White light.
Hospitals? White light.
Futuristic dystopias where nobody dreams anymore? White light.
Corporate offices? Fluorescent, headache-inducing, soul-sapping white lights.

God, he hated it.

Because it made things too real. Not in the poetic, aching kind of real that he could find meaning in—but the dull kind. The kind that reminded you you were just a body in a chair. A kid in a classroom. A boy who ate alone and slept too little and hadn’t heard his own name spoken kindly in days.

Warm lights, at least, had the decency to pretend. To wrap things in softness. Candlelight, lamplight, a sunbeam through cheap blinds—those made space for imagination. For stories.

But white light? White light said: this is what it is. Nothing more.

Sometimes, he wondered if that’s why he dyed his hair blue. Just to rebel against the neutrality. To drag a little color into all that goddamn brightness.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe that’s why, when he thinks of that night on the bridge, it isn’t the streetlights he remembers.

It’s the way Minho’s laugh sounded in the dark.

Unlit. Undefined.

Warm.

༄.°

Most days pass the same.

He wakes up in a room that never really warms, no matter how high he turns the knob on the radiator. The windows are thin, the kind that rattle when buses go by. Outside, the city is all gray angles and steam from sewer grates, buildings stacked like cardboard boxes with lives crammed inside.

He brushes his teeth in the dark most mornings—partly because the bathroom light is too bright, and partly because it’s easier not to look at himself.

He makes coffee. Always black. No sugar, no milk. He says it’s because he likes the taste bitter, but really it’s just easier. Fewer things to buy. Fewer things to run out of. Fewer things to forget he doesn’t have.

There’s something steady in the way he makes it. Same cup. Same amount. Same chipped kettle that whistles like it’s dying. It’s one of the only warm things in the apartment. He wraps his hands around the mug and lets the heat bite into his palms until it fades.

Sometimes, that’s the only warmth he gets all day.

Outside, winter clings to the city like it’s trying to freeze it in place. The sidewalks are icy. The wind knifes through the gaps in his coat. People move fast, heads down, breath like smoke.

Jisung doesn’t move fast. He walks like he’s trying not to be noticed. Not because he’s afraid—just because it’s easier that way. Easier to be part of the background. Another boy in dark clothes with his hands buried deep in his pockets, earbuds in but no music playing.

Class is a blur most days. Cold fluorescent lights. Screens glowing with timelines and color wheels. Professors talking about story arcs and pacing and depth of field.

He listens. He takes notes. He sits in the back and keeps his hood up until someone tells him to take it down.

He’s not failing, but he’s not really there either.

He just… exists. One day at a time.

In the evenings, he walks. Not for exercise. Not for purpose. Just because it’s better than sitting still in that little box of a room. He lets his feet take him wherever they want—past shuttered storefronts, flickering neon signs, convenience stores with fogged-up windows. Past couples holding hands. Past smokers sharing silence.

Sometimes he passes the bridge. Not on purpose, but not by accident either.

He doesn’t stop.

Not yet.

But he looks.

And then he keeps walking, the cold chewing at his fingers, the night swallowing his footsteps.

When he gets home, the coffee’s long gone cold. He drinks it anyway.

Bitter is better than empty.

༄.°

It’s just past 10 p.m. when Jisung finds himself walking toward the bridge again.

The city is quieter tonight. The kind of quiet that fills your chest with thoughts you don’t want. Streetlights blur behind his eyes, casting long shadows that reach for him like they know what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t know why he came.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe he came because the river is always there. Constant. Deep. Cold. Unfeeling.
Maybe he came because it doesn’t ask questions. Because it never tells him to smile. Because he wants something to finally answer back.

He leans on the same railing, the one where he stood that night.

The metal is cool under his fingers. The wind brushes his face like a whisper that almost sounds like go ahead.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t make a sound.

He just stands there, looking down at the dark water, and wonders—
Would it hurt? Would it be fast? Would it feel like finally being hugged?

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He ignores it.

Then it buzzes again.

Annoyed, more out of habit than interest, he pulls it out and sees the message.

Prof. Nam:
Hey, Jisung—just remembered that book rec you asked about.
“Ways of Seeing” by John Berger. Worth a read. Should be at most bookstores.

It’s stupid. So fucking stupid how something so small—so mundane—can stop a moment like this.

But it does.

Jisung stares at the message.

Then he breathes.

It feels like something snapping. Or something reattaching. He can’t tell which.

He turns around before he can talk himself out of it. He walks fast, like if he slows down, the river will call him back.

The closest bookstore is a twenty-minute walk, tucked in a side street he barely remembers the name of. He doesn’t even know if it’s still open.

He just…goes.

The wind pushes against his back as if the universe, for once, is on his side.

He arrives breathless, heart pounding—not from exertion, but from still being here.

The lights are warm inside. A bell above the door chimes when he pushes it open.

And there—behind the counter, stacking books with absentminded precision—is Minho.

Hair a little messier than before. Same tired eyes.

Minho looks up.

And freezes.

So does Jisung.

Neither of them says anything for a second too long.

Then—Minho blinks. And smiles, slow, hesitant, like he thinks he might be imagining things.

“You found me,” he says, voice quiet.

Jisung exhales, the first real breath he’s taken all night.

Maybe he did.
Maybe the world, just for once, turned in his favor.

“Yeah,” Jisung says, stepping inside. “I guess I did.”

Minho comes around the counter slowly, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, Jisung might disappear again.

Jisung stands near the door, the warmth of the bookstore clinging to his coat like a second skin. His fingers are still cold. His heart’s still beating a little too hard.

“You okay?” Minho asks, voice soft.

It’s not casual. Not meaningless.
It’s real. Like he knows—not everything, but something. Enough.

Jisung opens his mouth, then closes it. Looks at the floor, then back up. He nods, but it’s not convincing. “I got a message about a book.”

Minho tilts his head. “At 10 p.m.?”

“Yeah.”

Minho doesn’t press it. He just gestures gently toward the shelves. “You want help finding it?”

Jisung shrugs, hands still in his pockets. “Yeah. Ways of Seeing. John Berger.”

Minho’s face lights up, just a little. “Good one. We actually have a copy.”

He moves through the narrow aisles like he’s been here a thousand times. Like the books speak to him. Jisung follows, the sound of their footsteps soft on the worn wooden floor.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Minho says without looking back.

“I didn’t either,” Jisung replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

Minho finds the book and holds it out. Jisung takes it with both hands, fingers brushing against Minho’s. Neither pulls away quickly.

“You’ve been alright?” Minho asks, watching him closely now.

Jisung hesitates. Then, for some reason, decides not to lie.

“No.”

Minho nods, like he expected that. Like he’s not scared of the truth. “But you came here anyway.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Jisung says, and then, after a beat, “I just… didn’t want to go home.”

Minho’s voice is gentle. “So don’t.”

Jisung looks at him, caught off guard.

Minho shrugs, eyes kind. “Not saying you should stay here forever. But for now? You can stay. No one’s kicking you out.”

There’s a long, quiet pause between them. The kind of silence that hums with things unsaid.

“Do you… do you want tea or something?” Minho offers, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s a kettle in the back. It’s technically against store policy but I don’t think the books will tell on me.”

Jisung almost laughs. Almost.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Tea sounds good.”

Minho gives him a look—soft, steady—and gestures toward the back room. “Come on. You look like you’ve been cold for days.”

Jisung follows.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like an extra. Or a ghost.
He feels seen.

They walk through books, all kinds, organized by authors, following the alphabet. Jisung thinks he could easily live here. Yellow lights, warm and drowsy, hang low from the ceiling, casting everything in a soft, golden haze. It feels like stepping into a quieter timeline. One where the world didn’t press so hard against his ribs.

He trails his fingers along the spines as they pass—poetry, philosophy, film theory. Some are worn down, cracked and loved, others still stiff with newness. Each shelf hums with potential, stories waiting to be remembered.

Minho walks a step ahead, but never too far. Like he’s giving Jisung space to look, to breathe, but staying close enough that he won’t disappear. Jisung doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. The silence here feels like a language they both speak.

A cat appears around the corner—a gray one, scrappy and slow-moving, with a half-torn ribbon tied around its neck.

Minho crouches without hesitation. “This is Waffle,” he says, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “She doesn’t like people. Or books. Or really anything. But she hasn’t died yet, so we keep her around.”

Waffle flicks her tail and gives Jisung a judgmental blink.

Jisung squats beside them, reaching out cautiously. The cat sniffs his fingers, decides he’s not worth the effort, and pads away.

“She’s got taste,” Jisung mutters.

“Clearly not,” Minho replies, standing up with a small grin. “She likes me.”

There’s a pause, soft and just shy of vulnerable. Jisung meets Minho’s eyes for a beat too long.

“You okay?” Minho asks again, gentler this time.

Jisung nods, not as a lie this time—but not the full truth either. “Getting there.”

Minho doesn’t push. Just gives him a look like: okay. that’s enough for now.

They keep walking, past short shelves and taller ones, past a display of staff picks with handwritten blurbs. Minho pauses to adjust a crooked frame on the wall—it’s a black-and-white photo of a bookstore that might be this one, decades ago. The floor looks the same.

“Place’s been here forever,” he says. “Sometimes it feels like it remembers more than I do.”

Jisung hums, the weight of the night still trailing behind him, but lighter now. Less of a shadow, more of a breeze.

And when Minho gestures toward the back—when the world narrows down to a quiet door and the promise of tea and maybe safety—Jisung follows.

Not because he knows where this is going.
But because—for once—he wants to find out.

The back room smells like old paper and earl grey.

It’s cluttered but cozy—boxes of books stacked in corners, a worn armchair tucked near a tiny desk, and a chipped electric kettle sitting next to a half-dead plant. The place feels lived-in, forgotten by rules and time.

Minho fills the kettle without saying much. Jisung stands awkwardly by the door, holding the book in both hands like it might anchor him.

Then, Jisung speaks, voice dry.

“This is a good place to murder you, you know.”

Minho looks over his shoulder with a raised brow. “Shit, I have nowhere to run now.”

“You really don’t,” Jisung says, almost smiling. “One door. No windows. I’d be doing a perfect crime.”

“Except you told me your name.”

“Fake name.”

Minho turns fully now, crossing his arms. “Han Jisung is a fake name?”

Jisung tilts his head, smirking faintly. “Maybe.”

Minho stares at him for a second, then shakes his head with a small laugh. “God, you’re weird.”

“You’re the one making tea for a potential murderer.”

“Yeah, well.” Minho pours water into two mismatched mugs. “I’ve got good instincts.”

“Terrible instincts,” Jisung corrects, stepping closer, eyes scanning the space. “But a decent book collection.”

“That’s the real defense system,” Minho says, handing him a mug. “Throw a copy of Infinite Jest at someone’s head—dead in seconds.”

Jisung huffs a soft laugh, holding the warm mug between his hands. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They sit—Minho in the armchair, Jisung on an overturned box. The tea is too hot to sip, but neither of them seems to care.

They don’t talk for a minute.

It’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Easy. Like last time.

Minho leans his head back, staring at the ceiling. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“No,” Jisung says. “You are?”

“Born and stuck,” Minho answers. “Thought about leaving, but I’m bad at packing.”

“That’s a terrible reason.”

“I have a lot of terrible reasons.”

Jisung sips his tea carefully, eyes on the steam rising between them. “I ran away.”

He says it like a joke. But it’s not one.

Minho doesn’t respond. Doesn’t press. Just nods slowly.

Jisung is grateful for that.

They drink in silence again.

And maybe it’s not healing—not yet. But it’s something like it. A pause. A place to rest. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything.

Eventually, Jisung says, “Do you always let strangers hang out in your bookstore after hours?”

Minho shrugs. “Only the ones with blue hair and good timing.”

The tea goes cold eventually, but neither of them seems to notice.

They talk about nothing and everything.

Movies they’ve never seen. Songs they both hate. The worst things they’ve ever eaten.

Jisung imitates a professor with such perfect misery that Minho actually chokes on his tea. Minho tells him about a customer who once tried to pay for books with Pokémon cards. They laugh too loud for how late it is.

The bookstore becomes its own little universe. A pocket of time where the outside world can’t reach them.

At some point, Jisung moves from the box to the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up. Minho stays in the armchair, legs dangling off one arm like a bored cat.

It’s easy. Too easy.

The kind of flow that makes Minho forget how late it is. That he has to open again tomorrow. That his tea’s gone cold.

And somewhere between one dumb joke and the next, he realizes—

He doesn’t want this to be the last time either.

He’s already had that regret once, watching Jisung walk away under a flickering streetlamp. This time he has no excuse. The moment is right here.

“Hey,” Minho says, mid-laugh. “Can I—?”

Jisung raises a brow, still smiling. “Can you what? Kill me for real this time?”

Minho snorts. “No. I was gonna ask for your number or something.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Not awkward, just… measured.

Jisung’s eyes soften a little. He sets his mug down and leans back on the box, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You didn’t ask last time.”

“I know,” Minho replies. “Wasn’t sure if I’d earned it.”

Jisung hums like he’s considering that. “And now?”

“I’m still not sure,” Minho admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’d like to. You don’t have to—if you don’t want to. It’s not a thing. Just—talking with you is easy.”

“It is,” Jisung agrees, already pulling his phone out of his coat pocket.

He hands it over without a word.

Minho types his number in quickly, saving it as Minho (mr. bookstore) before handing it back. He watches Jisung glance at the name and smirk, but the boy says nothing.

Minho tries not to overthink it.

But the truth is—he already is.

He watches the way Jisung cradles the phone in one hand like it’s fragile. Watches how his eyes flick toward the window every so often, like he’s still waiting for something dark to come find him.

And Minho thinks:

He doesn’t know this boy. Not really.
Doesn’t know what he’s running from.
Doesn’t know why he stood so close to the edge that night.

But he knows how it felt when Jisung walked away.
Like a door closing just before you reach it.

And he doesn’t want that again.

He wants this—this strange, quiet gravity between them—to last.

Even if it’s just for a little longer.

Jisung’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Don’t text me something lame.”

Minho grins. “Define lame.”

“No ‘hey’ or ‘sup’ or any lowercase nonsense,” Jisung says. “Be original. Impress me.”

Minho nods, mock-serious. “Got it. I’ll send you a haiku or something.”

“You better.”

And then, just like that, they’re smiling at each other in a half-lit back room, surrounded by old books and cooling tea, like this isn’t the first real warmth either of them has felt in weeks.

Minho doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows it now:

He wants to see where this goes.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it’s slow.
Even if it never becomes anything more than what it is right now.

A strange, unexpected closeness.

A moment that matters.

༄.°

They text now.

Not constantly—but often. Enough that Minho starts to notice when a whole day goes by without the familiar ping of Jisung’s name lighting up his screen.

It starts with short things. Observations. Half-thoughts.

blue hair
i saw a dog today that looked like a retired professor.
like. he definitely taught philosophy at least 10 years ago.
maybe got tenure then gave up on people.
respect.

mr. bookstore
a true academic.
probably only eats cheese and judges everyone in Latin.

blue hair:
EXACTLY. you get it.
this is why you’re the only one i text.

Minho doesn’t admit how much that line makes him smile. He just puts his phone down and pretends he didn’t reread it twice.

⸻

Jisung texts like he speaks.

No punctuation unless it’s dramatic. Spelling that veers between chaotic and poetic. Words in all caps when he’s excited. Or furious. Or both. Sometimes he sends voice notes that start in the middle of a rant—something about the way people clap when planes land, or why iced tea should be illegal in the winter.

Minho doesn't mean to save them all. He just... does.

There’s something about the way Jisung speaks into silence like he’s filling a space that used to echo. Like he’s not afraid to be ridiculous, because the alternative is being quiet too long and letting the dark get too close again.

Minho doesn’t mind.

He likes that Jisung sends memes at 2AM and asks things like do you think ghosts get bored. He likes that Jisung keeps showing up—fragmented and fast-typing and sometimes sad, but never distant.

༄.°

They don’t see each other again.

Not for a while.

Not because they don’t want to.
They just—don’t.

Schedules misalign. Days blur. Minho gets caught in the rhythm of the shop—inventory, invoices, fixing the heater that keeps giving up on cold nights. Jisung disappears sometimes—whole days with no texts, then a sudden burst of memes, of thoughts half-formed and fast-typed, like he’d been saving them up just in case.

There’s no real reason they stay apart.
No fight. No distance.
Just a stretch of time where silence doesn’t mean absence.

And then one night, Minho texts:

mr. bookstore:
there’s this movie i think you’d like
want to watch it with me?

He stares at the message for longer than he should before hitting send. Then adds, after a beat:

mr. bookstore:
at my place
i’ll even let you steal the good blanket

It takes seven minutes for the reply to come.

blue hair:
what movie
this sounds suspiciously like a trap

mr. bookstore:
it is.
the trap is emotional vulnerability and subtitles

blue hair:
…fine
what time

And just like that, it’s happening.

⸻

The apartment is small. Lived-in. Kind of messy in the way that says Minho stopped caring what people thought of his space a long time ago. There are books stacked on the floor in place of furniture, a half-dead plant by the window, and a record player that only works if you don’t look at it too hard.

Minho cleans for a solid hour anyway. Changes the pillowcases. Wipes the mugs twice. Sweeps the same patch of floor three times just to feel like he’s doing something.

Jisung arrives ten minutes late, holding a bag of chips and wearing a hoodie two sizes too big. His hair’s tucked under a beanie. He looks tired, but better than before—less like he’s bracing for something.

“Wow,” he says, stepping inside, “you weren’t kidding. Emotional vulnerability and subtitles. What a combo.”

Minho rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “The blanket’s on the couch. You can cry into it if you want.”

“I’m not gonna cry,” Jisung says, already toeing off his shoes. “Unless there’s a dog. Or an old man. Or anyone dies. Or if someone says ‘I’m proud of you’ in a fatherly tone.”

“So… so probably gonna cry.”

“Statistically, yeah.”

They sit on the couch. Not too close at first. The space between them is safe, casual, breathable.

Half an hour in, the movie shifts—slow piano music, a quiet confession, someone looking out a train window like they’ve just remembered how to feel. Jisung doesn’t say anything, but Minho hears the crunch stop. Hears his breathing even out.

Another ten minutes, and Jisung shifts. Pulls the blanket over his legs. Ends up leaning just slightly to the left—toward Minho. Not touching, not quite. But close enough that Minho feels the warmth.

They don’t talk during the credits.

The screen fades to black. The room fills with that soft, suspended silence that follows a really good film. Minho doesn’t rush to break it.

Eventually, Jisung says, quiet:

“That was—”
He stops. Tries again.
“I liked it.”

Minho nods. Doesn’t look over. “Figured you would.”

A pause.

Then, lighter: “You cried.”

“Shut up.”

“You totally cried.”

“It was a gentle weep, and I resent the implication.”

Minho chuckles. “Want tea?”

Jisung hesitates. Shrugs, then nods. “Yeah. If it’s not poisoned.”

“I make no promises.”

Minho stands. Heads to the kitchen. Behind him, he hears the blanket rustle. A deep breath. The faint sound of Jisung’s voice, not talking to him—just softly, to the room:

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Just smiles to himself as he fills the kettle.

Some silences don’t need words.
Some distances were never that far to begin with.

And maybe this isn’t a beginning.
Maybe it’s just a pause in the middle of something neither of them knows how to name yet.

But Minho knows one thing:

He’s glad Jisung said yes.

༄.°

People came to the bookstore to talk, to read, to disappear for a while. Some came to escape. Others just came to exist.

There was a girl who showed up every Sunday for the past two months, always asking about vinyls. She said she was building a gift for her boyfriend—a collection of their favorite albums from the three years they’d been together. She always looked for Unknown Pleasures. Minho never had it. So she’d smile, a little disappointed, pick another record instead, and mark a check on the worn list she kept folded in her coat pocket.

Then there was the older woman with hair so white it caught the light—made Minho think of snowfall. Her face was a soft map of smile lines and sun-warmed years. She came for crime novels and told him her tiny dog loved when she read to him, though he never stayed awake past the third page. She only visited on dry, temperate days. Rain or cold kept her away—she passed through on her grocery run and said she didn’t have enough hands for an umbrella, a book, and bags of vegetables.

And there was the man—probably in his 40s—who used to come in every Friday night with a different woman. Each time, he’d lead her through the aisles, explaining why he loved a certain author or how a story changed his life. He’d offer to buy her the book, always with this practiced charm. Most of the women laughed, thinking he was joking.

But one Friday, he returned with the same woman as the week before. She smiled like she’d heard all his lines already. And for the first time, Minho saw the man really smile—wide, crinkling his eyes, like he’d stopped performing.

After that, they came every Friday. No more performances. Just the two of them, wandering the shelves, sitting near the window, laughing in that quiet, familiar way people do when they’ve found something worth staying for.

There were others, too.

A boy in uniform who came in after school every Tuesday, never buying anything, just sitting on the floor with his backpack propped behind him and reading manga for an hour. He always returned them neatly to the shelf before leaving, and once, after a particularly long session, he thanked Minho for not kicking him out. Minho had just shrugged. “You’re quiet and you don’t bend the pages. That’s more than I can say for most adults.”

There was a woman who never spoke. She’d nod politely when she walked in, make a beeline to the poetry section, and spend exactly twenty-five minutes standing perfectly still, reading one book after another. When she left, she always left something behind—a flower tucked between the shelves, a folded page from an old magazine, once a matchbox with a single peppermint inside. Minho had a drawer full of her small offerings. He never asked why. Some rituals don’t need explanations.

And then there were the in-betweens.

The strangers passing through. Tourists looking for something vintage. Couples arguing about whether they had enough shelf space for “just one more.” Writers looking for something they didn’t have a name for yet. Students hoping to be struck with sudden inspiration before a deadline.

Minho saw them all. Heard their soft footsteps on creaky floorboards. Watched them fall in love with stories, with the smell of dust and ink, with each other.

And sometimes, quietly, wondered if he ever would too.

༄.°

After the movie, things shift.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just… enough.

Enough that after becomes a thing they start planning for.

They make time. Not always, not perfectly—but they try. That’s the difference. Where there used to be long stretches of silence, now there are small arrangements tucked into the week like folded notes.

Sometimes it’s the bookstore.

Jisung starts showing up more. Not just to haunt the aisles, but to help. Kind of. He restocks shelves the wrong way and writes sarcastic blurbs on sticky notes for the staff pick display. (“This one ruined me emotionally—10/10.”)

Minho pretends to scold him. Jisung pretends to listen.

Other times, it’s Minho’s apartment. Familiar now. Lived-in together. Jisung knows which mug is his. Knows the trick to getting the record player to work, which drawer hides the good snacks, how Minho takes his tea when he’s pretending not to be tired.

They don’t always talk much. They don’t need to. Sometimes it’s just them in parallel—Minho reading, Jisung sketching in a spiral-bound notebook he never lets anyone see. It’s not silence. It’s presence. The kind that makes space instead of taking it.

There’s the place with the spicy food.

Minho loves it. Jisung swears it’s personal warfare. The first time, he tried to act unfazed. Two bites in, his face went red and his soul visibly left his body.

“You’re sweating,” Minho said, trying not to laugh.

“I’m fine,” Jisung choked out, downing his water like it owed him money. “My tongue is just… on fire in a character-building way.”

Minho ordered him plain rice and made fun of him for a week.

They go back anyway.

And then there are the random coffee shops.

They don’t have a “spot”—they just pick places. The kind with chipped mugs and forgotten jazz playing overhead. Jisung likes to sit by the window. Minho always ends up across from him, sipping something too bitter, watching the light shift on Jisung’s face as he talks about something stupid and deeply important.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.

They don’t rush.

But there’s a softness to it now. A rhythm.
The way Jisung always tugs Minho’s sleeve to pull him toward something interesting. The way Minho always saves the last bite of whatever he’s eating without being asked.

It’s not love.

Not yet.

Maybe.

But it’s something with a shape. A weight.
And neither of them feels the need to name it out loud.

They’re just… together.
In bookstores. In apartments. On sidewalks and in restaurants and in moments that feel quieter now, lighter.

They like being around each other. That’s all.

And for now, that’s enough.

༄.°

The snow hasn’t come yet. It’s weird, and the rain still hasn’t stopped. It taps against the windows like it’s trying to get in—soft, persistent, a little sad. The kind of rain that settles into your bones and makes everything feel slower.

It’s so cold in his apartment that Jisung thinks about changing the lamp bulb to yellow. Not because it’ll help, not really, but because maybe if the light looks warmer, he’ll feel warmer too. Like tricking his brain into thinking this isn’t what it is: a quiet, damp Tuesday with bitter coffee and too many thoughts.

The light is blue right now. Soft and sterile. A little too honest. It makes everything look sharper—his cluttered desk, the chipped mug by his elbow, the laundry he hasn’t folded. His own face reflected faintly in the dark window, pale and tired around the edges.

He doesn’t change the bulb. Just sits there with his knees pulled up and a textbook half-open on his lap, eyes skimming words he won’t remember. He’s not even sure what class it’s for. Something with readings, something with deadlines he’s already missed.

His coffee’s gone cold. Again. He keeps making it too early, forgetting to drink it until it’s too late. Now it just sits there like a metaphor he doesn’t want to unpack.

Outside, a car splashes through a puddle. Someone yells on the street. Somewhere in the building, someone’s cooking something that smells like garlic and warmth. Jisung breathes in through his nose and exhales slow. The lamp buzzes faintly, a sound he only hears when everything else is quiet.

He’s not sad. Not exactly.

Just—tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that follows you around. A low-level hum in the back of your chest that makes everything feel like moving through water. He still goes to class. Still shows up. Mostly. Still nods and smiles and writes things down. But everything feels a little off, like watching life through a glass window.

Sometimes he thinks he’s doing better.

Sometimes it’s just that he’s gotten better at hiding it.

He shifts, leans his head back against the wall, and watches the light flicker a little—just enough to notice.

He thinks about texting minho. Doesn’t. Not yet. Not because he doesn’t want to—he always wants to—but because he’s not sure what to say when the truth is just i don’t feel like a person today.

He’ll wait. Until he feels more like himself. Until he has something funny to say or a weird thought to share. Until the part of him that wants connection outweighs the part that wants to disappear.

The rain keeps falling. The lamp keeps buzzing. The yellow bulb sits in the drawer across the room, still untouched.

He thinks maybe he’ll change it later.

Maybe

The lamp buzzes again.

He’s still staring at the window when his phone lights up.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just a soft pulse of light on the desk, half-buried under a notebook and the corner of that textbook he’s still not reading.

He lets it sit for a second. Breathes.

Then reaches for it.

mr. bookstore:
if i queue up a movie and make popcorn, does that count as a formal invitation
or do i have to put it in writing

mr. bookstore:
also
do you own socks
or will i need to provide emergency blanket foot coverage

Jisung exhales through his nose. Something that might be a laugh if he wasn’t so tired. If his chest didn’t feel like it was full of soaked cotton.

He stares at the screen a little longer than necessary.

It’s not a big deal.

Just a text. Just Minho being Minho—dry and ridiculous and somehow always knowing how to reach through the fog without asking him to step into the sun.

But something about it makes his throat ache.

Because it is hard. Letting someone care. Letting them see you like this—low-energy, low-functioning, low-everything. It’s easier to be funny. To send memes. To keep things light and manageable and distant enough not to crack anything open.

And yet—

Minho never asks for more than Jisung can give. Never pushes. Just… leaves the door open.

And sometimes that’s worse.
Because now there’s someone who notices the silences.
Now there’s someone who texts even when Jisung disappears.
Now there’s someone who cares. Quietly. Steadily. Stupidly.

And that makes it harder to pretend none of it matters.

He taps out a reply with cold fingers.

blue hair:
do u have the good blanket
or the mid blanket
be honest

mr. bookstore:
only the good one
washed it and everything
you’re getting the deluxe treatment

He stares at that for a while. The ache softens. Not gone—but a little quieter.

Then he types:

blue hair:
i’ll come by
if u let me pick the sad part of the movie
i’m emotionally constipated and need to cry at something safe

mr. bookstore:
deal
i’ll even pretend not to look when u sniffle dramatically

He smiles. Small. Real.

Puts the phone down. Stands up.
The rain still hasn’t stopped, but it doesn’t feel quite as heavy now.

He changes into clean socks. Grabs his hoodie.
Doesn’t change the bulb.

He’ll do it tomorrow.
Maybe.
Or maybe he won’t need to.

Not if there’s light waiting somewhere else

The rain is still falling when Jisung steps outside, but it doesn’t feel as heavy now.
Not sharp, not cutting. Just a steady hum around him. Like background noise in a moment that’s starting to matter.

He walks with his hood up, hands in his pockets, the city blurring around him—soft lights, wet pavement, windows glowing yellow like they’re trying to hold something warm inside.

Minho’s apartment window is one of them.

Jisung sees the light from halfway down the block—faint and golden, a little crooked like the lamp’s angled weird. And somehow, that makes it better. Less staged. More real.

It’s not a spotlight. It’s a welcome.

Minho opens the door before Jisung even knocks. He must’ve been watching. Or listening. Or just… waiting.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps back to let him in.

The air inside smells like butter and something vaguely sweet. Jisung shrugs off his hoodie, socks damp from puddles, and Minho hands him a pair of dry ones without a word.
They don’t match. One’s got a hole in the toe. Jisung grins anyway.

The popcorn’s warm. The lights are dim.

The good blanket is already draped over the couch.

Minho nods toward it. “Deluxe treatment, like I said.”

The apartment is warm. Smells like popcorn and tea and that faint Minho scent—something clean and familiar Jisung can’t name. The lights are soft. One of them is yellow.

Jisung plops down onto the couch and immediately cocoons himself in the blanket. “Okay. I’m ready for emotional devastation.”

Minho sets the popcorn down and grabs the remote. “So… you’re picking the sad part.”

“Obviously. If I don’t cry by the forty-minute mark I want a refund.”

“It’s free.”

“Exactly.”

They settle in. Feet brush. Minho doesn’t move away. Neither does Jisung.

The movie is quiet and slow—people looking out windows, walking past each other in the rain, saying too little too late. The kind of story that doesn’t demand your attention but slips into your chest anyway.

Jisung doesn’t say much. Just leans a little closer as the movie goes on, his socked feet creeping under Minho’s leg like it’s instinct.

Minho pretends not to notice.

Until the credits roll and Jisung lets out a long, shaky breath.

“You good?” Minho asks, voice low.

Jisung nods. “I didn’t cry. That’s personal growth.”

“You sniffled. I heard it.”

“I allergied. Against your dusty-ass throw pillow.”

“Sure.”

A pause. Then—

“Thanks for this,” Jisung says. His voice isn’t dramatic. Just real. Small. Like he’s still not used to being taken care of, even in little ways.

Minho watches him for a second. Watches how Jisung keeps fiddling with the edge of the blanket, how he won’t quite look over, like the softness might crack if he makes eye contact.

So he doesn’t push.

He just shifts closer.

Lifts a hand to Jisung’s face and smooths his thumb over a bit of wet hair sticking to his forehead.

“You’re warm now,” Minho murmurs, almost to himself.

“Thanks to your five-star hospitality.”

Minho leans in.

“And because I’m about to do this.”

And then—he kisses Jisung’s forehead.

It’s not quick. Not a brush. He stays there for a second, lips pressed to skin, hand resting at Jisung’s jaw like it’s always been there.

Jisung goes very still.

Then—

“Oh,” he says, a little breathless.

Minho leans back just enough to look at him. “Too much?”

Jisung shakes his head, blinking slowly. “No. Just… nice.”

Minho smiles. “Deluxe treatment.”

Jisung snorts and drops his head against Minho’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Do you want tea?”

“No,” Jisung says, snuggling in. “I want this.”

Minho pulls back a little, but doesn’t look away. Just nudges the blanket higher over Jisung’s shoulders.

“You can sleep here,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”

Jisung nods.

He’s already curling in, head tucked against the pillow, the scent of Minho’s laundry and popcorn and quiet affection sinking into him like warmth.

Minho moves to switch off the lamp.

Jisung stops him. Not with words—just a hand reaching out, fingers brushing Minho’s wrist.

“Leave it,” he mumbles.

The light stays on.

And this time, it’s not blue.

It’s yellow.

It’s warm.

It’s enough.

Minho doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease or shift or pull away. He just lifts a hand and starts running his fingers through Jisung’s hair—slow, absentminded strokes that make Jisung melt even further into him.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” Jisung mumbles, barely audible.

Minho hums. “For what? Giving you popcorn and tactile affection?”

“Yes,” Jisung says dramatically. “Exactly that.”

But he doesn’t move either. Just breathes, quiet and even, letting the rhythm of Minho’s hand lull him into something softer than sleep but just as deep. The movie is still playing—some unrelated autoplay in the background now—but neither of them are watching.

Minho shifts slightly, and Jisung hears it. Feels it. The slow thump of Minho’s heartbeat against his ear, steady beneath layers of cotton and skin.

It’s calming.

Real.

Jisung closes his eyes and listens to it the way he used to listen to rain as a kid—like it could drown everything else out. Like it could keep him safe.

The soft rhythm of Minho’s fingers doesn’t stop. Just slows, gradually, unconsciously. Long, gentle motions through damp strands. Jisung’s breath evens out to match.

And then—Minho’s heart slows too.

Not in a bad way.

Just in the way people do when they’re warm. When they’re safe. When their body finally believes they can rest.

Jisung doesn’t open his eyes.

He stays there.

Wrapped in Minho’s blanket, held in that quiet rhythm, surrounded by a light he didn’t have to switch on himself.

And maybe the night outside is still cold. And maybe the rain hasn’t let up.

But here, in this small apartment that smells like tea and too-buttery popcorn and the soft hush of sleep?

It’s warm.

Minho’s fingers still in his hair.

And slowly—slowly—

They both drift off.

He doesn’t need to change the bulb anymore.

Not tonight.

Not when there’s already light waiting here.

༄.°

Jisung’s not sure when he started caring about the color of light.

Maybe it’s always been there, somewhere in the back of his brain—some quiet association formed in childhood, or after too many nights lit by harsh fluorescents that made everything feel like a hospital room.

Yellow light, though. That’s different.

It doesn’t demand anything. Doesn’t interrogate the room. It holds it.
Soft, warm, slightly uneven—like it could burn out at any second but chooses not to. It’s imperfect, and maybe that’s why he likes it. Maybe that’s why he trusts it.

In class, they talk about color theory like it’s science.
Warm tones evoke comfort. Cool tones, distance. Saturation equals emotional intensity. Desaturation means detachment. It’s all charts and swatches and scene comparisons. But Jisung doesn’t see it in those terms. He feels it. Light, for him, is memory.

Blue light is the hour before sleep. It’s the glow of his laptop when he’s writing too late and can’t focus. It’s introspection. Isolation. The kind of quiet that starts to echo. He doesn’t hate it, exactly—but he doesn’t want to live in it.

White light is utility. Supermarket lighting. Classrooms. Script notes underlining what’s wrong in red pen. White light says look at everything, and Jisung already sees too much. Already overthinks too loud.

But yellow?

Yellow light is movies on rainy nights. It’s a diner at 2 a.m. when the world feels like it’s on pause. It’s the color of someone waiting up. The way warmth shows up quietly—crooked lamp shades, mismatched bulbs, sunlight that hits the floor late in the afternoon.

It’s safety without spectacle.

Sometimes he thinks it’s less about the color and more about what it lets hide. Yellow light doesn’t erase shadows—it softens them. Makes them liveable. Bearable.

But yellow isn’t the only light he loves.

He likes red, too—not the neon kind that screams danger or desire, but the slow, rich kind. The kind that bleeds into a frame like warmth blooming. Like longing with nowhere to go. Red light reminds him of late-night edits and vinyl crackle. Of empty theater stages before a show starts. The in-between moment where anticipation breathes.

He likes purple, sometimes. That soft, dusky tone that feels like bruised skies and the last scene of a film you’re not ready to end. It’s not a light you live in—it’s one you visit. Like walking home under streetlamps after something almost happened.

And green—he’s weirdly fond of green, when it’s used right. Not the flat, sickly fluorescent of hospital dramas, but the moody, natural kind. Forest light. Rebirth. Hope in a minor key. It’s tricky, emotionally. Green is about tension. Wanting to grow and fearing what that means. He likes that.

But still—he comes back to yellow.

Warmth. Human. Imperfect. The kind of glow you get when someone leaves a lamp on for you, just in case.

And lately—maybe that’s what Minho feels like too.

Not blinding. Not perfect. Just… warm. Constant. The kind of presence that doesn’t try to fix him, just sits with him in the dark until the light doesn’t feel so far away.

Jisung thinks he might write his thesis on that one day.
About the way people choose their lighting. About how some bulbs flicker but still stay on. About how you don’t always need the sunrise—sometimes a 40-watt glow behind a secondhand lampshade is enough.

Sometimes light isn’t the story.

It’s just the way you tell it.

Not just light as exposure. Not just mood or narrative logic.

But light as language.

As comfort.

As quiet proof that even on the greyest days, something is still trying to reach you.

And maybe one day he’ll film it:
Someone alone in a blue-lit room.
A knock.
A door opened.
Yellow light spilling in.
Not salvation.
Just… a different frame.

Just warmth.
Finally.

༄.°

The bell above the door sticks for half a second before it chimes. It always does that when the air’s too damp—when the hinge swells just enough to resist. Minho doesn’t fix it. He likes the small delay. The almost.

The bookstore smells like paper, old wood, and the citrus cleaner he only uses on Wednesdays. He’s not sure why he picked Wednesday. Probably because it felt like the middle of something.

He straightens a display by the window—three books with yellow covers. Not on purpose, but now that he sees it, he leaves them that way. A small, accidental brightness against the gray outside.

Rain streaks the glass in slow, deliberate lines. No customers yet. Just the steady hum of the old heater behind the counter and the muffled sound of traffic folding into itself on wet asphalt.

He switches on the lamp. Not the overheads—not the fluorescents that flatten everything—but the small one tucked behind the register. The shade leans slightly left. He’s meant to fix it, but now it’s just part of the place. The light spills unevenly across the desk, warm and slanted.

He thinks of Jisung.

Not the way he looked last night, exactly—but the way he softened under that blanket. The way his voice dipped when he said, “I want this,” like it surprised him even as he said it.

There’s a receipt tucked under the keyboard. Coffee-stained, creased three times. He flips it open out of habit. It’s blank—except for a scribbled note in his own handwriting:

sad one with rain and missed train. ask if he’s ready.

He doesn’t remember writing it. But he remembers what it means.

Minho sets it back down, edges aligned with the woodgrain.

Outside, a kid splashes through a puddle. Doesn’t look back.

He checks the clock. Not because he’s waiting—he’s not. Not really. But just in case.

On the shelf beside the door, there’s a small ceramic cat someone left months ago. A regular used-bookseller would’ve tossed it. But it stayed. Its head’s chipped. One paw raised. It watches the door like it’s expecting someone.

Minho moves behind the counter. The register hums faintly, the screen flickering once before settling.

The heater kicks on again. Louder this time.

He doesn’t think about Jisung’s hoodie, still a little damp where he hung it by the door. Or the socks he gave him—mismatched, one with a hole. Or how he washed the good blanket again this morning, just in case.

Instead, he checks inventory. Runs a finger down the list. Pulls a book from the back shelf, the spine soft from handling. Sets it on the counter like a placeholder.

The kind of book you give someone when you don’t know how to ask what they need.

He opens to a random page.

Reads one line.

Closes it again.

The bell hasn’t rung. But it might.

And if it does, the light’s already on.

Warm. Crooked. Waiting.

⸻

The bell stutters, then gives in with a reluctant chime.

Minho doesn’t look up right away. He knows the sound of her walk—measured, a little uneven, the soft tap-scrape of rubber soles on wet tile. There’s the faint smell of something floral, faded under the scent of rain and wool.

Her umbrella’s collapsed, dripping against the entry mat. The dog’s tucked under her arm—small and solemn, eyes wide like he’s always expecting a twist ending.

Minho closes the ledger. “Thought you said you don’t come out when it rains.”

She eyes him over the rim of her glasses—the kind that sit low on her nose and make everything she says feel like a verdict. Her coat is dark green, worn soft around the cuffs. Her hair’s pulled back today, a silver braid looped at the nape of her neck. Rain has dampened the edges, curling them slightly.

“I don’t,” she says. “Usually. No room in these hands for books, groceries, and weather. Remember?”

He nods once. “I remember.”

She smiles at that. Just the corner of her mouth. “Cute of you.”

The dog blinks once. As if agreeing.

She leans her umbrella into the stand by the door. Water pools slowly at the base. “Said on the radio it might snow soon. That kind of snow that doesn’t last. The shy kind.”

Minho hums. He knows the kind. The kind that changes the world for five minutes. Just enough to feel it.

She steps deeper into the store. Doesn’t rush. Her eyes scan the shelves like they always do—like she expects the books to rearrange themselves while she’s gone.

“You’re early,” he says.

“I’m old,” she counters. “I don’t believe in being late when there’s still time to enjoy things.”

She sets the dog down gently. He trots to his usual spot near the heater, curls up like he pays rent.

Minho watches her run a hand along the mystery section. Her nails are short, painted a chipped red that matches the lining of her coat. The gesture is habitual—half memory, half ritual. She’s not here to buy. She’s here to visit.

“What are we solving today?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Something gruesome. Something with a clever woman and a stupid man who gets in her way.”

Minho selects a slim paperback from behind the desk and hands it over without ceremony.

She takes it without looking. “That the one with the dead bishop and the cat?”

“No,” he says. “That one’s next week.”

She chuckles. “You’re getting good at this.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches as she turns the book over in her hands like it might have a heartbeat.

Outside, the rain softens.

Inside, the dog snores once.

And for a moment, nothing needs to be said. The world is full of tiny, unspectacular tendernesses. Like remembering someone’s umbrella excuse. Or holding a book for a woman who’s already read too many endings but still shows up for the next one.

She doesn’t stay long. She never does.

But before she leaves, she taps the counter lightly. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one people wear when they’re hoping someone shows up.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

Just collects her umbrella. Lifts the dog. Nods once.

Minho watches the door close behind her. The bell rings softer this time.

The snow hasn’t started.

But the air has changed.

And the book on the counter is still waiting.

༄.°

Minho’s Sunday shift is the only one he works in the morning.

The bookstore doesn’t stay open late on Sundays—never has. Something about the stillness of early hours, the quiet light before the day fully wakes. It suits the place. And him.

It’s just past 10 a.m. when the delivery arrives.

A cardboard box, unmarked except for a smudge of handwriting near the top corner. Minho frowns. He doesn’t usually get packages on Sundays. Donations either show up midweek, or not at all. But here it is—waiting at the threshold like it belongs.

Inside: CDs, vinyls, a few old DVDs. The kind of eclectic drop-off that says attic clean-out more than curated collection. Still, he goes through it with care. Some of it’s junk. Some will sell. The rest—he sets aside for the local school. He knows their media lab could use anything that plays offline.

Then he sees it.

Unknown Pleasures.

Black and white. Stark. The iconic cover more matte than he expected—less crisp, more lived-in. The texture makes it feel heavier, somehow. Like something carried, not just stored.

He doesn’t shelve it. Doesn’t log it either.

He just sets it on the counter, off to the left, where his coffee cup usually goes. Leaves it there.

He already knows who it’s for.

⸻

The day rolls slow. Steady. A few customers come and go—quiet browsers, the kind who murmur thanks and carry their own bags. Rain clings to the windows again, same as always. The heater clicks on. Clicks off.

By 4 p.m., he’s cleaning up. Closing out the till. Tucking receipts into neat stacks. Sunday kind of done.

And then—

The bell chimes.

Not the hesitant ring of someone browsing.

It’s rushed. A little frantic. Unsteady.

Minho looks up.

She’s there—her lavender coat trailing behind her like she ran the last block. Big round glasses slipping down her nose, bangs stuck slightly to her forehead. She pushes the door closed with her elbow, arms still clutched tight around her bag.

He’s seen her every Sunday for months. Always soft-voiced. Always thoughtful. Never this breathless.

“Could you—” she starts, and then she stops to catch her breath. Her words rush out like they’ve been waiting in her chest all day. “Could you please help me find Unknown Pleasures? His birthday is Tuesday and it’s the only one I still haven’t found. I’ve checked everywhere—I don’t know where else to look—”

Her voice cracks a little at the end. Just a tremor.

He just watches her—shoulders tight, eyes wide behind those round glasses, one mitten half-off like she tugged it off while running and forgot the other. There’s a folded list in her hand, creased and crumpled from too much hope and not enough time.

Minho just nods, gently.

Her eyes widen—like relief is too big to fit all at once.

“Got it earlier today,” he says. “I was saving it.”

Then reaches behind the counter.

The sleeve is exactly where he left it—black and white, stark, iconic. “Unknown Pleasures” written in that quiet, cold font that feels more like a whisper than a title.

When he sets it down, the girl goes still.

“I—what—” Her voice catches. “Are you serious?”

Minho just tilts his head. “Long lavender coat. Bangs that frizz when it rains. Always comes in before close, never buys anything for herself. That sound you make when you’re about to give up but decide not to. Yeah,” he says, gently pushing the record across the counter, “I figured it was a sign.”

She blinks fast. Then slower. Her whole face softens—something caught between relief and disbelief.

“He loves this band,” she murmurs. “Like… really loves them. And I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I thought I left it too late again and—”

“You didn’t,” Minho says. “You’re right on time.”

She doesn’t cry. Not really. But she presses her lips together and ducks her head a little, the way people do when they’re overwhelmed by something that turned out okay.

“He’s gonna lose it,” she says, fingers brushing over the sleeve like it’s breakable. “Like, in a good way. He played this album when we first met. Said it was ‘romantic in a depressing way.’”

“Classic Joy Division,” Minho says, almost smiling.

She laughs. It’s breathy and real.

“How much do I owe you?” she asks, already reaching for her bag.

Minho shakes his head. “It’s yours.”

“What? No—Minho—”

He holds up a hand. “Someone left it here. I just… kept it for the right person.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She looks down at the record like it’s glowing.

“Thank you,” she says, quieter now. “Seriously. Thank you.”

He nods. “Tell him happy birthday. And good taste.”

She leaves with the record tucked close to her chest, like it might vanish if she doesn’t hold on tight enough.

The bell chimes again when the door swings shut—less rushed this time.

Outside, the sky is soft and low, clouds hanging heavy with the kind of cold that almost becomes snow.

Minho finishes wiping down the counter. Flicks off the overheads. Leaves only the lamp on, its light angled just slightly off-center, warm and gold.

The shop doesn’t stay open late on Sundays.

But sometimes, just sometimes—

He waits.

Just in case.

Because the right things don’t always show up on time.

But when they do—

He wants the light to be on.

༄.°

The bell chimes again.

It’s softer this time—less urgent than the girl earlier, but still intentional. Like someone walking in with purpose, not curiosity.

Jisung steps through, hoodie pulled up halfway, curls flattened on one side like he’d been lying on them too long. He blinks once at the dim bookstore light, then smiles. It’s small. A little crooked. But it’s there.

“You close early on Sundays, right?”

Minho nods. “In five.”

“I know.” Jisung takes a step in, then another. “That’s why I came.”

Minho doesn’t answer, not out loud. He just gestures slightly toward the counter, the space behind it, where it’s warmer and closer and his. Jisung steps into it like he’s done it a hundred times already, even if this is maybe the third.

Waffle lifts her head from the heater, stretches with a soft groan, then pads over with the kind of dignity only small, elderly cats seem to have. Jisung crouches down immediately, letting Waffle headbutt into his palm.

“You got good taste in heaters,” Jisung murmurs to the cat.

Minho finishes wiping the counter, then flicks the switch behind the register. Not all the lights—just the one. The lamp with its slanted shade, casting gold across the wood.

He doesn’t say anything, but Jisung looks up and notices anyway.

“You always leave that one on?”

“Only when it feels right.”

Jisung doesn’t press further. Just gives Waffle a final ear scratch and stands.

For a few minutes, they don’t do anything but exist in the space—quiet breathing, the sound of Waffle’s paws clicking faintly on the floor, the rain thinning outside. The light doesn’t fill the room. It just holds it.

Then Jisung says, like he’s rehearsed it a little:
“Wanna walk to the bridge?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “It’s wet.”

“Yeah.” A beat. “But the sky’s lighter now.”

And it is—still grey, but not heavy. Like the air’s exhaled a bit. Like the day’s not trying so hard to be anything anymore.

Minho locks the door behind them, flicks the sign to CLOSED, and tucks Waffle into his coat. He always takes her home on Sundays. The cat allows it without protest, snout peeking out like she's supervising.

They don’t talk much as they walk. The city feels softer after rain—like it’s tired too. Their shoes scuff damp pavement. Jisung kicks a leaf off the sidewalk, watches it stick to the curb.

When they reach the bridge, there’s no fanfare. Just the sound of water moving beneath them and the sky hanging pale above. Lights haven’t come on yet, but the dark’s not fully here either. It’s between.

They lean on the railing, not too close but not far. Waffle shifts in Minho’s coat. Jisung glances over.

“You ever notice how the river’s louder when you’re quiet?”

Minho tilts his head. “Or maybe we’re just listening.”

A pause. Jisung breathes in deep, like the air might taste different here.

“I didn’t come to say anything specific,” he says eventually. “I just… wanted to be somewhere with you when the day stopped feeling heavy.”

Minho looks at him then. Full. Steady.

“You picked the right time.”

Jisung huffs a soft laugh. “You always say that like you’ve been waiting.”

Minho shrugs. “Maybe I have.”

There’s no dramatic touch. Just two people standing still together, while the world remembers how to turn gently.

Eventually, Jisung shifts his weight.

“Wanna walk?”

Minho shakes his head, just once. Then: “Let’s go to mine.”

Jisung looks over. Blinks. “Yeah?”

Minho lifts Waffle slightly. “She gets fussy if I don’t tuck her in.”

Jisung grins, bright and open, the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’ve done something brave by existing.

“Then I guess we should.”

They walk back the long way—not to stretch it, but to keep it. The sky still hasn’t chosen a color, but it doesn’t need to.

Some things don’t need a reason to be warm.

Some lights just stay on.

༄.°

Minho saw everything at the bookstore.

He saw the way people softened when they crossed the threshold—how their shoulders dropped, how their breath slowed, how their voices dipped like they were afraid to wake something sacred. He heard the footsteps too—muffled, deliberate—some quick and darting, others slow, like a question. He watched people fall in love with stories, with the smell of dust and ink, with each other. Sometimes all at once.

And he liked being part of that. Quietly. From behind the counter, or while restocking a shelf. He didn’t need to be in the story. It was enough to witness it.

But lately, he’d been wondering—just a little—if maybe he was in a story too.

And if he was, maybe the bridge was the bookstore in his version.

Because that was where it started, in its own way.

That was when curiosity turned into something else.

Minho crossed that bridge every day. On the way home. On the way in. In every season. Rain, snow, pollen, heat. It was a routine path. Unremarkable.

Until one day Jisung was there, standing at the railing like he was listening to something Minho couldn’t hear yet.

And from then on, the bridge felt different.

Not transformed. Just… tuned.

Like the bookstore. Like the way light changes when it filters through old glass. Like the sound of a record crackling before the music begins. Like a place waiting for something—but without impatience.

Minho had always known the bookstore wasn’t just shelves and books. It was a threshold. A way in.

And maybe the bridge was that too. The in-between. The liminal edge where something begins without needing to be named yet.

He didn’t know when it happened, exactly—that shift. When he stopped just watching stories and started walking into one. But he thinks it might’ve started with an advice that didn’t sound like one at all.

'It's bad for your health.'

And maybe, just maybe—

That was page one.

༄.°

Minho’s apartment is soft in a way that doesn’t announce itself. The kind of soft you only realize after you’ve exhaled. There’s a lamp in the corner with a fabric shade, slightly dented on one side. The light from it isn’t even—just enough to make the walls look warmer than they probably are. The rest of the place stays dim. Not dark. Dim like a thought you haven’t said out loud yet.

He stands near the door for a moment, wet cuffs and all, Waffle still curled in Minho’s coat like she lives here full-time.

Minho doesn’t say anything at first. Just takes the cat, sets her gently on a worn cushion by the heater, and disappears into the kitchen like this is any other night. Like they’ve done this a dozen times already.

Jisung toes off his shoes, steps inside.

He doesn’t sit right away. Walks around the space instead—slowly, like he might wake it. There’s a stack of books near the window, one half-open with a receipt tucked like a secret between pages. A candle on the windowsill, burned halfway down. A photograph held to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a peach. Two people in frame—one smiling fully, the other (Minho, obviously) caught mid-blink, like even in pictures he’s slightly hard to pin down.

Minho speaks from the kitchen. Not loudly—just enough to carry through the quiet.

“Tea okay?”

“Yeah.” Jisung’s voice catches. He clears it. “Something warm.”

The kettle whistles low and steady. A pan clicks onto the stove. Jisung finally sits, socks damp, heart louder than he wants it to be. The apartment smells like toast and something savory now, layered under the tea.

And still—that light. It hums across the floor in patches. It doesn’t fill the space. It just touches it. Like it’s not trying to convince them of anything—just offering.

Minho returns with two mugs and something simple in bowls. He doesn’t say what it is. Jisung doesn’t ask. They eat in the kind of silence that tastes better than words.

They don’t talk until the movie starts.

It’s old. Grainy in parts. The kind with long scenes and few cuts. A soundtrack that swells instead of speaks. Minho hands him a blanket without looking over. Jisung pulls it across their laps, knees brushing. It’s the good blanket. The one that smells like lavender and detergent and faintly, just faintly, Minho.

Halfway through, Minho leans his head back against the couch cushion. Turns slightly, eyes half-lidded.

“You good?”

Jisung nods, then shrugs. “Getting there.”

They stay like that—just breath and dialogue and the slow hush of the world outside turning in for the night.

Eventually, Jisung shifts. Not away. Closer.

Minho doesn’t move.

Their shoulders touch. Their legs align.

It’s barely anything. But then—

Minho tilts his head. Just enough. His gaze flicks down. Then up. Then still.

Jisung doesn’t overthink it.

He just moves.

The kiss is tentative. Gentle. Not a declaration—just a confirmation. Something slow and quiet and whole. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need to become anything more than itself. A knowing.

When they part, it’s barely a breath. They stay close. Not tangled. Just aligned.

Minho’s hand brushes Jisung’s. Finds it. Holds.

The movie ends, credits rolling in pale white text across a black screen. The lamp in the corner flickers once, then settles. The shadows shift, but don’t retreat.

Outside, the sky’s not dark. Not really. Just deep.

And eventually, the credits end.

The screen dims. The room follows.

Neither of them moves right away. Waffle is snoring softly somewhere by the heater, a small, insistent presence. The tea is cold now. Jisung’s fingers are still curled against Minho’s.

“Wanna stay?” Minho asks, voice low.

Jisung gives him a look. “What kind of question is that?”

Minho huffs. “A polite one.”

“You don’t do polite.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Minho doesn’t argue it. Just nudges his knee lightly against Jisung’s, then stands—stretches, clicks something in his shoulder with a soft wince.

“Old man,” Jisung mutters.

Minho flips off the lamp. The room folds inward with the loss of light, softening to just outlines and memory. He glances back once, just a silhouette in the dim.

“You coming or what?”

—

The bedroom is small, clean in a lived-in way. Sheets a little wrinkled, corners slightly untucked. One pillow clearly used more than the other. There’s a hoodie draped over the desk chair. A paperback facedown on the floor beside the bed like it gave up halfway through the night.

Minho pulls off his sweater, tosses it somewhere vaguely chair-adjacent. Jisung hesitates a beat, then peels his own hoodie over his head. His hair sticks up on one side. Minho doesn’t mention it. Not yet.

“Where do I sleep?” Jisung asks, already smirking.

Minho deadpans, “Fire escape.”

“Romantic.”

Minho gestures to the bed with a vague hand. “Left side. But Waffle likes the foot, so don’t kick her.”

Jisung grins as he climbs in. “You’re a gracious host.”

“I’m regretting this already.”

“Too late, I’m legally yours now. That’s how this works.”

Minho’s already under the covers, one arm folded under his head, the other resting somewhere between his chest and Jisung’s elbow. Their legs find each other slowly. Familiar already.

The quiet comes back. But this time it hums.

It’s not nervous, or awkward, or heavy.

It’s just there. Full.

Minho speaks again after a few minutes, eyes closed. “You always move this much in bed?”

Jisung shifts closer, their foreheads almost brushing. “Only when I’m in love.”

Minho opens one eye, slow and skeptical.

Jisung grins. “Kidding.”

Pause.

“Mostly.”

Minho exhales through his nose. He doesn’t say anything.

Just leans in. Just kisses him again.

Slower this time. Less like a beginning and more like a rhythm. Like something they’ve already done before in some other version of themselves. Like muscle memory.

They kiss until they’re smiling too much to keep going.

Minho presses his face into Jisung’s neck. Muffled: “You’re annoying.”

Jisung whispers, “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You save records for me and kiss me like a liar.”

Minho grumbles something unintelligible.

Waffle shifts at their feet with a small sigh.

They fall asleep like that—tangled at the edges, the quiet folding around them like the blanket, like a page turned softly instead of closed.

Outside, the streetlights hum low. Somewhere, the city forgets to be loud.

And inside, the warmth stays.

Some kisses are loud. This one wasn’t.

But they’d always known it was coming.

Because this—
this was inevitable.

༄.°

The apartment is quiet when it happens.

Outside, the sky has gone from gray to something softer—muted silver, the color of possibility. The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. The lamp, still yellow, casts a warm pool of light across the floor. Jisung stirs first.

He doesn’t know what wakes him. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s the kind of morning where your body just knows something is different. Important.

He untangles himself carefully, the blanket slipping down his shoulder. Blinks sleep from his eyes and pads to the window, still in Minho’s too-big socks. The glass is a little fogged from the inside, but he sees it anyway.

He almost misses it. Just a flicker—like a pause in the rain’s rhythm. Then it’s there. Small. Silent. Floating.

White.

Not frost. Not rain.

Snow.

Falling soft and steady in the glow of the streetlamps. It gathers on the railings and the edges of windows, clings to tree branches like it belongs there. The kind of snow that feels like it’s been waiting for the right moment.

Jisung stands there, staring, like he needs a second to believe it. Then he spins around and rushes back to the bed.

“Minho, Minho!!”

He shakes his shoulder—gently, insistently.

“Wake up! It’s snowing!”

Minho groans into the pillow, blinking blearily. His hair’s a mess, face warm and pillow-creased, voice low and scratchy.

“Jisungie,” he mutters, “yeah. It’s winter.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s not a revelation. His arm reaches out on autopilot, tugging Jisung down before he can protest. “Come here, hm?”

Jisung huffs a laugh, already curling back into the space beside him.

“I know,” he says, half-grinning, half-serious, “but it took a while.”

Minho hums against his hair, lips brushing his temple. Doesn’t say anything else.

Outside, the snow keeps falling—quiet, unhurried.

Inside, Jisung settles against Minho’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat like it’s a song he’s memorized. Minho’s hand finds its way into his hair again. The blanket is warm, and the light is still on.

They don’t need to talk about it. About what it means. About how long it took to get here.

The snow falls steady.

And Jisung doesn’t feel cold anymore.

It’s winter,
but the rain is not alone anymore