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It started quietly.
Like most things that end badly, there wasn’t one big fight or clear reason. Just small cracks that appeared one by one until everything began to fall apart.
Junseo noticed it first in the way Jiahao stopped staying the night. He used to fall asleep beside him, his breath warm against Junseo’s neck, his arm heavy across his chest. Lately, he would leave as soon as it was over. Sometimes he’d stay long enough for a shower. Sometimes he didn’t even bother.
He always said he was busy. Meetings, family dinners, phone calls from his fiancée that he took in the hallway, his voice soft and polite in a way it never was with Junseo.
Junseo tried not to care. He told himself he understood what they were. Friends with benefits. A quiet arrangement that began one drunk night and never quite stopped. He told himself he wasn’t supposed to want more.
But every time Jiahao kissed him, something inside him twisted tighter.
One night, while Jiahao was getting dressed, Junseo sat on the edge of the bed and asked, “Are you happy?”
Jiahao paused halfway through buttoning his shirt. “What kind of question is that?”
Junseo smiled weakly. “Just curious.”
Jiahao gave a quiet laugh and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. “You think too much.”
Junseo nodded, pretending to accept it. He watched him leave with that familiar ache sitting heavy in his chest. The room always felt too quiet after Jiahao walked out the door.
That night, Junseo lay awake long after the sound of the elevator faded. He stared at the ceiling, staring at the shadow of the curtains on the wall, and wondered what would happen if he ever said it out loud. The thought alone made his throat tighten.
He knew the answer. He knew it would ruin everything.
Then weeks later at Junseo's apartment.
The air between them was still heavy with heat. Junseo lay on his back, breathing hard, the sound of his heartbeat echoing faintly in his ears. Beside him, Jiahao sat up, shoulders tense, the light from the bedside lamp outlining his profile. It was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that felt dangerous.
Junseo turned his head slightly, eyes tracing the side of Jiahao’s face. He wanted to remember every detail. The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The way his lips still looked red from kissing. He wanted to keep all of it, because he knew he shouldn’t.
“Jiahao,” he said softly.
“Hm?” Jiahao didn’t look at him. His voice was low, tired, almost distracted.
Junseo hesitated, his chest tightening until it hurt. He told himself not to say it, not to ruin what little he had left, but the words came anyway.
“I love you.”
The moment froze. Jiahao’s hand, which had been resting lazily on Junseo’s stomach, went still. Then he pulled it back, slow and deliberate, as if the touch burned him.
“What did you just say?” His tone wasn’t angry. Just distant, almost cold.
Junseo forced a small smile. “You heard me.”
Jiahao looked at him for a long time. Then he stood up, grabbed his shirt from the floor, and started buttoning it without saying a word.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” he said finally.
“Why?” Junseo sat up, the sheet falling slightly from his shoulders. “I know what this is. I know you’re engaged. I just… needed to say it.”
“Then you should have kept it that way,” Jiahao replied, still not looking at him.
The words hit harder than they should have. Junseo felt his throat close up. “I didn’t mean to make things weird. I just—”
“You knew the rules,” Jiahao interrupted quietly. “You always knew.”
Junseo’s voice trembled. “I know. But I can’t stop how I feel.”
Jiahao let out a soft breath, almost like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Then maybe this was a mistake.”
He picked up his jacket and walked toward the door.
“Hao, wait.” Junseo reached out, but the only thing that answered him was the sound of the door slamming shut.
The room fell silent.
For a long time, Junseo didn’t move. The air still smelled like him. The warmth still lingered on the sheets. He sat there with his hands gripping the blanket, waiting for footsteps to come back. None did.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it with shaking hands.
We’re over.
Two words. That was all it took.
Something inside him cracked. There was a ringing in his ears, and the world suddenly felt far away. He pressed his hand to his chest, trying to calm his breathing, but the pain only grew stronger. He wanted to scream, but nothing came out.
He sat there until the sun began to rise, the light creeping slowly through the curtains. The city outside was waking up, but Junseo couldn’t. He was still trapped in that moment, still waiting for the sound of a key turning in the door, still hoping that maybe Jiahao would change his mind.
He never did.
Days passed, then weeks. The silence between them stretched until it became unbearable. Junseo stopped replying to friends. He avoided places they used to go together. He didn’t eat much. His body started to feel strange, heavier, tired. At first, he blamed it on the stress, on the sleepless nights, but the truth revealed itself quietly, in a clinic room with cold white lights.
The doctor’s voice was gentle, but Junseo barely heard a word. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his stomach, his breath catching in disbelief.
He walked home slowly that day. The world around him was bright, but he felt like he was underwater. When he finally closed the door behind him, he sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, and stayed there for hours.
He didn’t cry right away. He just sat in silence, one hand over his stomach, as the truth sank in piece by piece.
When the tears came, they didn’t stop.
He whispered Jiahao’s name until his voice broke, but there was no answer.
Months passed. The quiet became his companion.
He learned to smile again, though it didn’t always reach his eyes. He learned how to take care of something fragile. And when the baby came, small and warm and perfect, he cried until he couldn’t anymore.
He whispered her name softly into the dark. Hanaeul.
His sky.
2 years later
The hospital was quiet that morning, sunlight filtering through the glass walls. Jiahao sat in the waiting room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone while his wife filled out paperwork at the counter. She was speaking to the nurse with a polite smile, her voice steady, practiced. It was the kind of marriage that looked perfect from far away but felt hollow up close.
He sighed and leaned back against the chair, eyes unfocused. It had been years, but sometimes, when the world fell quiet, he still thought about that night. He told himself it meant nothing, that he’d made the right choice. But some memories refused to fade.
A small figure suddenly ran past him, too fast to stop. The child bumped into his knee with a soft thud and fell back on the floor with a little “ow.”
Jiahao blinked in surprise and quickly crouched down. “Hey, are you okay?”
The child rubbed her forehead and looked up. She had big eyes and messy hair that framed her small face. There was something oddly familiar about her.
Before she could answer, a voice called out from down the hall, warm and slightly breathless.
“Kim Hanaeul!”
The sound froze him in place.
He turned slowly toward it.
Junseo stood there, a few meters away, dressed in pale blue sweaters. His hair was a little longer now, his face thinner, but his eyes were still the same. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Junseo’s gaze flickered to the child, then back to Jiahao. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
The little girl tugged at Junseo’s sleeve. “Appa, I said sorry already.”
Something in Jiahao’s chest twisted.
Appa.
He swallowed hard, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Junseo crouched to the child’s level and gently brushed her hair from her face.
“It’s okay, Hanaeul. Say sorry properly, hmm?”
The little girl turned toward Jiahao and bowed slightly. “Sorry, mister.”
Jiahao shook his head quickly. “It’s alright.” His voice came out quieter than he expected.
Junseo straightened and took her hand. “Come on. We’re late. Doctor’s waiting for your check-up.”
The child nodded and clung to his hand.
Junseo looked at Jiahao one last time. His eyes were calm now, unreadable, as if whatever had broken inside him years ago had already healed in a way that no one could touch anymore.
Jiahao wanted to say something. He didn’t even know what. But Junseo turned first, walking away with the little girl trotting beside him.
Their figures disappeared around the corner.
Jiahao stayed there, still crouched, staring at the spot where they’d been. The noise of the hospital faded around him, replaced by the slow, heavy pounding of his heart.
He should have felt nothing. He told himself he didn’t care. But as the silence returned, he realized his chest hurt again, just like it did that night.
Maybe it never stopped.
He sat there for a long time, staring at his hands. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something soft he couldn’t name.
And as the sound of distant footsteps faded, he finally understood.
He wasn’t the one who had been left behind.
He was the one who walked away.
That night, Junseo sat beside Hanaeul’s bed. The lamp cast a warm glow over her small face. She was asleep, one hand clutching the edge of his shirt.
He brushed her hair gently from her forehead and whispered, “Sleep well, my baby.”
She stirred, mumbled something, then fell still again.
Junseo sat there in the quiet, his thoughts heavy but calm. He had seen him again. The man who once made his world fall apart. The man who would never know.
He exhaled slowly. For a moment, the memory of Jiahao’s eyes in that hallway returned...the surprise, the guilt, the unspoken things hanging in the air.
He turned off the lamp and sat in the dark, listening to the soft breathing beside him.
“It’s okay now,” he said quietly.
Maybe one day it would be true.