Archive of Our Own

The crowd was roaring in unison.
Park Sunghoon stood at the start gate and let the sound wash over him.

Flags blurred into color. White snow burned bright under the winter sun. He scanned the stands once, because he knew where to look.

Jake was there.

Not where athletes’ families stood. Not where officials clustered. Jake stood among the crowd, gripping a South Korean flag with both hands, knuckles pale from the cold. His smile was wide and proud 

Jake’s mouth moved.

Please take care.

Sunghoon couldn’t hear him. The wind stole everything up here. But Jake had always been like that, never loud and dramatic. Sunghoon smiled back and lifted his chin.

“I will.”

The official tapped his shoulder. Thirty seconds.

Sunghoon turned forward.

The downhill course fell away beneath him is beautiful and a threat at the same time.

Downhill was about surrendering to the mountain, about trusting that years of training, thousands of runs, and a body honed for violence could carry him through at speeds no human should welcome. There were no tight gates like slalom, no rhythm to fall back on. 

One mistake here didn’t cost time. It costs everything.

He planted his poles, slid his skis into position, and lowered into his tuck. The world narrowed to white and blue, to the sharp smell of ice and steel. Somewhere far below, Jake disappeared from view.

Five.

Sunghoon exhaled. Look at the crowd again. Looking for Jake.

Four.

He thought, of how they’d met, two kids on the same cold slope years ago, Jake skiing so badly and laughing through every fall, Sunghoon already too serious for his age. Funny how that laughter had followed him all the way here.

Three.

Back in the crowd, he knew Jake was nervously watching. Always there. 

Two.

He let go of fear. He always did. Then he thought of his goal. The gold medal. His promises.

One.

The gate snapped open.

Sunghoon pushed.

The mountain grabbed him instantly. Speed slammed into his legs, his spine, his breath. Wind screamed past his helmet as he dropped into the first stretch, skis humming against ice-hard snow. He stayed low, perfectly still, body cutting air like a blade.

He flew.

Turns came wide and blind, drops unfolding only when he was already committed. The course rose and fell violently, compressions crushing his legs before releasing him again. He landed clean, absorbed the impact, adjusted without thinking. It was a memory. An instinct.

Halfway down, his speed climbed higher.

Too high.

The surface changed without warning. The snow hardened into something closer to glass, scraped thin by previous racers. His skis chattered. Just once. Just enough.

Sunghoon corrected too late.

The line he’d memorized broke apart beneath him. A fraction of hesitation at this speed was betrayal. His edge caught. The world tilted.

The impact was brutal.

Sound vanished. Light fractured. His body hit the slope and bounced, spun, slammed again. His helmet struck ice. The sky flipped to white to black in violent flashes.

The last thing Sunghoon saw was the blur of the crowd and Jake.

Jake’s face had lost all color.

Then there was nothing.

JAKE

Noise rushed back in pieces. Shouting. Whistles. Skis scraping. Someone yelling for medics.

Jake was already running.

He didn’t remember climbing the barrier. Didn’t remember the cold biting through his shoes. He only knew Sunghoon was still, twisted unnaturally against the slope, red staining the snow like spilled paint.

“Sunghoon—”

Officials grabbed the skier. A manager shouted his name. Medics skidded in, efficient and fast, surrounding the body Jake couldn’t reach. Oxygen masks. Neck brace. Hands everywhere.

Jake dropped to his knees anyway.

The snow was hard beneath him. Unforgiving.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

As they lifted him onto the stretcher, Jake caught one last glimpse of his face, eyes closed, expression blank, like someone who had stepped out of himself too suddenly.

Jake pressed his hands into the snow and prayed for Sunghoon  to wake up.

(Flashback - 5 years ago)

Jake met him before he ever knew his name.

Winter in Sapporo always felt familiar. His family came every year, if not here, then Osaka, but Hokkaido was his favorite. The onsen, the snow-covered streets, the way the cold made everything slow down. This trip mattered more than most, though.

His hyung and uncle were here.

College usually kept his brother busy, pulled away by deadlines and distance, but for once they were together again, walking side by side through crunching snow. Jake, who had grown up in a warm, close family, knew how rare moments like this were. He treasured them instinctively.

He had just graduated senior high.
Australia had been his whole life, friends, skateparks, sunlight, freedom. But his family was moving back to South Korea, their home country, and when his mother asked him to come with them, he couldn’t say no. He wasn’t ready to leave Australia behind, but he wasn’t ready to stay alone either.

So he agreed, carrying the weight silently.

This trip was meant to be a pause before everything changed.

That morning, Jake stood with a snowboard tucked under his arm, fully geared up, his brother beside him. Snowboarding had always made sense to him, close enough to skateboarding, close enough to the life he’d lived in Australia. Skiing, on the other hand, had always felt distant. Too fast. Too strict.

As they checked the area, Jake noticed a section of the slope cordoned off from the rest. The terrain looked steeper, harsher. Not meant for tourists.

“Athletes practice there,” his uncle said casually. “Private course.”

Jake’s gaze lingered anyway.

A single skier was making his way to the start.

At first, Jake only noticed the speed. Then the control.

The skier pushed off, dropping into the course with effortless precision. His movements were smooth, almost unreal, skis carving clean lines into the snow. When he launched into the air, it wasn’t reckless, it was practiced and intentional. For a moment, he seemed suspended, weightless against the white sky.

Jake stood still, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

He wasn’t familiar with skiing, but he could recognize dedication when he saw it. Whatever it took to move like that, discipline, pain, years of practice, this man had paid the price.

The skier slowed as he reached the bottom of the run, stopping not far from where Jake stood watching. Snow scattered lightly around his boots. He adjusted his gloves, then reached up and removed his helmet and goggles.

And looked straight at Jake.

Jake didn’t move.

Their eyes met, and something tight coiled in his chest. He wasn’t sure why, only that the moment felt heavier than it should have. Too direct. Too sudden.

“Jake, hurry up.”

His hyung’s voice cut through the cold.

The spell broke. Jake startled, turning too fast, nearly stumbling as he tried to move—run—toward his brother. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

His heart was pounding as if he had done something wrong.

He didn’t know the skier’s name.
He didn’t know he was an athlete training for something far bigger.
He didn’t know that this brief glance would follow him across years and countries.

All Jake knew was that he had seen someone extraordinary and somehow, without trying to, he had remembered him.

The next morning it was cold. While the rest of the family slept, Jake slipped out into the early light, the sun barely cresting the snow-dusted peaks. He hadn’t planned on anything serious, just some snowboarding, a few carefree runs before breakfast.

The slopes were almost empty, and the stillness made the air feel electric. As he walked past the open rental shop, rows of skis caught his eye. They were arranged like little rainbows, colors gleaming against the white snow. He paused. Blue. His favorite color.

Why not try it? he thought. Balancing wasn’t new, snowboarding and skateboarding had taught him that much. And maybe, maybe skiing could be fun, too.

He rented a pair of skis and poles, both bright blue. Simple, safe, and familiar. He laughed at himself. What was he thinking? It was just snowboarding he knew.

He stepped onto the slope, trying to remember the motions. Push, glide, balance. Glide, balance, push.

It was harder than he thought.

His legs wobbled, skis sliding apart in different directions. The poles didn’t help as much as he hoped. He tried turning. He tried stopping. He tried everything. Eventually, gravity won. He fell, landing butt-first in the snow.

Before he could even groan, a strong hand shot out.

“Here,” said a calm, even voice.

Jake blinked. The hand was firm.. He grasped it without thinking.

When he looked up, a skier was standing there, fully geared, helmet and goggles still on. Jake mumbled a quick, nervous “Thanks,” unsure what else to say.

The skier’s voice came in clear Korean

“First time skiing?”

Jake froze. He speaks Korean? But then he nodded, a little dumbly.

“Yes.”

The skier nodded back. “I saw you snowboarding yesterday. Skiing and snowboarding are different, but the balance, the weight shifts, the edges, they’re similar. You can use some of what you already know.”

Jake squinted, trying to follow. The explanation sounded like another language, but the skier laughed lightly.

Then the goggles came off.

Jake stopped breathing.

It was him. The skier from yesterday, the one flying through the course. 

“Park Sunghoon,” the man said, extending a hand.

Jake’s fingers met his firmly, a little delayed.

“Sim Jaeyun,” Jake said. “But you can call me Jake.”

Sunghoon smiled. Calm, warm, and effortless. “Yeah, I heard your brother call your name yesterday.”

Jake felt something stir inside him, a strange flutter. He realized, suddenly, that he had been staring. The cold bit into him, but it wasn’t just the snow, it was also because of Sunghoon’s presence. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, you were talking about the points of snowboarding and skiing?”

Sunghoon smiled again, and Jake felt himself melt a little. “Right,” he said. Then he crouched slightly and began to explain again, slower this time, pointing to the skis and poles. He showed how to shift weight, bend knees, keep edges engaged, and how to recover from a wobble without falling.

Jake listened, nodded, tried, and failed spectacularly. Skis crossed. Poles flailed. Snow flew in every direction.

“Here,” Sunghoon said, steadying Jake’s shoulder. “Try again. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Run after run, fall after fall, Jake’s confidence grew, because Sunghoon was always there. Patient, calm, and encouraging. Like a personal trainer who somehow made every correction feel effortless.

By mid-morning, Jake had done a full, unbroken run on his own. His heart was pounding, cheeks burning from cold and triumph. He threw his arms up. “I did it!”

Sunghoon smiled, just faintly, nodding. “Good. That’s the first of many.”

Jake laughed, snow melting from his hair and gloves. Somehow, amidst the cold, the snow, the slipping and falling, the frustration and triumph, he was happy. Really happy.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew, this wasn’t just skiing.

It was the start of something else for him.

(Present) 

Jake stayed at Sunghoon’s bedside day after day, praying with all the desperation he could summon. Every god he had ever believed in, every prayer he’d whispered in church with his family, he sent up now, “Please, just wake up.”

Sunghoon’s mother was there constantly, but when she saw Jake one afternoon, she pulled him into her arms, seeking the comfort of the most familiar person in the room. Jake hugged her back, steadying himself against the wave of worry and relief, knowing that their families, and their relationship, had been quietly known and accepted, protected from the press and public judgment. Two years as best friends, three years officially together and they had shared almost six years of each other’s lives. And now, seeing Sunghoon lying unconscious, every memory of those years felt fragile.

Outside, the media waited. Cameras were aimed at the hospital doors. Reporters whispered into microphones. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting for Sunghoon to wake.

And then, on the fifth day, it happened.

His eyelids fluttered. His breath returned in steady rhythm.

Jake couldn’t stop crying. Every sob was thankfulness and terror intertwined, Sunghoon had faced accidents before, but never like this. A coma. Five days of nothing. Losing him, even for this brief time, had been unthinkable.

When Sunghoon was cleared to receive visitors, Jake waited. The last. Letting Sunghoon’s mother, the manager, and everyone else see him first. And then he stepped inside.

The moment Sunghoon’s eyes found him and a small smile tugged at his lips, Jake felt all his fears vanish. Without thinking, he ran to his side and took his hand, clutching it as tears streamed freely.

“Hey, Jake,” Sunghoon said, voice soft but teasing. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not dead.”

Jake froze.

Sunghoon had called him “Jake,” not “Jaeyun”, the name Sunghoon only ever used when they were alone. Usually, it meant something private, something just theirs.

But they were alone now.

The thought flickered, sharp and brief, before Jake pushed it down. Maybe Sunghoon was just being careful. 

“Don’t do that again,” Jake choked out.

Sunghoon laughed, weak but genuine. “Yah, what do you mean don’t? Of course, it’s my sport. We cannot avoid—”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Jake snapped playfully, reaching to punch him.

“You cannot hit someone who’s injured,” Sunghoon cut in, laughing again.

Jake just let himself cry more, relief spilling out in helpless bursts.

“Yah, Jake, why are you crying again?” Sunghoon asked.

Jake wiped his eyes, but then paused, voice catching. “Okay why do you keep calling me Jake, we’re alone?”

Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows. “Because that’s your name? Should I call you Jaeyunie? I thought that was only for your mom.”

“Stop joking,” Jake muttered, exasperated.

“Okay, why are you getting angry at your own name? It’s your name, Jake,” Sunghoon said, finally serious, but still with that warmth.

Jake’s heart raced too fast. He couldn’t speak.

He took a shaky breath. “Can you…can you remember me?”

Sunghoon scoffed. “What type of question is that? Of course I do. You’re my best friend.”

Jake furrowed his brow, heartbeat hammering. “And…?”

Sunghoon blinked, then blinked again, shaking his head like he was trying to grab something out of the fog. “We’re best friends, living in a two-bedroom apartment near the campus. And wait… oh my God, Sohyun, I’m dating Sohyun…”

Jake froze. That was three years ago.

“No, sorry,” Sunghoon corrected himself. “We broke up, me and Sohyun, and…”

“Shit, Jake, I can’t remember after that,” he said.

Jake felt a wave of disbelief. Three years, all of it, lost. All the memories of them together, of the apartment they shared, the nights they had spent in the spare room sleeping side by side, gone.

The funny, confusing thing was that Sunghoon could recall other memories clearly, his sister getting engaged, his father opening a restaurant, but not them. Not Jake.

Sunghoon tried, brows knitted, lips pressed together. Panic rose in his chest. Jake had to call nurses and doctors in, struggling to calm him down. Even Sunghoon, usually so controlled, felt weighed down by the fog of his own mind.

“Can’t you remember?” Jake asked again, voice trembling.

“I… I’m trying,” Sunghoon said, exhaling shakily. “I just… I can’t.”

Jake’s hands shook as he took Sunghoon’s, holding them tightly, willing him to reach through the haze. How do you explain three years of life together to someone who suddenly doesn’t remember? Jake felt a sharp twist in his chest. Sunghoon could remember the person, could remember them as friends, could remember small details, like Jake’s name, his habits, the way he laughed, but the memories of them as a couple, the life they built together, their home, the nights they shared, are all gone. As if their time together stopped, 3 years ago. 

Sunghoon’s eyes darted, trying to anchor himself. Each attempt left him frustrated, his panic rising in small, dangerous waves. Jake could only be patient, calling out to the nurses, breathing slowly, grounding him, while silently praying that somewhere in the fog, some part of him would still recognize Jake.

Because that’s all that mattered.

Days passed.

Sunghoon remained awake, alert, joking, even laughing at times, but the memories Jake had hoped would come back did not. The intimate moments they had shared, the apartment they had lived in together, the nights and small rituals of their life as a couple, all of it was gone.

The doctor sat with them one afternoon, calm but serious. “This is selective retrograde amnesia,” he explained. “Sunghoon’s brain has retained older, well-consolidated memories. But the emotionally complex memories, the ones tied to recent intense experiences, the happy memories that he has been thinking about always, probably like those he shared with Jake, are inaccessible right now. They may or may never fully return, we can never tell, only time can.”

Jake’s chest tightened.

Even Sunghoon’s mother, usually so composed, let tears slip down her cheeks. She reached for Jake’s hand, gripping it as if to share the weight of his grief. “He may never remember you the way he did,” the doctor sadly added.

Jake didn’t know how to respond. Why only that memory, he wondered silently. Why only him? Why had the life they had built together had been erased while everything else remained? The question burned in his chest, unanswered, unfair.

The doctor leaned forward. “Please do not push him. Forcing him to remember, even gently, can be emotionally and physically harmful. His recovery depends on reducing stress and letting the brain heal at its own pace.”

Jake nodded slowly, though his heart sank. He had wanted to rebuild their life with Sunghoon immediately, to remind him, to reclaim what had been lost. But the doctor was right. Pushing now would only hurt him further.

Outside the hospital room, Sunghoon’s mother wiped her tears, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Jake I know this hurts. I know you want him to remember. I know how much he means to you. But you cannot push him. Not yet. Please just give him time. Protect him.”

Jake looked down, hands trembling. The cold wind outside did nothing to cool the fire of sorrow in his chest. He felt hollow, heavy, like a part of his life had been stolen and no amount of begging could retrieve it.

“I… I just…” he whispered, voice cracking. “It hurts, because I don’t know if he ever will. And it’s only me, only us, that he doesn’t remember. I feel… powerless.”

Sunghoon’s mother placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her own eyes red. “I know, Jake. I see him in you. I feel it too. But it is for him. For his recovery. He needs you to be strong, I need you to be strong..I know he will remember you”

Jake swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, to cry more, to beg for a miracle, but he didn’t, he can’t. He nodded, slowly, and reluctantly, forcing himself to accept it.

For Sunghoon.

For the man he loved.

Jake stayed, even though it hurt.

Sunghoon’s phone, full of their photos, videos, and shared memories, had been kept by Jake after the accident. He and Sunghoon’s mother agreed to say it was lost, to spare Sunghoon the frustration, the pain of seeing the life he no longer remembered. Still, nothing changed, Sunghoon could not recall the moments they shared. Whenever he tried, a sharp headache would strike, a warning from his brain not to push. For now, that was all Jake could be, Sunghoon’s friend.

It was Jake’s last day in the hospital. Sunghoon would be discharged soon, and Jake had to return to their apartment, removing all traces of the life they had built together, so that Sunghoon could heal without constant reminders of memories he could no longer reach.

“Do you want some fresh air?” Jake asked gently.

Sunghoon’s eyes lit up. “Yes, please.”

He sat in the wheelchair as Jake pushed him toward the balcony. Night had fallen. Stars glittered overhead, cold and distant, but breathtaking.

“Do you remember when we first met each other?” Jake asked quietly.

Sunghoon laughed, a warm sound that eased the ache in Jake’s chest. “Yeah. The first time I saw you, you looked at me like I was your idol or someone important.”

Jake chuckled. “No, I didn’t. I just thought you were so cool. Flying like that in the air.”

Sunghoon smiled. “And then I saw you trying to ski, and I realized, you were envious of how good I was.”

Jake punched him lightly, jokingly. “Maybe I was. But that made us friends.”

“Really, though, after I taught you skiing, you asked if I wanted ice cream. Who does that in winter, surrounded by snow?”

Jake buried his face in his hands, embarrassed. “Please spare me. I don’t know why I said that.”

(Flashback - 5 years ago)

Sunghoon laughed louder. “Ice cream?”

Jake wanted to disappear into the snow. Of course he had. Who in their right mind offered ice cream as payment for tutoring someone in skiing?

“Sorry, in Australia, I usually give ice cream. It’s a tropical country—”

“I’m just kidding, Jake. You don’t have to give me anything. Teaching you was a breath of fresh air. Really. You’re almost my age, not a kid.”

“What does that even mean? And I can be younger than you, though,” Jake sulked.

Sunghoon laughed. “Why, how old are you?”

“19,” Jake said.

“I’m 19 too. Actually, I just turned 19 last December 8,” Sunghoon said.

Jake gasped. “I just turned 19 last November 15!”

Sunghoon smirked. “See? I’m younger than you.”

“What? By… 23 days? That’s not even a month,” Jake said, flustered.

Sunghoon grinned. “Alright, Jake hyung, you don’t have to give me ice cream. Just be my friend,” he said jokingly.

“I can’t be friends with someone younger than me,” Jake muttered, walking ahead sulkily.

“I’m just kidding, Jake. Yah, be my friend. And let’s be friends in Korea too,” Sunghoon called back.

Jake looked over his shoulder at Sunghoon’s smile. “Okay,” he said.

And that’s how their friendship truly began. They exchanged numbers, met at college in South Korea, and eventually decided to share an apartment near campus, an arrangement that laid the foundation for years of friendship, trust, and later, love.

(Present)

“Kind of funny, how we met,” Sunghoon said softly.

Jake could only nod.

“I’ll be going home today,” Jake said, voice tight.

Sunghoon looked at him. “I told you, you can always go home. You don’t have to stay here all the time.”

Jake felt a pang of sorrow. Did Sunghoon really mean it, was he getting tired of him?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sunghoon teased, tsking. “I’m not going to die, Jake.”

Jake wanted to cry, to beg him to remember the life they had lost, but he held back. There are no forcing memories now. Instead, they returned to Sunghoon’s room and said goodbye.

Sunghoon’s mother hugged Jake, gently, reassuringly, and he pressed his face to her shoulder, grateful for her understanding, for her care.

Even though it hurt, he stayed strong.

Because for now, being there for Sunghoon as a friend was all that mattered.

That night, Jake asked Jungwon and Jay to come over to his apartment. Once inside, he explained everything that had happened with Sunghoon, the coma, the selective amnesia, the memories that were gone.

Jay couldn’t believe it. “Maybe he’s just pranking you,” he said half-jokingly.

Jake let out a hollow sigh. “If only that were the case,” he murmured. “Seeing him struggle, seeing him in pain trying to remember, I wish I hadn’t opened the topic.”

Then, without another word, he started moving Sunghoon’s things in his room. Their room.

Jungwon and Jay understood immediately. No one spoke as they began to separate their lives. Clothes, shoes, socks, books, pens, the small shared things that once felt so intimate, all were now divided into two sides.

Jake reached for the photos. Pictures of them together, smiling, laughing, living a life that Sunghoon could no longer remember. He hesitated, then gently placed them in a box. Things he never thought he’d hide from the world. How cruel life could be.

The apartment gradually returned to the way it had been three years ago, when they were still just friends.

And then Jake saw it.

Jungwon held the silver medal Sunghoon had won in his first competition as a professional skier. He had quietly retrieved it and was putting it back with Sunghoon’s things.

“Hyung…” Jungwon’s voice trembled slightly.

Jake couldn’t take it anymore. He fell to his knees and cried like a child, the sorrow and heartbreak he had been holding in for so long finally pouring out in waves. He clutched the medal to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.

(Flashback - 3 years ago)

Sunghoon had won the silver medal, and the crowd erupted in cheers. But instead of celebrating with strangers, he ran straight into the audience where his family, and Jake were standing.

He hugged them all one by one, but when he hugged Jake, it was tighter than anything Jake had ever felt. That night, when Sunghoon came home, he kissed Jake for the first time, pouring out every emotion he had held back.

“I love you,” Sunghoon whispered.

Jake, who had been in love with Sunghoon from the very first moment he saw him, cried too, tears of relief, joy, and reciprocated love.

The medal, Jake learned, was given to him by Sunghoon. “It’s to show how much I love you and skiing. Both,” Sunghoon had said.

Jake teased, “What if you win gold next time?”

Sunghoon thought for a moment. “Then, that’s when we’ll get married.”

“And if you didn’t?” Jake asked, grinning through his tears.

Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows, mock-serious. “What? You don’t think I’d ever win gold?”

Jake laughed and hugged him tightly. “I’m just kidding. I know you can do it. Don’t forget, I’m your number one fan.”

Sunghoon smiled and kissed him again. “Even if I never win gold, I’d still marry you. That’s for sure.”

Jake nodded, crying all over again, feeling the weight of that promise and love.

(Present)

Jay and Jungwon wrapped their arms around Jake, holding him as he sobbed, understanding without words the depth of his pain.

“Let me keep this, please,” Jake whispered, clutching the medal to his chest, crying harder.

By the end of the night, the apartment looked as it had when they first moved in together, without a trace of the life they had shared as a couple.

Jake looked around the room, empty and familiar, and let himself cry again, knowing that while Sunghoon would heal physically, the memories of them, the life they had built together, were still gone.

Jake welcomed Sunghoon home as if nothing was wrong.
As if nothing had been forgotten.

Jay and Jungwon were already there when Sunghoon arrived, standing near the doorway, watching as Jake helped him inside. Sunghoon had decided to return to the apartment once he was fully discharged, close enough to the nearest hospital for rehab, familiar enough to restart his training slowly.

Sunghoon looked around the apartment, eyes tracing the walls, the furniture, the quiet space.

“This place, it’s exactly how it was three years ago,” he said.

Jake nodded and offered a small smile.
“Yeah. Not much has changed.”

That wasn’t entirely true.
Nothing had changed, but everything had.

Sunghoon was still Sunghoon. The same voice, the same laugh, the same presence that filled the room so naturally. But this Sunghoon didn’t love him. This Sunghoon didn’t remember loving him. And now that he was back, Jake had to live with that truth every day.

“Jay, Won!” Sunghoon greeted them brightly when he finally noticed them.

Jay grinned. “Do you know me?”

Sunghoon laughed. “Of course, you idiot. And I know you like Won,” he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

Jay burst out laughing. “Dude, Jungwon and I are dating. Why are you whispering?”

Sunghoon blinked at them. “Oh. Right.” Then, sheepishly, “I… don’t remember.”

Jay chuckled and waved it off. “Jake even helped us get together. Remember when Jungwon came here running while you guys were—” he paused, thinking, “—I think celebrating your anniversary.”

The room went still.

“Anniversary?” Sunghoon repeated, glancing between them.

Jake laughed too quickly, too loudly. “No, like, friendship anniversary. We do that,” he said, shooting Jay a sharp look.

Jay winced, immediately apologetic.

Sunghoon visibly relaxed. “Oh. I thought you meant our anniversary.” He laughed awkwardly, then froze. “I mean—uh—I don’t swing that way.”

The words hit Jake like ice water.

“I mean no offense,” Sunghoon rushed to add, looking at Jay and Jungwon. “I still support you guys.”

Jake couldn’t breathe.

Jungwon’s hand was suddenly on his arm, warm and grounding. “Hyung,” Jungwon whispered, worried, flooding his voice.

I don’t swing that way.

Jake felt his chest tighten, his vision blur.

Jay’s smile dropped instantly. “Shut up, man. For once,” he snapped, louder than intended.

Sunghoon frowned, confused. “Are you okay, Jake? You look pale.” He took a step closer.

Jake stepped back.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, forcing the words out. “I just—need to go to the bathroom.”

And before anyone could stop him, he turned and fled.

Inside the bathroom, Jake locked the door, pressing his hand to his mouth as his body shook.

He cried.

Quietly at first. Then harder.

Because the man he loved was standing just a few steps away, alive, breathing, smiling and yet somehow further than he had ever been.

Months later, life settled into something that almost resembled normal.

Sunghoon returned to training, his body steadily recovering, his discipline as sharp as ever. Jake went back to programming, burying himself in lines of code during the day and exhaustion at night. From the outside, everything looked fine.

Except Sunghoon’s memories of Jake, of them, never came back.

One evening, Jay finally snapped.

“This isn’t fair,” he said, voice tight. “We can’t keep watching you do this every day, hurting alone, while he doesn’t even know.”

They fought. Quiet at first, then louder. Jay said Sunghoon deserved the truth. That hiding everything was cruel. That Jungwon and he couldn’t take it anymore.

Jake begged.

“Please don’t tell him,” Jake said, voice breaking. “The competition is coming up. You know how important this is for him, mentally and physically. If it messes with his head now—”

Jay clenched his jaw, defeated. “You’re right,” he said finally. 

Jungwon hugged Jake afterward, tight and warm. “We’re here,” he whispered. “Whenever you need us.”

Jake smiled weakly. “I’m getting used to this already.”

Jungwon didn’t smile back. He just looked sad.

One Friday night, Sunghoon asked casually, “Do you want to have a movie night?”

It was something they used to do, back when they were just friends. And later, when they were more than that.

Jake smiled, hope flickering in his chest despite himself. “Sure.”

“You can choose.” Sunghoon said. 

Of course, Jake chose Pretty Woman. An old film of Julia Roberts. They love watching old films. 

Halfway through the movie, Sunghoon wasn’t watching anymore. He sat beside Jake, phone glowing in his hands, smiling softly as he typed.

Jake’s chest tightened.

“I’m going to sleep,” Jake said quietly. “We can finish it next time.”

Sunghoon startled. “Sorry. I’ll focus.” And he did put the phone down, eyes on the screen.

But Jake couldn’t focus anymore.

Who is he texting?
Did he meet someone?
What about me?

The fear sat heavy in his stomach.

“Are you seeing someone?” Jake asked softly, the movie still playing.

“Hm?” Sunghoon turned to him.

“Are you…seeing someone right now?”

Jake hated how vulnerable his voice sounded.

Sunghoon smiled. “No.”

Jake’s heart ached. He knew that smile. Sunghoon always smiled like that when he was hiding something.

Jake didn’t push. “Okay.”

“What about you?” Sunghoon asked.

Jake froze. “No.”

Sunghoon hesitated. “Those years I can’t remember… Did I date someone? Or did you?”

Jake smiled faintly. “No and no.”

Sunghoon bit his lip. “Really?”

Jake nodded.

“You didn’t date anyone at all?”

Jake exhaled slowly. “I met someone,” he said. “But that’s it.”

“What happened?”

“We didn’t work out.”

“Do I know them?”

Jake thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said tiredly.. “I’m not sure if you remember.”

(Flashback - Three years ago)

Jung Sungchan.

He was the kind of person everyone noticed, tall, handsome, athletic. A campus crush. And Sungchan liked Jake. Everyone knew.

But Jake’s heart had already been taken, for two years now, by his best friend.

Sunghoon met Sungchan outside their apartment once, right around the time Sunghoon was dating Sohyun. Jake, heartbroken and reckless, tried to entertain the idea of someone else.

It was a Friday movie night.

Jake invited Sungchan.

It turned into their worst fight.

Sunghoon demanded to know why Sungchan was there. Jake snapped back, why could Sunghoon invite Sohyun but Jake couldn’t invite anyone? Words spilled. Jealousy surfaced. Pain cracked open.

Sunghoon told Jake never to do that again.

Jake asked why.

And somewhere in that argument, raw and honest, Sunghoon realized he loved Jake.

He broke up with Sohyun soon after.

They promised no one else during movie nights. Ever.

Jake told Sungchan to stop courting him after.

(Present)

When the movie ended, Sunghoon stretched. “We should invite Jay and Jungwon sometime. I miss them.”

Jake nodded. “I’ll tell them.”

Sunghoon smiled, checked his phone again.

“Good Night” Sunghoon said and Jake answered “mmm” and he stayed in the living room, staring at the television as the credits rolled.

Jake loves Sunghoon.

So he knew.

He knew something was happening.

And for the first time since the accident, Jake realized the scariest possibility wasn’t that Sunghoon would never remember, it was that Sunghoon might move on.

With Sunghoon’s increasingly busy schedule, the apartment grew colder.

He had always trained like this, long hours, relentless discipline, but now it felt different. Worse. They were back to being just friends, like when everything had only just begun. Seeing Sunghoon come home late, tired but fulfilled, made Jake feel two things at once, happiness, because Sunghoon was doing well and pain, because Sunghoon was happy without him.

Jake was left behind, quietly miserable.

Drinks with Jay and Jungwon brought back too many memories. Nights like this used to be filled with laughter, two couples, shared jokes, spontaneous trips out of the city, even out of the country. Everything had been warm then. Full.

Now it was different.

The love Sunghoon once had for Jake couldn’t be seen anymore. Couldn’t be felt. Like it had never existed at all.

Jake knew what was coming before Sunghoon said it.
He had been afraid of it, not because he hadn’t noticed the signs, but because hearing it from Sunghoon himself would make it real.

“You guys know Yuna?” Sunghoon asked casually.

Jay looked up immediately. “The ice skater?”

Sunghoon smiled.

Everyone turned to him.

Everyone, except Jake.

“We’re dating,” Sunghoon continued. “I’m dating Lim Yuna.”

The air shifted.

Jay stood up abruptly. “Are you insane?”

Sunghoon stood too, startled. “What? Why are you getting angry?”

Jake and Jungwon moved at the same time, Jake grabbing Sunghoon’s arm, Jungwon holding Jay back before things could escalate.

“Jay, please,” Jake whispered.

Jay looked at him, eyes full of pain. “Jake, please.”

Jake shook his head.

Sunghoon frowned, looking between them. “What’s happening? Are you guys seeing Yuna?” He turned to Jake. “You, Jake?”

That was it.

Jake let go of Sunghoon and punched his chest, weak, restrained, more heartbreak than anger.

“No, I don't," Jake said softly. “Let’s just rest. It’s been a long day.”
Then, forcing a smile that nearly broke him, “Congratulations, Sunghoon.”

Jay shoved Sunghoon aside and stormed out. Jungwon hesitated only a second before running after him.

Sunghoon was left standing there.

Alone.

He watched Jake’s retreating figure, the sadness in his eyes burning into him.

Jake knew that moving on was the only thing left for him to do.

Sunghoon’s memories might come back one day, maybe months, maybe years, but Jake understood now that even if they did, nothing would truly change. Sunghoon had already fallen for someone else. The place Jake once held was no longer waiting to be reclaimed.

When the amnesia first happened, Jake had been full of hope. Hope that memories will return. Hope that they will return.

Now, he didn’t hope for anything like that anymore.

All he wished for was a safe competition. A successful run. A future where Sunghoon would be happy, even if Jake could only watch from the background, silently cheering, quietly loving.

Months later, Sunghoon told him he was moving out.

Jake hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

“I found a place closer to the training site,” Sunghoon said casually. “And it’s near Yuna’s place too.”

Jake nodded. “That’s good.”

And that was it. No argument. No fight. No plea.
He had nothing left to fight for.

One morning, Sunghoon came to retrieve his things with his sister and her fiancé. The apartment felt hollow as boxes were carried out, as pieces of Sunghoon’s life disappeared one by one.

When Yeji saw Jake, she broke.

She pulled him into a tight hug, crying openly. Jake knew what those tears meant. Yeji had been one of the first to support them, one of the few who had pushed Sunghoon toward Jake, who had seen everything, every sacrifice, every choice Jake made for her brother.

“I’m sorry,” Yeji kept saying. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake hugged her back. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly. “And don’t forget me.”

That only made her cry harder.

“Can you just be my brother instead?” she asked through her tears.

Jake laughed softly, despite everything. “I’ll miss you, Yeji.”

She held his hands tightly. “I hope you find happiness, Jake. That’s the only thing I can wish for you now.”

Jake smiled. “That’s enough.”

When Yeji and her fiancé finally got into the car, Sunghoon lingered by the apartment door.

“What are you still doing here?” Jake asked gently.

Sunghoon smiled. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Jake opened his arms without thinking.

Their last hug.

Sunghoon stepped into it, wrapping his arms around Jake. And that was when Jake finally cried, quietly, helplessly, one last time.

“Why are you crying?” Sunghoon asked softly, lifting a hand to wipe Jake’s tears away.

Jake forced a smile. “Take care, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon hugged him again, tighter this time. “Thank you, Jake.”

And that was it.

Sunghoon walked away.

Sunghoon moved out.

Sunghoon moved on.

Jake stayed behind, alone in the apartment that once held a love so deep it survived everything, except being remembered.

SUNGHOON

When Sunghoon woke up, he had too many questions.

What happened?

Was he still alive?

Did he lose the competition?

Doctors answered most of them. Slowly. Carefully. He learned about the accident, the coma, the recovery. He learned his body would heal, that his career was not over, that gold was still possible if he worked for it.

But there was one thing no one could fully explain.

Jake.

He knew Jake. That much was clear. Jake was his best friend. Someone important. Someone constant. But whenever he tried to remember more, anything beyond that, the memories simply weren’t there. Not blurry. Not distant.

Gone.

Completely erased.

And when he tried to force it, the pain came. Sharp, splitting headaches. A tightness in his chest that made it hard to breathe. The doctor warned him not to push it, that emotional strain could slow his recovery, that stress could damage healing pathways in his brain.

Sunghoon listened, because he had a goal. He remembers it.

Gold.

Sometimes, though, he caught Jake looking at him in a way that made his chest ache for reasons he didn’t understand. Sad. Gentle. Like Jake was mourning something that Sunghoon couldn’t see.

It made him feel guilty.

He wanted to ask. Wanted to know why Jake looked at him like that, why his presence seemed to hurt him. But every time Sunghoon even thought about asking, his head throbbed, reminding him of the doctor’s warning.

So he stayed quiet.

He returned to the apartment after being discharged, and it felt familiar. Exactly as he remembered it from years ago, when he first moved in with Jake. Back when their friendship had started to deepen, when everything felt simple.

And yet, it felt wrong.

The furniture was right. The layout was right. But something about the air felt misplaced, like a room rearranged perfectly but missing one essential object.

Then he learned Jungwon and Jay were dating.

It sent a strange ripple through his mind. Not pain though, just confusion. When did that happen? Jay mentioned that Jake had helped them get together.

Another blank.

Another missing piece.

When Jay brought up anniversary, his and Jake’s anniversary, Sunghoon’s head started spinning. The pain crept back immediately, dull and pressing, as if his brain was warning him again.

Anniversary of what?

Jake laughed and said it was a friendship anniversary.

Sunghoon nodded, but something about it didn’t settle right. Did they really celebrate friendship anniversaries? Had they always done that?

He didn’t ask.

That night, when Sunghoon lay in his room for the first time since coming home, sleep wouldn’t come easily.

The bed felt unfamiliar.

The room felt incomplete.

Like someone had moved out, but not physically. Like something invisible had been taken, leaving behind an outline he couldn’t see but could still feel.

Something was missing.

And no matter how hard he tried, Sunghoon couldn’t figure out what it was.

Things were going smoothly.

His recovery.

His training.

His body responded the way it should.

Then he met Yuna.

Yuna was kind. Warm. Talented. An ice skater, someone in the same world as him, someone who understood discipline, pressure, the loneliness that came with competition. Being with her felt easy. Natural. Like something that made sense.

When he was with Yuna, he was happy.

But every time he came back to the apartment, something shifted.

Seeing Jake always brought a hollow feeling with it. A heaviness in his chest. Sadness. Guilt. Emotions that made no sense to him. Jake never did anything wrong, never complained, never blamed him, yet being around him made Sunghoon feel like he had failed at something important.

Something he couldn’t remember.

That was why he asked Jake for a movie night.

It was something they used to do often, at least, that’s what Sunghoon remembered. And when Jake smiled and said yes, genuinely, something inside Sunghoon loosened. The guilt faded, just a little.

Friday night came.

It was the only night athletes were truly free, the only time Yuna could text properly. They talked about training, about small things, about nothing important. Sunghoon didn’t realize how distracted he’d become until Jake said that he was going to rest.

The guilt returned instantly.

Sunghoon put his phone away, focused on the movie again, but the sadness lingered. Being with Jake always did this to him. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know when it started. But the feeling was constant now.

Then Jake asked, out of nowhere, “Are you seeing someone?”

The question hit him like an ambush.

Sunghoon’s breath caught, not because he was doing anything wrong, but because he suddenly couldn’t say Yuna’s name. He didn’t know why. It felt wrong to say it out loud at that moment.

So he said, “No.”

Jake just nodded. “Okay.”

They watched the movie again, but Sunghoon’s heart was racing now.

“What about you?” he asked.

He didn’t know why he felt nervous asking that. Didn’t know why relief washed over him when Jake answered, “No.”

After a pause, Sunghoon asked, carefully, “Those years I can’t remember… Did I date someone? Or did you?”

He wasn’t trying to remember. He didn’t want the pain.

But he needed to know.

“No and no,” Jake said.

Sunghoon bit his lip. “Really?”

Jake nodded.

“You didn’t date anyone at all?”

“I met someone,” Jake said quietly. “But that’s it.”

Something sharp twisted in Sunghoon’s chest.

“What happened?” he asked, surprised at how tense his voice sounded.

“We didn’t work out.”

“Do I know them?” Sunghoon asked. Because if they were important to Jake, then maybe, maybe he should remember them too.

“I don’t know,” Jake said after thinking. “I’m not sure if you remember.”

Sunghoon didn’t know why that answer bothered him so much.

He didn’t know whether he liked it or hated it, but it stayed with him, heavy and unresolved.

When the movie ended, the feeling hadn’t gone away.

“We should invite Jay and Jungwon sometime,” Sunghoon said, forcing lightness into his voice. “I miss them.”

“I’ll tell them,” Jake replied.

Sunghoon smiled, checked his phone, saw Yuna’s reply, and wished her good night. He hoped talking to her would die down the sadness, the guilt, and the strange ache he always felt around Jake.

But even as he walked away, phone in hand, one thought stayed with him

Why did being with Jake hurt, when he couldn’t remember some memories with him. 

Being with Yuna helped.

When he was with her, his mind stopped circling the things it couldn’t remember. The pain dulled. The guilt quieted. The sadness he always felt when he looked at Jake softened into something manageable.

Sometimes, though, he wondered why those feelings existed at all.

Did he love Jake more than a friend?

The thought didn’t make sense. He wasn’t gay. He had never been. He had dated girls his whole life, comfortably, confidently. The idea of being with Jake, like that, had never crossed his mind.

So why the sadness?

Why the heaviness in his chest whenever he saw Jake smile like he was holding something back?

That was why it felt easier to stay with Yuna. Easier to choose her. Being with her meant he didn’t have to confront the parts of himself that didn’t make sense.

Then came the drinks with Jay and Jungwon.

He told them about Yuna casually, expecting teasing, maybe congratulations. What he didn’t expect was Jay’s anger. The way Jay stood up so fast, voice sharp, eyes blazing.

Sunghoon didn’t understand it.

Did someone else in their group date Yuna before? That didn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been Jungwon. Not Jay.

So Jake?

The thought unsettled him.

Then Jake let go of him and punched his chest, weakly, like he didn’t have the strength to do more. It wasn’t anger. It was pain.

“No, I didn’t,” Jake said softly. “Let’s just rest. It’s been a long day.”

And then silently, brokenly—

“Congratulations, Sunghoon.”

He should have been happy. Because that’s the words he really expected Jake to tell him. His best friend was supporting him. Approval of him dating someone.

So why did it hurt?

Why did Jake’s sad face make his own chest ache so badly? Why did Sunghoon suddenly want to pull him back, hug him, make whatever was hurting him disappear?

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand what had just happened.

He didn’t understand why Jake had looked at him like that.

And he didn’t understand why, despite knowing nothing, it hurt so badly to see Jake walk away.

The idea of moving out wasn’t his.

Yuna mentioned an apartment near the training facility. Near her place too. It made sense. Logically. Practically. They were dating, it would’ve been unfair not to consider it.

Still, when he told Jake, his chest tightened.

“I found a new place,” he said carefully. “Closer to training.”

Jake didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate.

“Okay,” Jake said. “That’s better for your training.”

That was it.

Sunghoon didn’t expect it to hurt like that. Didn’t expect the way Jake let him go so easily to sting more than resistance ever could.

But it was Sunghoon’s decision. So he followed through.

Moving day came faster than he wanted it to.

He didn’t look forward to it. The heaviness in his chest stayed the entire morning. Something inside him resisted, every step, every box, every goodbye he didn’t want to say.

He didn’t want to leave.

He didn’t understand why.

“What are you still doing here?” Jake asked softly.

The words hurt more than they should have. Like Jake was already pushing him away.

Sunghoon forced a smile. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Jake opened his arms without thinking.

Their last hug.

Sunghoon wrapped his arms around him, and then felt it. Warmth soaking into his shoulder. A silent tremble.

Jake was crying.

Sunghoon’s heart clenched painfully.

“Why are you crying?” he asked softly, lifting a hand to wipe Jake’s tears away. Jake shouldn’t be crying. Not like this. It hurt Sunghoon more than he could explain.

Jake smiled through it. “Take care, Sunghoon.”

Something inside Sunghoon broke.

He hugged Jake again, tighter this time. “Thank you, Jake.”

He didn’t know why he was saying it. Didn’t know why his throat felt tight, why his chest felt hollow.

The emptiness didn’t leave him.

Not when he was with Yuna.

Not in the new apartment.

Not during training.

Not even when he focused on gold.

Something was missing.

Maybe he just missed the apartment.

Maybe he missed Jake.

Maybe spending five years with someone did that to a person.

Or maybe there was something his heart remembered, even if his mind refused to.

To win gold, that was his goal.

It had always been. Ever since he could remember, that dream had shaped his days, his body, his life. But lately, whenever he thought about it, there was a strange resistance in his chest. Like the word gold was covering something else. Something heavier. Something more important.

And then, a fragment.

“Even if I never win gold, I’d still marry you. That’s for sure.”

The words came out of nowhere.

Clear. Certain. Not his voice, but it was his voice.

Sunghoon froze mid-thought.

Who was he talking to?

The image refused to form. No face. No place. Just the sentence, echoing painfully in his head. His chest tightened, breath catching as a sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes.

Why did it hurt so much?

Why did his heart feel like it was breaking over words he couldn’t even place?

The pain intensified, a familiar, brutal pressure, and he staggered slightly, just as someone called his name.

“Sunghoon!”

Coach’s voice.

That was the last thing he remembered.

When he woke up, the world felt too white.

The smell of antiseptic. The hum of machines. He recognized it immediately, the infirmary inside the training facility. Their own medical wing. Efficient. Quiet.

His head throbbed.

“Sunghoon?”

He turned his head slowly.

Yuna was beside him, worry written plainly across her face. Her brows were knit together, hands clenched tightly in her lap like she’d been sitting there for a while.

“You collapsed,” she said gently. “The doctor said it was stress. Overexertion.”

He nodded faintly, though his mind felt far away.

And then, without thinking—

“Where’s Jake?”

The name slipped out so easily it startled him.

Yuna blinked. “Jake?”

Sunghoon frowned slightly, confused at himself. The last time he’d been hospitalized, Jake had been there. Sitting beside him. Holding his things. Talking too much to distract him.

The memory felt instinctive. Natural.

Yuna hesitated, then asked carefully, “Do you want me to call him?”

For a second, Sunghoon almost said yes.

But then reality caught up.

What was the point?

Jake had his own life now. His own distance. Sunghoon had chosen that distance himself.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s okay.”

Yuna nodded, though her expression softened with something unreadable. She had never met Jake, not properly, but she knew him. Sunghoon talked about Jake often. His best friend. His roommate. The person who knew him better than anyone.

The silence settled again.

Sunghoon stared up at the ceiling, heart aching for reasons he still couldn’t explain.

Why did Jake’s name feel like home?

And why did remembering him, even just a little, hurt more than the fall ever did?

JAKE

Jake knew what sadness could do to a person.

He had lived with it before, had learned how it sat quietly in the chest, how it dulled the world.

But this was different.

It was the hollowness.

Abandonment of being left behind, of being forgotten.

It was loving someone who was still alive, and yet gone.

The pain didn’t scream anymore. It had settled, heavy and unmoving, like it had decided to stay.

The apartment was silent.

Too silent.

Every corner held traces of Sunghoon, the space where his shoes used to be, the side of the couch he always claimed, the faint memory of his presence lingering in the air. Jake was alone in the place he had shared with his first love. His only love. The one he thought would be forever.

And it was breaking him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

He took leave from work, because he couldn’t bring himself to exist normally. Days blurred together. He barely ate. He barely slept. He just stayed there, lying still, as if moving would make everything real.

On the third day, there was a knock.

Then another.

And then a familiar voice, loud and worried.

“Hyung! Jake hyung!”

Jake stiffened. It was Jungwon.

He dragged himself up and opened the door.

Jungwon stood there, eyes full of concern, taking Jake in all at once, the hollow face, the tired eyes, the way he looked like he hadn’t been living at all.

“How are you?” Jungwon asked quickly. “Did you eat? Do you want to go out? We can just walk. Or shop. Or sit somewhere. Anything—”

The questions spilled out, one after another.

Jake didn’t stop him.

He appreciated it. He appreciated Jungwon for showing up. For caring enough to knock. For not letting him disappear completely.

They sat together, Jungwon talking about small things, about work, about Jay, about anything but Sunghoon. Jake noticed. He always did.

After a while, Jake spoke quietly.

“How did you know?”

Jungwon stopped mid-sentence.

“…Jay hyung,” he said.

Jake nodded. That made sense. Jay and Sunghoon trained at the same facility. News like that wouldn’t stay hidden long.

Jungwon swallowed.

“Sunghoon hyung collapsed the day before.”

The world tilted.

Jake stood up so suddenly that Jungwon flinched.

“How is he?” Jake asked, voice breaking despite himself. “Is he okay?”

Jungwon nodded, but then his face crumpled, and tears fell.

“You still worry about him,” Jungwon cried. “After everything. Hyung, please, it’s time to let go.”

Jake didn’t argue.

He just stepped forward and pulled Jungwon into a hug.

“Let me be sad for a while,” Jake whispered. “I’ll move on. I promise I will.”

His voice cracked.

“I just… I love Sunghoon so much. I can’t do it immediately.”

Jungwon clutched him tighter and cried harder.

And Jake stayed there, holding him, loving someone he was slowly learning how to lose.

Sunghoon’s competition came sooner than Jake expected.

He found out because Sunghoon’s mother called him.

Jake already knew what she was going to ask, and his chest tightened even before he answered. He didn’t want to go. He really didn’t. He knew what it would do to him, to stand there, to watch, to hope for someone who was no longer his.

But Sunghoon’s mother pleaded.

She cried softly on the other line, apologizing over and over. She said it would be strange if Sunghoon’s best friend wasn’t there. That Sunghoon would surely look for him. That she knew how hard this was for Jake, but still asked him to come.

Jake swallowed everything he wanted to say.

The no stayed lodged in his throat.

“Yes,” he said instead.

On the day of the competition, he didn’t stand with the family.

He stood among the crowd again, just another face, just another supporter, holding the South Korean flag in one hand and a towel with Sunghoon’s name stitched across it in the other. His fingers trembled around the fabric.

He didn’t wish for miracles.

He didn’t wish for memories to come back.

He only prayed for one thing.

Please let him be safe.

The downhill course was brutal, sharp turns, dangerous speed, the kind of run where one mistake could end everything. Sunghoon flew through it with precision, control, and the quiet fury Jake had always admired. Every second felt like it was stealing Jake’s breath away.

And then—

He crossed the finish line.

Gold.

For a moment, the world went silent in Jake’s ears.

Then it exploded.

Cheers. Screams. Flags waving. History being made, Park Sunghoon, the first South Korean to win gold.

Jake’s vision blurred.

Sunghoon ran toward his family, joy written all over his face. Jake took a step forward, instinctive, hopeful, stupid, and then he saw it.

Sunghoon pulled Yuna into his arms.

Cameras flashed. Reporters swarmed. Headlines were already forming, National hero. Gold medalist. Lim Yuna by his side.

Reality crashed into Jake all at once.

A promise he knew would never be fulfilled.

A wedding that would never happen.

A future that had quietly, painfully slipped out of his hands.

The man he loved was standing in the light, with someone else.

Jake lowered the towel.

He moved through the crowd as people cried and celebrated, their happiness colliding with his grief. No one noticed him leaving. No one stopped him.

And for the first time, Jake understood.

This wasn’t waiting anymore.

This wasn’t hope.

It was time to let go.

That night, the news greeted him the moment he turned on the television.

Gold medal highlights.

Slow-motion replays.

Sunghoon is smiling, radiant and untouchable.

And then—

Park Sunghoon and figure skater Lim Yuna confirmed to be dating.

Jake turned the television off immediately.

Silence filled the apartment.

He opened the box.

Photos. Letters. Old receipts. Memories he once thought the world would never take from him. And then, at the very bottom, the silver medal.

The one Sunghoon had given him.

Jake pulled out his phone and stared at a photo from a news site, Sunghoon holding a gold medal now. Shining. Victorious.

A promise fulfilled.

Just not with him.

A memory surfaced.

The silver medal had been pressed into his hands, warm from Sunghoon’s grip.

“It’s to show how much I love you… and skiing. Both,” Sunghoon had said.

Jake had laughed through his tears. “What if you win gold next time?”

Sunghoon had thought for a moment. “Then… that’s when we’ll get married.”

“And if you didn’t?” Jake teased, smiling even as his eyes burned.

Sunghoon frowned, mock-serious. “What? You don’t think I’d ever win gold?”

Jake had laughed and pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m just kidding. I know you can do it. Don’t forget, I’m your number one fan.”

Sunghoon had kissed him again, soft and certain.

“Even if I never win gold, I’d still marry you. That’s for sure.”

And now, It would never happen.

Jake flipped through the letters.

To my Jaeyun.

Sunghoon’s handwriting. His words. His love.

Jaeyun.

That name no longer existed.

From Jaeyun to Jake.

How cruel could fate be?

How cruel could Sunghoon be, without even knowing it?

Jake’s phone buzzed.

A message.

Sunghoon

You didn’t come to watch my competition.

Jake wanted to scream.

To be angry.

To ask if winning gold had erased him completely.

Instead, he replied.

Jake

I did watch it.

He attached a photo, Sunghoon mid-run, captured from the crowd.

The typing bubble appeared.

Then

Sunghoon

You were there? You didn’t even say hi to me. 

Jake almost laughed.

Jake

It’s okay. You don’t need me there.

The typing bubble appeared again.

Then it disappeared.

No reply came.

Maybe that was the answer.

Jake didn’t need confirmation anymore.

That night, he cried alone, curled around the silver medal pressed to his chest.

A love remembered by only one of them.

Months passed.

Jake tried to move forward.

He tried to breathe without looking back.

Sunghoon kept messaging him, small things, ordinary things.

Did you eat?

I saw this and thought of you.

Are you busy?

Jake didn’t reply.

Some silences were necessary to survive.

He started packing.

This apartment was too big for one person.

Too quiet.

Too cruel to stay in.

Every corner held laughter. Every wall remembered them.

Jake couldn’t live inside a memory anymore.

Then came a knock.

He opened the door to Jay, furious, shaking, eyes burning. Without a word, Jay dropped a pastel envelope onto the table.

Baby pink.

Jake already knew.

To: Jake

His fingers trembled as he opened it.

Park Sunghoon & Lim Yuna

Engagement Party Invitation

Jake’s world stopped.

He wondered, briefly, distantly, when the pain would end.

But he didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t break.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Jay exploded.

“Fuck that asshole,” Jay snapped. “Should I tell him? Should I make him remember you? Should I punch him in the head until he does?”

Jake smiled faintly.

“It’s okay.”

Jay stared at him, incredulous. “No, it’s not. Why are you the one in pain while he’s living happily like nothing happened?”

Jake shook his head slowly. “It’s okay, Jay. Let’s just move on.”

Jay’s eyes drifted around the apartment.

The boxes.

The emptied shelves.

The absence.

“You’re moving out?” Jay asked softly.

Jake nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s it?” Jay asked. “You’ll just let him live his new life, after forgetting you?”

Jake stood up then.

“What do you want me to do, Jay?” His voice finally cracked.

“Force him to remember me? Push myself back into his life?” Tears streamed down his face now.

“And if he remembers, then what? Would he leave Yuna? Would his heart remember that he loved me?”

Jay had no answer.

He pulled Jake into a hug instead.

“I’m sorry,” Jay whispered.

Jake closed his eyes.

So was he, to himself. 

Jake had one goal in his mind, move out before Sunghoon’s engagement party.

His phone rang more often these days.

His family.

They knew what had happened, or at least enough of it. His parents’ voices were careful when they spoke, gentle in a way that hurt more than blunt concern. They had already moved back to Australia, after a year of trying to make Korea feel like home. They asked him, softly, if he wanted to come home to them.

Jake had stayed in Korea for Sunghoon once.

He had chosen this place, this life, because loving Sunghoon had felt like enough of a reason.

Now, the whole idea of leaving or starting over in a country that had once been his whole world, didn’t sound impossible. Australia waited with sunlight and familiarity, with people who loved him without conditions or complications.

And yet.

Every time he imagined packing his bags for real, something in his chest resisted. A tight, aching pull he couldn’t name without admitting the truth.

He wasn’t ready.

Even now, even after everything, a small, stubborn hope still lived inside him. He didn’t speak it aloud. He barely let himself acknowledge it. But it was there, woven into every hesitation, every unanswered message, every step that kept him circling the same streets instead of boarding a plane.

Jake loved Sunghoon.

So much that leaving felt harder than staying broken.

He wandered through the city, searching for a new apartment far from Sunghoon’s place, somewhere that wouldn’t bring the past rushing back with every corner.

And then he saw a familiar face, Sungchan.

Sungchan waved, and Jake’s chest lifted slightly. A friendly, familiar face. He was thankful for that.

“How are you?” Sungchan asked first.

“I’m okay,” Jake replied, forcing a small smile. “You?”

“I’m good,” Sungchan said. Then, after a pause, “Do you want to grab some lunch with me?”

Jake agreed.

They walked together to a small café, catching up on life and the little things that weren’t tied to heartbreak. But then Jake noticed something, the ring on Sungchan’s finger.

“Oh… married?” Jake asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sungchan laughed. “Engaged. Set to marry soon.”

Jake smiled genuinely. “Congrats. Really.”

“Thanks,” Sungchan said. Then carefully, almost hesitantly, “I saw the news, I thought you and Sunghoon would be the endgame. After all the things he did, because he was jealous of me.”

Jake laughed softly. A laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, things happened. We’re just really meant to be friends.”

Sungchan smiled warmly, understanding but didn't know what really happened to them. They talked a little more, the conversation safe and light, before Sungchan stood up.

“I should go,” he said, adjusting his bag.

Jake nodded. He watched him for a moment as he began to leave.

Then, impulsively, he called out, a little hesitantly, 

“Sungchan—wait—”

Sungchan stopped and looked back, raising an eyebrow.

Jake swallowed, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry. 

SUNGHOON

“It’s okay. You don’t need me there.”

The words from Jake’s message felt like glass pressed against his chest. Sunghoon held the glass in his hand, staring at it as if it could somehow absorb the sharp edges of his own feelings. He wanted to reply, to explain himself, to ask why it hurt so much, but the words stuck in his throat.

Then, a tap on his shoulder.

“Sunghoon, what’s wrong?” Yuna asked gently.

He looked at her, the warmth of her hand, the concern in her eyes, and yet he couldn’t explain the storm inside him. How do you explain that a best friend’s absence, his simple words, could cut so deep? That it’s more than friendship, though he shouldn’t feel it that way?

So he smiled. Just a small smile, tired and strained. He shook his head and held her hands, saying nothing. Today, the world knows about them. Today, he could be happy, outwardly at least. No one else needed to know what ached inside him, not even Yuna.

Yuna leaned closer. “Sunghoon, are you really okay?”

He nodded quickly, too quickly. “Sorry… just tired,” he said, hoping the lie could cover the truth.

Days passed.

Sunghoon sent message after message to Jake. Little things, big things, anything, just to reach him, but none were answered. The silence gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch, a weight he couldn’t lift.

He told himself he had a life to live, responsibilities to shoulder, dreams to chase. He had won gold. He had stood at the top of the podium with the world watching, the anthem ringing in his ears. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew, this was one of the reasons he had chased that medal so relentlessly.

So he proposed.

He asked Yuna to marry him not long after, the gold medal still warm in his hands, its weight familiar and heavy. He placed it in her palms as he asked the question, a symbol of everything he had achieved, everything he was supposed to want. Yuna cried immediately, joyful and overwhelmed, her yes coming without hesitation. She looked at him like he had given her the world.

And yet

Every time Sunghoon saw the ring on her finger, a dissonance crept into his chest. The moment replayed in his head,  the medal, the tears, the happiness that should have been enough. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain, like something precious had been handed to the wrong person.

The happiness he should have felt was there, but muted, layered beneath a deeper, nameless ache that refused to go away.

Finally, the invitations were ready.

He couldn’t bring himself to hand Jake the invitation personally. The guilt and sadness crawling in his chest were too strong. So he entrusted Jay to deliver it for him, along with Jake’s own copy.

And then Jay’s reaction came. Furious. Explosive.

Sunghoon didn’t understand. “I just don’t get it… why are you so mad? Aren’t you happy that I’m getting married?”

Jay laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was sharp, bitter, filled with frustration.

“Fuck you,” Jay said, then paused, taking a breath before continuing, “I’ll give this to Jake. It’ll be more cruel if you do it yourself. But one thing, don’t ever, ever ask Jake to be your Best Man. He doesn’t deserve that. And if you do, I swear, you’ll never see us again. Stop being selfish.”

And then Jay left, storming off as abruptly as he had arrived.

Sunghoon stood there, frozen, the words echoing in his mind.

What did I do? Why is Jay so angry? Why does he say Jake doesn’t deserve it?

The questions piled up, knotting in his chest. The confusion. The guilt. The helplessness. He wanted to react, to defend himself, to explain, but the right words didn’t exist.

He only stood there, silent, the weight of it pressing down, and for the first time in days, he couldn’t even force a smile.

Because something inside him had shifted, and he wasn’t sure he could fix it, or understand it, no matter how much he wanted to.

The night before the engagement, Sunghoon found himself standing in front of their old apartment. His chest felt tight, his heart heavy. He had to see Jake, even just for a moment. He missed him too much, maybe too much.

But when he knocked, once, twice, over and over, no one came.

“Ah, Sunghoon, Jake moved out last week,” their neighbor said casually, peeking out the door.

The words hit him like a punch. His world tilted. Jake had moved forward. Sunghoon had done it first. And yet, the pain of knowing it, the heaviness pressing into his chest, felt unbearable. Why did it hurt so much to see that Jake had taken a step he hadn’t told him about?

The engagement party came. Sunghoon stood beside Yuna, smiling, thanking people for coming. Jay and Jungwon were there too, exchanging congratulations, but avoiding his gaze. He tried to speak to Jay, but Jay just nodded and walked away.

And then Jake appeared.

Sunghoon froze. Jake’s smile was warm, polite, but there was something heavier in it. And he was with someone linked arm in arm familiar, yet Sunghoon struggled to place him.

“Congratulations,” Jake said as he greeted them.

“Jake,” Sunghoon started, his voice caught somewhere between hope and confusion.

Yuna squealed beside him. “Finally meeting you, Jake! I can’t believe this is our first meeting after knowing so much about you!”

Jake smiled kindly at her, but there was a sadness in it, the kind Sunghoon could feel even from across the room. “Finally, nice to meet you,” he said.

And then Sunghoon saw it, the linked arms, the closeness, the comfort.

“Oh, right. This is Sungchan. You remember him, right, Sunghoon?” Jake asked.

Sungchan greeted them warmly, congratulated them. And something inside Sunghoon shifted, anger, frustration, jealousy, confusion, all mixed together. His mind was spinning. Sungchan… the one who courted Jake back in college. The one he brought to movie night.

Why did this make him so mad? Why did the possibility that Jake was with someone else sting so sharply?

“Right, I remember you,” Sunghoon said, the possessiveness surprising even him.

“So you got linked again, that’s nice,” Sunghoon said, trying to laugh it off. .

“Yeah, Jake’s new apartment is near my place,” Sungchan added casually.

Sunghoon’s chest tightened. His apartment? Jake didn’t even tell me he moved out. And the way Jake’s grip tightened on Sungchan’s arm, he saw it, and it hurt.

“Wow… what a privilege you have. You can continue courting him and—”

“Sunghoon, stop. Sungchan is a friend,” Jake said firmly, sensing the tension. Yuna’s hand on his arm tightened instinctively.

“Jake, you can proceed to your seat near Jay and Jungwon,” Yuna said, her voice calm, careful. Jake gave them both a small smile, nodded, and moved toward his seat. Sungchan followed him.

And Sunghoon he just stood there, fists clenching at his sides, heart racing.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” he muttered to Yuna, though he didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. She just shook her head and smiled.

But inside, Sunghoon’s mind was a storm. The sight of Jake with someone else, linked arms, moving on, happy, cut deeper than anything he could have anticipated. And yet he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t push, couldn’t reclaim, couldn’t force what was lost.

All he could do was stand there, the hollow ache spreading through him, watching his best friend. 

Sunghoon couldn’t stop looking at Jake’s table. Sungchan laughing, Jake playfully punching his arm, everyone around them chatting, joking, he used to be on that side. He used to be with them, with Jake. And sometimes his own thoughts surprises him, because where it was coming from. 

“Do you miss your friends, Sunghoon?” Yuna asked, noticing his gaze lingering. She followed his line of sight, too.

“Kind of,” he admitted, his throat tight. And he kept looking at Jake, smiling, laughing, the ease between him and Sungchan, the comfort and familiarity that Sunghoon felt slipping further and further away.

“Why are you so tense? You can visit their table. I’ll be mingling with my college friends,” Yuna said softly, encouraging him to go.

So he did.

When he approached the table, all eyes turned toward him. Jay’s whole demeanor shifted, stiff and distant. “Congrats, Sunghoon,” he said, but the sincerity felt muted, like a forced courtesy.

“Jay hyung…” Jungwon started, concerned in his voice, trying to smooth things over.

Then Jake stood up.

“Can I talk to you privately, Sunghoon?” he asked quietly. His voice, calm, polite, but carrying that familiar weight, made Sunghoon’s chest tighten.

Sunghoon nodded. “Sure.”

Before Jake even left the table, Jake asked. “Is this okay?”

And Sunghoon was surprised with Jake’s question, because why not, “It’s fine.” he said. 

He saw how Jungwon held Jake’s hand briefly. Jake smiled at Jungwon. 

They stood on the balcony behind the venue, away from the noise and laughter inside.

Below them, mountains stretched endlessly, dark green against the fading sky. Trees swayed gently in the cold air, peaceful, unmoving as if the world had decided to be kind tonight.

Sunghoon wished his mind would follow.

Jake leaned against the railing first, then gestured for Sunghoon to sit on the small bench by the wall. After a moment, he sat too, close enough for warmth, far enough to feel the distance between them.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again… sorry,” Jake said quietly.

That tone again.

The one that always made Sunghoon’s chest ache, the sadness Jake carried so softly, like he didn’t want to burden anyone with it. Sunghoon had always hated that look. Always wanted to reach out, to fix it, to take it away.

“What do you mean?” Sunghoon asked, confusion tightening his throat.

“You’ll go back to training soon,” Jake said, eyes fixed on the mountains. “The wedding. Your life… you’ll be very busy.”

The words felt wrong. Like a future Sunghoon didn’t remember agreeing to, or fully understanding.

Before he could respond, Jake reached down beside his feet and picked up a paper bag.

He placed it in Sunghoon’s hands.

Sunghoon opened it.

The silver medal caught the last light of the sky, dull and familiar all at once. His first professional win, nearly three years ago. He remembered standing on the podium. The weight around his neck. The applause.

But something else, something important, was missing.

“You left it in the apartment,” Jake said softly. “I saw it while I was packing my things.”

He hesitated, then added, “I thought… I really needed to give it back to you. It’s important. That was your first win as a professional.”

Sunghoon held it, fingers curling around the cool metal.

It felt wrong.

It was his medal,  yet somehow, it didn’t feel like it belonged only to him. Like it had once been shared. Like it had meant something more than a win.

His chest tightened.

“You didn’t have to go through the trouble,” Sunghoon said quietly. “You could’ve kept it.”

“No.”

Jake’s voice was gentle, but there was no room for argument.

“You should get it back.”

He smiled then, small, sad and firm. A smile that looked like goodbye.

“Congratulations again, Sunghoon,” Jake said.

And before Sunghoon could find the right words, before he could stop him, Jake stood and slipped back inside, leaving the balcony door closing softly behind him.

Sunghoon stayed where he was.

The mountains were still there. The trees still swayed. The world remained calm.

But in his hands, the medal felt unbearably heavy.

Hollow.

Wrong.

It was his, yet it felt like it had been returned to the wrong person. And as he stared down at it, a realization settled silently, painfully in his chest. 

Something was missing.

Something vital.

Something he had lost, without ever choosing to let it go.

JAKE

Jake looked at the silver medal one last time before placing it carefully into the paper bag.

It felt wrong.

Everything felt wrong.

Attending Sunghoon’s engagement party felt wrong.

Giving the medal back felt wrong.

But at the same time, it felt necessary.

That medal had been his anchor. His proof. His last excuse to hold on. And Jake knew, deep down, that the moment he returned it, there would be nothing left tying Sunghoon to them. To him. Maybe then, he could finally let go.

So when Sungchan knocked on his door, Jake smiled, picked up the bag, and went with him.

That day they met again, by coincidence, by fate, by whatever force still liked to play with Jake, he had asked Sungchan for a favor before they parted.

Be his plus one.

He explained everything. Carefully. Honestly. No half-truths. No hidden pain. Before anyone could misunderstand, they even called Shotaro, Sungchan’s fiancé, on video.

Jake hadn’t expected Shotaro to be the one who got angry.

Shotaro had crossed his arms, jaw tight. “Then Sungchan is going with you,” he said firmly. “You don’t go alone to something like that.”

Jake almost cried then. He hadn’t expected kindness anymore.

Still, being there hurts.

Seeing Sunghoon beside Yuna hurt more than Jake had prepared for. He had told himself he was fine. Repeated it so many times he almost believed it.

But he wasn’t.

It hurt to see Sunghoon smiling at someone else.

It hurts to hear people congratulate them.

It hurt to exist in a room where a future Jake once dreamed of was being lived by someone else.

And when Sunghoon came to their table, when the time came, Jake finally handed him the medal.

“You left it in the apartment,” Jake said.

It was a lie.

He had found it days after the accident. Had cried holding it. Had slept with it in his hands like it could keep Sunghoon close, like it could protect a love already slipping away.

When Sunghoon hesitated, when he tried to refuse it, Jake didn’t let him.

“No,” Jake said immediately. Firm, but gentle. “You should get it back.”

His smile was soft. Sad. Full of everything he couldn’t say without breaking apart.

“Congratulations again, Sunghoon.”

And then Jake stood up and went inside the venue hall.

Because if he stayed any longer, he would beg.

He would beg Sunghoon to come back.

To remember him.

To love him again.

That medal was his final goodbye.

Not just to a relationship, but to a future that would never happen.

And as he walked away, tears blurring his vision, Jake told himself, this is how he moved on.

SUNGHOON

Sunghoon had never been himself after the engagement party.

After Jake handed him the silver medal, something inside him shifted, and never settled back into place.

When Yuna noticed it, she asked curiously, “What’s that?”

He told her simply that he had left it in the old apartment. That was his first medal as a professional. That Jake had given it back to him.

Yuna gasped, eyes bright. “You should display it in the house!”

Sunghoon held the medal again, fingers tightening around the cold metal.

“No,” he said quietly. “There’s no need.”

It felt wrong.

Wrong to let anyone see it.

Wrong to make it something decorative, something casual.

Yuna nodded, not pushing further.

Months passed.

Sunghoon buried himself in training.

If he trained harder, longer, more obsessively, maybe he could forget. Forget the medal. Forget Jake. Forget his sad eyes. Forget his tone. 

Forget the hollow ache that followed him everywhere.

But forgetting never came.

Instead, one afternoon, Yuna cried.

“Do you still want to marry me?”

The question stunned him.

“What?” Sunghoon asked, genuinely confused. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’ve changed,” Yuna said, tears streaking down her face. “You’re always training. You don’t talk about the wedding anymore. You don’t ask about preparations. You don’t even care.”

“I have to train,” he snapped. “I have competitions.”

She looked at him then, hurt, disappointed.

“I know. But this is our life too. You leave everything to me. You don’t even give opinions.”

Anger flared. Defensive. Sharp.

“You’re angry about that? My opinion doesn’t even matter.”

Yuna shook her head slowly. “Sunghoon, you never cared about the wedding. Do you even want to marry me? Do you even love me?”

The last question hung in the air.

Do you even love me?

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

And when silence answered for him, Yuna turned away and cried alone in their room.

Something broke inside him.

Not because she cried.

But because he couldn’t chase after her.

Instead, Sunghoon ran.

He ran until his legs burned, until his chest hurt, until he stood in front of Jay and Jungwon’s apartment.

Jay opened the door, startled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jungwon stood behind him, equally confused.

Sunghoon’s voice cracked immediately.

“Jay,” he said, tears started spilling over. “Please be honest with me. Those years I don’t remember, who was I? Who is Jake to me?”

Jungwon gasped softly.

Jay’s expression changed. Heavy. Sad.

Before Jay could answer, Jungwon spoke.

“We’re not the right people to tell you,” Jungwon said gently. “Find your old cellphone.”

Sunghoon blinked. “Cellphone?”

“The one you thought you lost during the accident.”

Jay turned sharply. “Jungwon—”

“But they said I lost it.” Sunghoon said.

“No, it’s in the box with your other things—”

But Sunghoon was already moving.

Yuna wasn’t home when he returned.

The apartment was silent.

He dropped to the floor and pulled out the boxes beneath the bed. One. Two. Three. Four.

There it was.

His old phone.

Hands shaking, he charged it and turned it on.

Password.

He tried everything.

His birthday.

His first competition as skier..

His mom’s birthday.

The first day of school.

Nothing.

Then, almost without thinking, he typed, the date he won silver.

The phone unlocked.

His breath caught.

Photos.

Training. Random screenshots. Memes. A blurry photo of a dog on the street.

Then an album.

“Jaeyun.”

His hands trembled as he opened it.

Jaeyun.

Sleeping on the couch.

Laughing in grocery stores.

Videos of them eating together.

Sunghoon kissing Jaeyun’s forehead.

Jaeyun’s cheek.

Jaeyun’s lips.

Sunghoon staggered, nearly losing balance.

Calendar entries, training schedules intertwined with Jake’s work. Plans. Anniversaries. Ordinary days that meant everything.

Messages.

The last one stopped his heart.

I love you. Please take care. You know I’m here. Your number one fan.

Sent on the day of the competition.

The truth slammed into him all at once.

He loved Jaeyun..

Jaeyun loved him.

They weren’t just friends.

They were boyfriends.

They were in love.

The hole in his chest finally made sense.

And then, everything came rushing back.

Memories. Touches. Promises. Nights. Laughter. Tears.

And with them, Guilt. Pain. Leaving Jake. Forgetting Jake. Choosing someone else. Getting engaged.

Winning gold, and not asking Jake to marry him.

Jaeyun.

Jaeyun.

Jaeyun.

Sunghoon collapsed beside his bed, sobbing until his chest ached, until his head throbbed, until his body couldn’t take it anymore.

And there, surrounded by memories he had erased, he passed out crying.

Sunghoon woke up with a splitting headache.

His body felt heavy, burning, weak, unfamiliar. He realized he was properly tucked into bed, blankets neat around him. Someone had taken care of him.

He tried to move.

Pain shot through his limbs.

Fever.

He was sick.

Before he could process it, the bedroom door opened.

“Mom?”

His mother stepped inside, arms crossed, her expression tight, not angry, but deeply upset.

“What are you doing here?” Sunghoon asked hoarsely.

She didn’t answer right away. She only looked at him, eyes sharp, wounded.

“Yuna called me this morning,” she said finally. “She said you passed out. That when she tried to wake you, you were crying.”

Her voice trembled slightly.

“And calling Jake’s name.”

Something inside Sunghoon snapped.

Jake. 

He tried to sit up.

“I need—” His body betrayed him immediately. Dizziness washed over him, his limbs shaking violently.

His mother rushed forward. “Sunghoon! What are you doing?”

He broke down.

Tears spilled uncontrollably as he clutched at her sleeve.

“Mom,” he sobbed, “I need to see Jake. I need to talk to him. Please. I need to see him.”

She held him tightly, panic rising in her own chest.

“You’re sick,” she said, trying to keep him still. “You can talk to him another time.”

“No,” Sunghoon cried, shaking his head frantically. “You don’t understand. Jake is moving on. I remember him. I remember us. Please, please, Mom. I remember everything.”

His mother froze.

“I remember him,” he repeated, breaking. “I remember loving him.”

At that moment, the door opened again.

Yuna stood there, holding a bowl of warm porridge.

She stopped short.

The sight of Sunghoon crying, trembling in his mother’s arms, calling another person’s name, made everything painfully clear.

“Sunghoon…” she whispered.

He looked at her.

“Yuna.”

His voice softened immediately.

Something gentle, apologetic, unbearably tired.

And Yuna broke.

She set the bowl down with shaking hands and cried openly, shoulders trembling as she nodded over and over.

“I know,” she said between sobs. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sunghoon whispered, tears falling again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She nodded, unable to speak, crying with him instead.

That day passed quietly.

No shouting.

No blame.

Only tears.

They cried, talked softly, cried again, and said goodbye.

Later, when the house was silent again, Sunghoon lay back against his pillows, exhausted.

He remembered everything now.

But remembering didn’t give him peace.

It gave him weight.

Jaeyun loved him.

Jaeyun had waited.

Jaeyun had been abandoned, without explanation, without closure.

How could he face him?

What right did he have?

His apology wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Should he tell Jake he remembered?

That he still loved him?

Would that heal anything, or only tear open wounds that had barely begun to close?

Sunghoon pressed his hand to his chest, breath shaky.

He wanted his Jaeyun back.

But wanting wasn’t repentance.

And love, real love, didn’t begin with asking to be forgiven.

It began with accepting that Jake might never come back.

The fever passed, but the weight didn’t.

Sunghoon woke up every morning with the same thought pressing against his chest before his eyes even opened.

Jaeyun.

Not the memory of him, he had those now, painfully clear, but the absence.

The knowledge that Jake had lived through everything alone while Sunghoon walked forward, smiling, winning, being happy  with someone else.

The silver medal sat on his table, untouched.

It weighed more than gold ever did.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at it for long.

Every time his eyes landed on it, his hand curled unconsciously, as if reaching for something lighter, something duller.

Gold. The Gold Medal that he gave to Yuna.

Training resumed.

His coach praised his focus, his discipline, the way he pushed himself harder than ever,  but Sunghoon knew the truth.

He wasn’t chasing victory anymore.

He was running from stillness.

Because the moment he stopped, Jake flooded in.

Jake waiting in hospital corridors.

Jake smiling through explanations that hurt.

Jake stepping back instead of asking questions.

Jake letting him go without a fight.

That was the worst part.

Jake had loved him enough not to demand anything back.

At night, Sunghoon sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand.

Jake’s name stayed unsent in the chat list.

He typed messages he never sent.

I remember you.

Delete.

Too cruel.

I’m sorry.

Delete.

Not enough.

I still love you.

Delete.

Unforgivable.

I remember now.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to forget you.

I didn’t mean to replace you.

I didn’t mean—

He deleted them all.

Meaning didn’t matter.

Results did.

And the result was this, Jake was gone.

And Sunghoon was the reason.

Yuna’s ring sat on the table.

He hadn’t touched it in days.

He hadn’t told her yet, not properly,  but she already knew.

He didn’t confess.

Because guilt changes the way a man exists in a room.

He stopped meeting her eyes.

Stopped holding her hand.

Stopped talking about the future.

Every “we” felt like a lie in his mouth.

And lies had already cost him everything once.

One evening, Yeji called him.

She didn’t ask how training was going.

She asked quietly,

“Did you remember?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice cracked in a way it hadn’t even when he won gold.

“Yes.”

Yeji inhaled sharply.

“…Then you know,” she said.

“Yes,” he whispered.

And that was all she needed.

She didn’t scold him.

Didn’t comfort him either.

She said one thing before hanging up:

“Jake loved you when you were easy to love. Now you have to decide who you are when you’re not.”

Sunghoon did not go to Jake.

Not the day his fever broke.

Not the week after.

Not even when his body was strong enough to train again.

Because now that his mind was clear, he understood something he hadn’t before.

If he went to Jake now, it wouldn’t be courage.

It would be selfishness.

The world didn’t stop after he remembered.

Training resumed. Schedules returned. Expectations tightened around him like a noose disguised as routine.

But something fundamental had shifted.

Gold no longer felt like triumph.

It felt like theft.

Every time his coach praised him, Sunghoon heard another voice beneath it.

This was supposed to be shared.

The medal stayed with Yuna.

The silver one was still there. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at it.

He began to notice how deeply guilt could embed itself in the body.

It lived in hesitation before it jumped.

In the way his breath stuttered mid-run.

In the tremor that came whenever someone mentioned Jake’s name casually, like it was harmless.

Jay didn’t speak to him anymore.

Jungwon did, occasionally, but carefully. Like one would speak to a man standing on cracked ice.

And Yuna—

Yuna was gone.

Their goodbye had been quiet. Painful. Necessary.

She had loved him honestly.

And he had loves her incorrectly, or so he thought, because he cannot love someone else besides Jake that deeply. 

That truth was his alone to carry.

At night, Sunghoon allowed himself one cruelty.

He opened the old phone. To remind himself what he had destroyed.

Jake laughing with his head thrown back.

Jake half-asleep on the couch, murmuring his name.

Jake whispering “I’m here” when Sunghoon couldn’t breathe through the pressure of competition.

Sunghoon never watched the videos until the end.

He didn’t deserve the comfort.

There were moments, weak ones, when he imagined Jake missing him too.

Then he remembered the way Jake had smiled at the engagement party.

Polite. Distant. Complete.

That smile wasn’t waiting.

It was letting go.

And that was the punishment Sunghoon accepted without complaint.

He stopped imagining a reunion.

Stopped imagining forgiveness.

Stopped imagining love as something that could be reclaimed.

Instead, he imagined something smaller. Harder.

Living well enough that Jake’s sacrifice hadn’t been meaningless.

Winning cleanly.

Loving honestly.

Never asking Jake to carry his weight again.

If guilt was the price of remembering, then Sunghoon would pay it fully.

Quietly.

For as long as it took.

JAKE

Jake told himself he was healing.

He woke up on time.

Went to work.

Cooked meals that didn’t come from a box.

By definition, that counted.

Jay asked once, carefully, like stepping near glass—

“Did Sunghoon try to come see you?”

Jake shook his head.

“No.”

Jay waited for more.

There was none.

And just like that, the conversation ended.

Jungwon came over often.

Sometimes with groceries.

Sometimes with nothing but himself.

They folded laundry together. Watched shows halfway. Sat in silence that wasn’t uncomfortable.

Jungwon never asked Jake how he was doing.

He already knew.

Sometimes Sungchan joined them. Shotaro too, bright and gentle and unafraid of Jake’s silence. They talked about work, about moving apartments, about weddings that didn’t hurt when they weren’t his.

Jake laughed at the right times.

It almost felt normal.

Almost.

Then there were the moments he couldn’t explain.

A voice in his head, clear as day.

“Jaeyun.” “Jaeyunie.” “Ikeu.”

Sunghoon’s voice, teasing, warm, ridiculous.

Jake would pause mid-step. Mid-breath.

Turn around instinctively.

No one was there.

Sometimes, walking home from work, he thought he saw him, a familiar silhouette at the corner of his eye.

A tall figure standing under a streetlight.

Someone leaning against a café window, scrolling through their phone.

His heart would spike before his mind could stop it.

Then reality would catch up.

Wrong shoulders.

Wrong walk.

Wrong laugh.

Jake learned to keep walking.

At night, when the apartment was quiet, memories slipped in without permission.

Sunghoon humming while brushing his teeth.

Jake steals Sunghoon’s hoodie and Sunghoon would pretend it wasn’t obvious.

Sunghoon murmured his name like it was a secret meant only for him.

Jake never cried immediately.

The tears came later, in the shower, where no one could hear.

Or while staring at the ceiling, counting breaths like that might stop the ache.

He loved Sunghoon.

That hadn’t changed.

What had changed was this, He no longer reached for him.

Healing, Jake realized, wasn’t about forgetting.

It was about choosing not to reopen wounds that had already scarred.

Some days were easier.

Some days, he caught himself smiling at nothing and wondered if that meant he was finally okay.

Other days, a song in a café or the smell of snow in winter made his chest cave in.

But he stayed.

Stayed present.

Stayed breathing.

Stayed moving forward, even when forward felt like betrayal.

He didn’t know if Sunghoon remembered.

And maybe that was the point.

If Sunghoon came back now, remembering, apologizing, loving, Jake wasn’t sure he’d survive having to choose again.

So he healed quietly.

Loved silently.

And let Sunghoon exist only where it was safest… In his memory.

SUNGHOON

Sunghoon didn’t rush.

He let the guilt settle like a weight across his chest, pressing, insistent, unavoidable.

He thought about everything, the years he forgot, the moments he erased, the love he had once held and lost. And the person he hurt the most.

He repeated the words quietly, to himself first. “Jae— Jake, sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Not to beg. Not to demand forgiveness.

Just to mean them.

When he finally approached Jake, it wasn’t dramatic.

No shouting. No tears spilling onto the floor.

No pleading.

He waited until Jake looked at him, calm, cautious, unreadable, and then spoke in the quietest, firmest voice he could manage:

“I remember now. Everything. And I’m… sorry.”

He paused, letting the words land.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I won’t push you. I just needed you to know that you were never forgotten by choice. That’s all.”

He let the words hang in the air.

No explanations. No justifications.

Just the truth.

Sunghoon’s chest ached as he sat there, guilt pressing down on him in waves.

Every memory, every smile, every tear from their years together came back in flashes

The way he used to joke, calling him “Jaeyunie” in that teasing tone.

How Jake’s laugh could lift the heaviest weight off his shoulders.

The silver medal, the kiss, the whispered promise of a future he had nearly forgotten.

He realized, with a pang that made him wince, that the sadness he had always felt whenever Jake was sad, it wasn’t just guilt.

It was love. A love he couldn’t distinguish from the pain.

If he could, he would kneel, just to say sorry.

If he could, he would wrap Jake in his arms, kiss him, tell him every word he had left unspoken.

But he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

He thought about Yuna again.

“There’s no wedding happening. She understands,” he whispered.

Her presence, her support, her acceptance allowed him to be honest without twisting the truth, without hiding pieces of himself.

And even as his chest tightened with longing, he forced himself to breathe slowly, to let this be enough for now.

He could see the sadness in Jake’s eyes, the pain that mirrored his own.

And it nearly broke him to witness it, he wanted to reach out, to take it away, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

He stayed seated, letting the silence stretch between them.

No expectations.

No demands.

No shortcuts.

Just the truth.

And the rest, whether Jake could forgive, whether he could accept him back, whether he had moved on, was Jake’s choice.

Sunghoon repeated it like a mantra, steadying himself

I will never push him. I will never force him. I will only be honest. That’s all I can do.

JAKE

Jake didn’t know how to breathe.

Sunghoon had sat across from him, calm, steady, holding nothing back, except for expectations. He had said the words Jake had longed to hear, yet feared. 

“I remember now. Everything. And I’m… sorry. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I won’t push you. I just needed you to know that you were never forgotten by choice. That’s all.”

It should have been a relief. It should have been joy.

But instead, it hit him like a storm.

Every muscle in his body tightened. His chest ached as though someone had wrapped a steel band around it. The years of pain, the heartbreak, the emptiness, the endless nights imagining Sunghoon’s absence, came rushing back all at once.

He saw Sunghoon’s eyes, so full of guilt, so raw, so honest, and the urge to reach out, to pull him close, to kiss him, to beg him not to come back, it was overwhelming.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t. Not yet.

He loved Sunghoon, he had never stopped, but the weight of what had been lost, the silence, the years apart, the erasure of memories. It was heavy. Crushing. And Jake wasn’t sure he had the strength to step back into that love without trembling.

Sunghoon had done everything right. He hadn’t begged. He hadn’t demanded. He hadn’t tried to win Jake back. He had simply been honest.

And Jake was frozen, caught somewhere between astonishment, sorrow, and an ache that would not leave him.

He wanted to tell Sunghoon that he still loved him, that he had never stopped. But the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t. Not yet.

After the encounter, Sunghoon sent a message, simple, quiet, tentative.

“Jaeyun, I remember. I’m sorry again. I won’t push. I just needed you to know.”

Jake stared at it. And stared. And stared.

And he didn’t reply.

He told Jungwon and Jay about it later. Both listened silently.

“Will you forgive him?” Jay asked quietly.

Jake shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He did know one thing. He still loved him. Still. Every day. Every memory. Every ache in his chest. But the pain, the unbearable, unrelenting pain, was enough to make him pause, to make him doubt, to make him stop himself from reaching out.

And then his phone buzzed.

It was a message from someone he hadn’t expected.

Hello Jake, this is Yuna. I know this is sudden, but can we talk?

Yes. He replied.

When he met her, he barely recognized her. She looked exhausted, eyes rimmed with sleepless nights. But she smiled softly, even through the tears she could not quite hold back.

“Hello,” she started.

Jake forced a small smile. “Hello.”

“I’m not here to fight you,” she said, bowing slightly. “Sunghoon doesn’t know that I'd be meeting you. If anything, I’m here to apologize.”

Jake blinked. “You… what?”

She shook her head, the sadness clear in her expression. “I should apologize. I know you’ve carried so much… because of me, too.” 

Jake’s heart twisted, and he handed her a tissue as tears began to slip down her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, voice tight. “It’s all in the past now.”

But she shook her head again and handed him a paper bag.

Jake looked inside.

It was the gold medal.

He froze, fingers brushing against the cold metal.

“It should be yours,” Yuna said, tears threatening again. “It was yours to begin with. I know Sunghoon just confused what he could remember with what he couldn’t when he gave it to me. But it belongs to you.”

Jake’s chest tightened. He remembered. He remembered the promise, the meaning, the weight of that medal.

“I know,” Yuna added softly, wiping her tears. “Sunghoon has told me, everything.”

And then she cried again, silently, saying sorry for the pain they had all endured.

Jake’s own tears fell, not loud, not dramatic, just unraveling in the middle of the cafe. The medal felt heavy in his hands, not because of the metal, but because of the years it represented, the love, the loss, the pain, and the truth it carried.

“Please forgive Sunghoon if you can,” Yuna said softly.

Jake shook his head, unable to speak. “I don't know if I can. But I… I will think about it.”

Yuna nodded, understanding. “I just… wanted you to know. Sunghoon loves you. He never stopped. Maybe he forgot for a while, but he never forgot the love. And sometimes, I think he’s loved you more than he even understands himself. He talks about you… all the time. Before we got together, before all of this, he always talks about you. And when he was sick, the first person he looked for, the first name he called… it was yours. He doesn’t know why, he just knows his heart was looking for you. So please, Jake.”

Jake took a shaky breath, clutching the medal to his chest. He could feel every ounce of weight, every year, every heartbreak, every thread of love between them.

“I can’t promise you anything, Yuna,” he said finally. “I… I just can’t right now.”

She nodded, the faintest understanding in her eyes. “I know. Thank you for listening. That’s all I needed.”

And with that, she left.

Jake sat alone in the cafe, holding the medal. The silence of the space pressed in on him. The tears came again, this time uncontrolled. Not just for Sunghoon, not just for the love, but for the years, the pain, the longing, the guilt, and the fragile hope that maybe, someday, they could try again.

But for now, he just let himself cry.

Jake sat alone in the cafe, the gold medal resting in his hands. He hadn’t expected Yuna to reach out, and certainly hadn’t expected her to hand over the medal that symbolized everything Sunghoon had achieved and everything he had kept tangled inside himself.

Her words still echoed in his mind, “Sunghoon loves you. He never stopped, maybe he forgot you, but never the love. He kept on mentioning you.”

The weight of it pressed down on him, a mix of relief, heartbreak, and longing. Jake realized how much he had still loved Sunghoon, even in the months of avoidance, even while trying to move on.

He stared at the medal. Gold. Not silver this time, the ultimate culmination of Sunghoon’s dream. And yet, it wasn’t just an achievement; it was a message. A bridge back to him.

He finally typed a message to Sunghoon, 

“Can we meet? I… I want to give you something.”

The reply came, short and calm, 

“Okay.”

When they met, Jake brought the gold medal, careful, hesitant. Sunghoon’s eyes widened as he took it in his hands.

“How… how did you have this?” Sunghoon asked, his voice shaking.

“Yuna gave it to me,” Jake said simply.

Sunghoon’s chest tightened. He whispered, broken, “I hurt… I hurt two people. I’m so sorry, Jaeyun. I’m so, so sorry.”

Jake reached out, lightly resting a hand on Sunghoon’s. He felt his own eyes sting.

Sunghoon sniffled, voice trembling “And that promise… I still remember it. I wanted it to happen. I’ll… I’ll wait for you. I’ll be there. Always.”

Jake looked at him, feeling the pain, the love, the heartbreak reflected in those eyes. But he didn’t push, didn’t speak. He let Sunghoon’s words sink in.

And in that moment, he realized, Sunghoon’s love wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t demanding. It was patient. It was enduring. And somehow, that made it easier for him to breathe.

Weeks after that, with Jay silently forgiving Sunghoon, and even helping him re-enter their friend circle, the dynamics slowly shifted back. 

Whenever they all got together, Sunghoon was present, supportive, always attentive but never pushy. Jay and Jungwon welcomed him like old times. Jake remained neutral at first, friendship only, but Sunghoon’s presence became a constant.

Somewhere along the way, Sungchan became part of the group too. He fit easily, laughed loudly, knew how to talk to everyone, especially Jake. No one questioned it. No one asked when it happened, he was simply there, sometimes taking up space that Sunghoon had once filled.

It bothered Sunghoon more than he wanted to admit. Sometimes it stirred something sharp and irrational in his chest, a flash of anger he swallowed down before it could reach his face. He told himself he had no right. Whatever Jake allowed, whoever Jake welcomed, was Jake’s choice.

So Sunghoon stayed quiet. He stayed kind. He stayed.

Sometimes, both Sunghoon and Sungchan would offer to drive Jake back to his apartment after gatherings. 

Jake hesitated, glancing between them. “Uh… I guess Sungchan can?” Because in Jake’s defense, Sungchan’s place is near his. That’s it. 

“Sure, take care,” Sunghoon said immediately, calm and gentle, with no hint of anger or jealousy. “Make sure he doesn’t drive too fast.”

Sungchan laughed, amused. “Alright, we’ll take care.”

Jake shook his head in disbelief, but smiled. The awkward tension that might have existed years ago was gone, Sunghoon’s love had learned to endure silently, to accept without demanding.

Later, in the car, Sungchan teased Jake relentlessly.

“He doesn’t love me anymore?” Jake asked softly, unsure.

Sungchan laughed, warm and knowing. “No. He loves you so much that he can endure the pain, the jealousy,  just so you won’t get angry at him.”

Jake exhaled, tension finally melting. The feeling of joy returned, subtle but real. Sungchan nudged him playfully. “See? You like it.”

Jake smiled softly, glancing at the window. Sunghoon’s patience, his love, his endurance, it was the kind of love that didn’t demand. The kind that gave Jake space to heal while remaining steadfast.

And for the first time in a long while, Jake allowed himself to hope, just a little, that maybe, in time, the distance between them could shrink again.

JAKE

The annual Christmas vacation was supposed to be fun. Sapporo, Japan, first time for Jay, Jungwon, and even Sungchan. Jake didn’t want to go. Memories of him and Sunghoon there, the first time they met, the times they’d trained together, or he went with Sunghoon for his training, tugged too hard at his chest.

But his friends had never been, and after some prodding, and playful teasing, he agreed. Sunghoon couldn’t come. Training schedules, competitions and hearing that he couldn’t join, Jake felt a hollow ache. But he masked it, acting nonchalant. “It’s fine,” he said, though the words felt bitter in his mouth.

The teasing began the moment they arrived. Jay, ever the mischief-maker, even took a few videos of Jake sulking after seeing Sunghoon’s text. “Look at him!” Jay laughed. “He’s so sad he can’t even ski yet!”

Jake denied it, but deep down, he wished Sunghoon had been there. The ski resort, the slopes, it reminded him painfully of all the moments he wanted to share with Sunghoon, the guidance, the laughter, the warmth.

Morning came, and Jake slipped out to ski alone. Less crowd, more freedom. He could feel the cold bite, the wind against his face, the snow beneath his boots. But as much as he focused, the thought of Sunghoon lingered.

One misstep sent him stumbling, butt-first into the snow.

“Ah!” he cursed, reaching to push himself up, but a hand was already there.

He looked up.

“Sunghoon?”

Goggles off, snow-dusted hair, wide smile, the sight stopped him cold. For a moment, Jake forgot to breathe. Then instinct took over, and he pulled Sunghoon into a hug, almost crushing him before realizing what he was doing.

“I… I’m sorry,” Jake said quietly, stepping back.

Sunghoon shook his head, laughing. “I guess you miss me.”

Jake straightened, trying to hide his fluttering heart. “I… don’t,” he said, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

Sunghoon just laughed, shaking his head. “Cold, huh?”

Jake smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he muttered, trying to focus on walking.

But Sunghoon followed, always a few steps behind. When Jake lost his footing on a slick patch of ice, Sunghoon was there, steadying him, guiding him. By the third slip, Jake didn’t even hesitate.

“Hold me,” he murmured.

Sunghoon’s hand found his hands instantly. Warmth spread through Jake, and he caught himself staring at their hands. A small smile tugged at his lips, something he hadn’t felt in years.

Once at the top, Sunghoon’s grin widened mischievously. “Want to race?”

Jake blinked. “You’re a professional skier and you want me, a normal person, to race?”

Sunghoon laughed. “The last to reach the bottom makes the winner’s wish come true.”

“Anything?” Jake asked cautiously.

“Anything,” Sunghoon confirmed.

Jake took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll go first. You wait five seconds, okay?”

“On my mark,” Sunghoon said.

“Go!”

Jake panicked, starting immediately, flinging himself down the slope.

Halfway through, he glanced back, and Sunghoon was keeping up far better than expected. It made him push harder, adrenaline and laughter mingling in the cold air.

At the bottom, Jake’s victory was short-lived. Sunghoon had stumbled, landing near a patch of rock.

“Sunghoon! Hoon!” Jake called, racing to him.

“I’m okay,” Sunghoon said, brushing snow from his jacket. “Just hit a rock.”

Jake exhaled, relief washing over him, and a smile broke through his worry. “You’re okay?”

Sunghoon nodded, teasing: “You win fair and square. So… what’s your wish?”

Jake hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing on him. “I… I’ll think about it,” he said.

Sunghoon’s grin softened, eyes glinting. “Anything, but please don’t ever ask me to move away from you.”

That stopped Jake. A wave of emotions, the longing, the love, the hope, hit him all at once. He wanted to hug Sunghoon, hold him forever, but he controlled himself.

“Okay,” Jake said finally. “I will never.”

Sunghoon’s face lit up, and he said softly, “Let’s go,” guiding Jake back up the slope. But Jake knew in his chest, in the warmth of their hands brushing, in the strength of Sunghoon’s presence, that some things had already begun to heal.

SUNGHOON

Sunghoon had sent the bitterest chat he could muster “Can’t join you all, training schedule.”

It was the truth mostly. But underneath, it was a pang of jealousy he refused to acknowledge. Sapporo with Jake, and now Sungchan, of all people, should have made him furious, but he knew better. Jake didn’t deserve his bitterness. He didn’t even have the right.

But when plans shifted, when he begged their coach to let him go for a quick Christmas break, he couldn’t resist. He’d follow them quietly, coordinate with Jay to know the itinerary, and surprise them. He didn’t book the same flight as Jake, he wanted it to be unexpected.

The morning on the slopes, Sunghoon had watched Jake ski ahead, the way he always did, early and precise. And when Jake stumbled on the ice, his heart leapt. He could’ve stayed hidden, let him flounder, he didn’t.

“Hold on,” he called out, grabbing Jake’s hand.

The hug that followed, everything he had been holding in for months, the longing, the love, the guilt, boiled over. He knew Jake had missed him. He missed Jake. If he could, he would have kissed him right there, in the crisp winter air.

Later, the race. Sunghoon knew he couldn’t push Jake to forgive him, he couldn’t even ask for it. So he let himself stumble near the finish, let Jake win. And when he asked Jake, “So… what’s your wish?” His heart pounded, Jake can wish for anything, but please don’t ever ask him to move away from him.

Jake looked at him, eyes soft but steady. “I will never,” he said.

And for the first time in months, Sunghoon could breathe again.

Breakfast with the group was… complicated. Everyone else had already started. Jungwon gasped when he saw him. Sungchan grinned, delighted. But Sunghoon froze, spotting the person clinging to Jake, a young man laughing, kissing him on the forehead.

Who is this? Sunghoon’s mind raced. The instinct to be rude, to stake some claim, flared, but then he caught himself. No. Jake doesn’t need me to be jealous. This isn’t my place.

Sungchan laughed, gently kissed the man’s cheeks. “Please don’t be jealous of Shotaro. He’s my boyfriend, and he loves Jake like a child.”

Sunghoon blinked, bewildered. The group laughed, and even Jake gestured for him to come sit beside him.

Grateful, conflicted, relieved, and longing all at once, Sunghoon slid into the seat next to Jake. The warmth of him was there again, quiet and steady, and for now, that was enough.

Sunghoon stayed close enough to be noticed, but distant enough to give Jake space. He didn’t push, he didn’t intrude. He simply smiled at the way Jake laughed, the small gestures that had once been theirs alone. There was no jealousy, no possessiveness, just steady love.

When it was time to head out to the slopes again, Jake glanced back at Sunghoon. “You’re coming?” he asked.

Sunghoon nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

On the mountain, Sunghoon matched Jake’s pace, skiing beside him without crowding him. When Jake stumbled over a patch of ice, Sunghoon’s hand was there, steady, warm, but never lingering. Just enough to make sure Jake didn’t fall, just enough to let him feel Sunghoon’s presence.

“You okay?” Sunghoon asked softly.

“Yeah,” Jake said, surprised at how comfortable it felt to have Sunghoon right there. “Thanks.”

Sunghoon smiled, brushing a bit of snow from Jake’s jacket. “Always. That’s all I want, to be here” 

No pressure, no asking, no expecting. Just him being there for Jake.

And that was enough. Jake felt the tension in his chest ease slightly. No confessions, no dramatic gestures, just the quiet constancy of Sunghoon’s presence. It was bittersweet, but grounding.

JAKE

The last day in Japan was bright but bittersweet. Jake kept glancing at the clock, trying not to dwell on the fact that Sunghoon’s flight was later than his own. Every time he thought about it, a hollow pang settled in his chest. Jay and Jungwon noticed, teasing relentlessly.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a short flight. You’ll be fine,” Jungwon said.

Jake ignored them, staring out the window.

Meanwhile, Sunghoon laughed with the others, light and easy, making Jake’s heart ache.

“Why are you laughing?” Jake asked finally, his brow furrowed. “Are you happy we’ll be separated?”

Sunghoon looked at him, surprised by the question, then smiled softly. “Of course not, I’d be sad. But what can I do?”

Jake nodded, trying to hide his relief.

“You can always hide in my luggage,” Jake said, and Sunghoon blinked, unsure if he’d heard him right.

Jay laughed loudly. “Sunghoon is a big man Jake, that’s impossible!”

Sunghoon just grinned, digging into his bag. “If you want, you can ditch them and be with me instead.”

He pulled out two first-class plane tickets, one with Sunghoon’s name, the other with Jake’s.

The group erupted. “Woah! Sunghoon, you’re rich!” someone teased.

Jake’s chest tightened, but this time with pure happiness. He didn’t even think, he just smiled, accepted the ticket, and muttered, “Okay.”

Jungwon grinned, nudging him. “Wow, you look so happy ditching us.”

Jake laughed, shaking his head. “It’s first class…”

But he knew the truth, it wasn’t the luxury that made him happy. It was Sunghoon.

With hours to spare before their flight, they stayed in the hotel room. The morning felt gentle, unhurried, like a world apart from the chaos outside.

“What’s your wish?” Sunghoon asked, casually handing Jake a cup of coffee.

Jake shrugged. “I… can’t think of anything yet.”

“Then tell me whenever you’re ready,” Sunghoon said softly. “Whenever, wherever, whatever it is.”

Jake looked at him, warmth blooming in his chest. He nodded and smiled.

On the flight back to South Korea, Sunghoon stayed close. He didn’t need to be dramatic, didn’t need to speak endlessly. Just being there was enough. Jake, in turn, felt the familiar comfort of having him near. The familiar rhythm of their friendship, their love, had returned, subtle, gentle, real.

He didn’t post about the first-class seats in their group chat this time,  it felt private, theirs alone. And somehow, that made everything feel more familiar, more like home.

Back in South Korea, life settled into a comforting pattern. Sunghoon stayed as much as he could when he didn’t have training. Friday movie nights resumed, just like before the accident, before the amnesia. Sunghoon was attentive, present, and Jake could feel it in every shared laugh, every small gesture.

And when it is time for Sunghoon to leave, sometimes Jake wished he wouldn’t. Sometimes he hoped it would rain, just for an excuse for him to stay.

“You can always ask me to stay,” Sunghoon said once, handing over his jacket before leaving.

Jake nodded, stunned into silence. “We can watch more,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Sunghoon grinned back. “This is not the wish you have, right?”

Jake laughed softly. “Not counted.”

“Is that why you never asked me to stay?” Sunghoon teased. “Afraid I’d count that as your wish?”

Jake only nodded, focusing on the movie.

“You can always ask me anything,” Sunghoon added softly.

Jake looked at him, shy, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay,” he whispered.

Midway through the movie, Jake felt his head grow heavy and let it tilt onto Sunghoon’s shoulder. He slowed his breathing, eyes fluttering shut, pretending to fall asleep.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

Jake felt it then, the slight tension in his shoulder, the careful stillness, as if Sunghoon was afraid even the smallest movement might wake him. Jake stayed quiet, listening.

Then, almost lost beneath the dialogue of the movie, Sunghoon whispered, so softly it felt like a secret meant only for the dark, 

“Jaeyun-ah, I love you so much.”

Jake’s chest tightened.

He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to turn, to say it back, to make it real and spoken. But he didn’t. He stayed still, letting the words settle into him, letting himself feel them fully.

The next morning, Jake woke alone on the couch, a blanket tucked carefully around his shoulders. The apartment was quiet, but the kitchen light was on. Breakfast waited on the table.

A note lay beside it:

“I’ll get going, early training. Please eat well.”

Jake’s hands trembled as he folded the paper.

Sunghoon had been there. Present. Constant. Choosing him without asking for anything in return.

And in that small, ordinary act, Jake realized something he hadn’t dared to hope for yet, a part of him had healed.

He still loved Sunghoon. Deeply.

And for the first time in years, it felt safe to let himself feel it.

The open training competition was supposed to be light. Casual. A way for fans to watch the athletes train up close, to cheer without pressure, to see the work behind the medals. The rink buzzed with excitement, phones raised, quiet gasps every time a skater passed by too fast, too clean, too perfect.

Jake stood in the audience with Jay, Jungwon, Sungchan, and Shotaro, arms crossed tight over his chest despite the warmth of the venue. He tried to look calm, tried to blend into the crowd, but his eyes never left the ice.

Sunghoon was beautiful out there.

Every movement was precise, sharp, effortless. Jake felt that familiar ache in his chest, pride tangled with fear, love laced with memories he never wanted to relive. He told himself this was different. Sunghoon was fine. He was healed. He remembered.

Midway through the session, cheers erupted louder than before. A few kids had slipped past the barriers, laughing, running along the edge of the rink. Jake felt it before it happened, that sharp, like an animal instinct clawing at his ribs.

“Hey—” someone shouted.

Sunghoon turned.

One of the kids slipped, tumbling toward the ice. Sunghoon reacted on instinct, swerving hard to avoid them.

The sound came first.

A sharp crack. Skates scraping. A body hitting the ice wrong.

Jake didn’t remember screaming, but suddenly his throat burned and his vision blurred. Sunghoon lay still.

Everything collapsed.

Medics rushed in, voices overlapping, hands moving too fast. Jake couldn’t hear anything except the echo of the past, the same ice, the same stillness, the same unbearable quiet. His knees nearly gave out, Jay catching him just in time.

“No,” Jake whispered, over and over. “Please no, not again.”

They said it wasn’t as serious. That there was no major concussion. That Sunghoon had lost consciousness briefly, that he needed rest, that he would wake up soon.

But Jake had heard those words before.

In the hospital waiting room, time stretched cruelly. The walls were too white. The air is too thin. Jake clasped his hands together so tightly his fingers hurt, praying without words, begging without sound.

Please wake up.

Please remember me.

Please don’t forget again.

Jay squeezed his shoulder. Jungwon spoke softly. “He will wake up hyung, and he will remember you. He will. This time is different.”

Jake nodded, but the fear wouldn’t loosen its grip. The thought came uninvited, sharp and devastating, what if the forgetting comes back? What if love isn’t enough this time?

He stood abruptly.

“I— I need air.”

Before anyone could stop him, Jake ran.

The nearest church was silent, dim, empty except for the hum of silence. He dropped into a pew, breath shaking, tears finally spilling. He bowed his head, palms pressed together like they were the only thing holding him upright.

“I’ll give it up,” he whispered. “The wish. I won’t ask him for anything. I’ll give it to you. Just… Please wake him up. Please let him remember me.”

His shoulders shook. “Please.”

When he returned to the hospital, chest tight and eyes red, he barely made it through the doors before a doctor stepped out.

“He’s awake.”

Jake froze.

Jay entered the room first, then immediately turned back, eyes wide, voice urgent.

“Jake,” he said softly. “He’s looking for you.”

Something inside Jake broke open. He almost crouched down right there, hands over his face, but his feet moved before his fear could stop them.

The room was quiet.

Sunghoon lay in the bed, bandaged, pale and alive.

“Jaeyun,” he said.

That was all it took.

Jake crossed the room in seconds and hugged him carefully, desperately, like letting go might undo everything. Sunghoon lifted one arm with effort, wrapping it around him, smiling through tears.

“I love you, Jaeyun.”

Jake sobbed openly now, nodding against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to Sunghoon’s forehead like a prayer answered.

“Me too,” he whispered. “Me too. I love you.”

Sunghoon’s tears slipped free, and Jake wiped them away with trembling fingers, like he was afraid they’d disappear if he blinked.

Behind them, their friends cried quietly too, witnesses to something fragile, hard-earned, and real.

This time, the ice didn’t take him away.

This time, love stayed.

Sunghoon’s apartment slowly stopped feeling like a place Jake was visiting.

It felt lived in again.

Jake slept on the couch at first, then on the spare bed, then somehow woke up one morning tangled in blankets beside Sunghoon, neither of them questioning when that change happened. He cooked porridge, reminded Sunghoon to take his meds, and scolded him gently for trying to stand too soon. Sunghoon listened, mostly, smiling like being cared for was its own kind of healing.

His mom dropped by one afternoon without warning.

Jake panicked and apologized for being there, but she smiled softly, cried and said “welcome back”. Later that week, Yeji came.

The moment she saw Jake, she broke.

She cried so hard Jake didn’t even have time to greet her properly. She hugged him like she’d been holding her breath for years, apologizing through sobs, telling him she should have come sooner, that she didn’t attend the engagement party, that she didn’t know how to face him then.

Jake cried with her.

It felt like being acknowledged,  finally, as someone real, someone who had always been there.

Sunghoon watched them from the doorway, eyes red, heart full and heavy at the same time.

Eventually, healing did what healing always does.

Sunghoon grew stronger. Training resumed. Life found its rhythm again.

And one day, Jake packed his bag and went back to his own apartment.

They still texted. Still called. Still sent each other photos of mundane things, meals, skies, dogs, but  Jake felt it creeping in slowly, that hollow sense of what am I now?

He missed Sunghoon in a way that wasn’t loud. Just constant.

So one evening, he asked.

Do you want to come over?

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

He showed up with groceries, bags in both hands, shoes kicked off at the door like it was muscle memory. They cooked together, bumped elbows, and laughed quietly. It felt so normal it almost hurt.

“I missed you,” Sunghoon said suddenly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

Jake froze.

Then he dropped the spoon and hugged him, tight, honest, desperate in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be before.

“I miss you too,” Jake whispered into his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

When they sat down to eat again, Sunghoon watched Jake carefully, eyes thoughtful.

“Do you…” he hesitated, then asked softly, “do you have your wish already?”

Jake paused mid-bite.

He looked up at Sunghoon, and smiled, gentle, peaceful, certain.

“It was already granted,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Sunghoon’s brows furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

Jake shook his head, still smiling, like some truths didn’t need to be explained out loud.

“It’s already been given,” he said simply. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Sunghoon stared at him for a second longer, then nodded.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe it always has been.

SUNGHOON

Slowly, silently, Sunghoon realized something terrifying and beautiful.

They were going back.

Not rushing. Not pretending nothing broke.

But inch by inch, back to each other.

Jake stayed over more often. Sunghoon left things at Jake’s place without meaning to. Toothbrush. Hoodie. The training jacket Jake liked because it still smelled like ice. His love for Jake didn’t return,  it never left. It had just been waiting, enduring, deepening under guilt and silence.

If anything, it had grown stronger.

Because love that survives forgetting, loss, and regret isn’t fragile.

It’s forged.

That’s why Jake’s words unsettled him.

His wish, it was already granted.

It felt unfair.

Unfair that Jake had made a wish and Sunghoon didn’t even know what it was.

“What is it?” Sunghoon asked again, voice soft but insistent.

“What did you wish for that was granted? Granted by whom?”

Jake smiled, not teasing, not evasive. Just gentle.

“By you.”

Sunghoon frowned, thinking hard, replaying memories, conversations, and promises. He couldn’t remember Jake asking for anything. Not once.

“Please tell me,” Sunghoon said. “What was it? Was it worth it?”

Jake nodded without hesitation.

He sighed, like he was finally setting something down.

“I wished for you to recover,” Jake said.

“And to remember me.”

Sunghoon didn’t let him finish.

He reached out, held Jake’s face, and kissed him, slow, careful, like touching something sacred.

Because suddenly he understood.

How terrified Jake must have been.

How helpless.

How much love it took to wish for memory instead of something else.

Sunghoon broke.

Tears fell before he could stop them.

“I’m sorry, Jaeyun-ah,” he whispered against Jake’s forehead.

“Im so sorry.”

Jake looked at him, eyes wet, unguarded.

“I will never forget you again,” Sunghoon said, voice shaking.

“Never. I swear.”

Jake smiled through tears, and Sunghoon hugged him tightly, like letting go would undo everything.

“So please,” Sunghoon said, pulling back just enough to look at him,

“that doesn’t count as your wish.”

Jake blinked.

“Please wish for something again,” Sunghoon said. “Anything.”

Jake stared at him for a long moment, tears slipping free.

“Really?”

Sunghoon nodded and kissed his forehead.

Jake inhaled, steadying himself.

“Then…” he said softly, “come back to me, Sunghoon. Let’s go back to whatever we had before. I need you.”

For a second, Sunghoon couldn’t breathe.

Then everything became very clear.

“I love you, Jaeyun,” he said.

“I love you.”

It was the only answer he had. It was enough.

They didn’t announce it right away.

It just happened.

Friday movie nights became their nights again. Sunghoon stopped going home. Jake stopped pretending he didn’t want him to stay. Jay rolled his eyes but smiled. Jungwon hugged them both. Yeji cried again this time happily.

Someone joked, “So you’re officially back?”

Jake smiled and nodded.

A few months later, they moved, not back to the old place, not forward too fast, just somewhere new. A place without ghosts. A place they could fill together.

Sunghoon taped a note on the fridge.

Wishes don’t always come true immediately.

But the ones made honestly, from the deepest part of your heart—

They always find their way home.

Jake added underneath, in messy handwriting:

Especially when love is patient enough to wait.

And this time they stayed.

They came home late.

Friday nights were always like this, movie credits still rolling in Jake’s head, laughter lingering in his ears. He kicked off his shoes, stretching, already half-expecting to hear Jay complaining about snacks or Jungwon asking what they’d watch next week.

But the apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

“Did everyone leave already?” Jake asked, glancing back.

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just reached for Jake’s hand.

“Come on,” he said.

Jake frowned, confused but compliant, letting himself be pulled toward the elevator instead of the couch. “Wait—where are we going?”

“Rooftop.”

That made Jake pause. “Now?”

Sunghoon smiled, small and unreadable. “Yeah. Now.”

The rooftop was lit softly, nothing dramatic, just warm string lights, the kind you’d see at small gatherings. The city hummed below them, distant and alive. There were blankets laid out, drinks on a small table, and familiar figures standing near the edge.

Jay.

Jungwon.

Sungchan.

Shotaro.

Jake blinked. “Oh—were we meeting up again? You guys are sneaky.”

They all smiled. Jay looked oddly emotional. Jungwon refused to make eye contact. Sungchan was grinning like he knew something Jake didn’t. Shotaro waved gently.

Something twisted in Jake’s chest.

Before he could ask anything else, Sunghoon stepped forward.

The others didn’t say a word. They simply, stayed back.

Sunghoon took Jake’s hands.

Jake laughed nervously. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sunghoon inhaled, steadying himself. His voice wasn’t shaking, but Jake could feel it, the weight behind it.

“I’ve spent so much of my life believing I had to earn the right to choose happiness,” Sunghoon said.

“Win something. Prove something. Be enough first.”

Jake’s smile faded.

“But loving you,” Sunghoon continued, eyes locked on his,

“was never something I had to earn. I just knew.”

Jake’s breath caught.

“I don’t need medals. I don’t need promises tied to victories,” Sunghoon said softly.

“Even without all of that, without anything, I would still choose you.”

Then Sunghoon lowered himself onto one knee.

Jake froze.

“Jaeyun,” Sunghoon said, voice breaking just slightly now,

“Will you marry me?”

The city disappeared.

The cold air. The lights. The people watching.

All Jake could see was him.

“Yes,” Jake whispered, already crying.

“Yes. I’d marry you even without anything. I’d marry you just like this.”

Sunghoon laughed, breathless, standing up only to pull Jake into him. Jake clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, forehead pressed to Sunghoon’s chest.

“I love you,” Sunghoon murmured.

“I always have.”

“I know,” Jake sobbed. “I know.”

Behind them, Jay wiped his eyes. Jungwon smiled, wide and soft, like he’d known all along. Sungchan hugged Shotaro. 

Above them, the night stretched open and endless.

No medals.

No victories.

No conditions.

Just a simple truth, spoken out loud at last:

Even without gold,

they would still choose each other.

THE FIRST MEETING: SUNGHOON 

Sunghoon had learned early not to look where he wasn’t supposed to.

Competitions demanded focus. Training demanded repetition. Everything else, faces in the crowd, voices, fleeting moments, was noise. He had trained himself to let it all blur past him, the same way snow blurred beneath his skis when he moved fast enough.

Japan was cold in a way he liked. Clean. Sharp. The mountains in Hokkaido reminded him of discipline, tall, silent, unmoving. He was there for training, not a full competition this time, but the course was set like one. Steep, technical, unforgiving. Exactly how he preferred it.

When he reached the top of the slope, he adjusted his gloves, tested the edges of his skis, and pushed off.

The run was smooth. His body remembered what to do before his mind could interfere. Turn, carve, launch, land. Air rushed past his ears. The world narrowed to white and speed and instinct.

At the bottom, he slowed to a stop.

That was when he noticed him.

A boy stood near the edge of the slope, holding a snowboard under one arm. Smaller than Sunghoon. Slim, bundled in winter gear that looked a little too casual for the cold. He wasn’t watching the tourists. He wasn’t watching the instructors.

He was watching Sunghoon.

The intensity of it startled him.

Sunghoon reached up and pulled off his goggles, more out of reflex than intention. Their eyes met.

For a brief second, everything felt suspended. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just still, like the pause at the peak of a jump before gravity took over.

Then someone called out from behind him.

“Jake, Hurry Up!!”

The boy flinched, turned quickly, and nearly tripped over his own boots as he hurried away.

Sunghoon watched his retreating figure longer than he should have.

Jake.

The name lingered, unfamiliar but oddly fitting.

A foreigner, maybe. His accent, when he laughed with his family, had been different. Sunghoon shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to notice strangers.

He put his goggles back on and headed up for another run.

Still, the image followed him.

The next morning, Sunghoon came early.

He liked the silence before the mountain woke up, before tourists crowded the slopes and instructors raised their voices. The snow was untouched, smooth like a blank page.

He was halfway through warming up when he heard it.

A soft thud.

Then another.

Sunghoon slowed, turning toward the beginner slope.

It was him.

Jake stood awkwardly on a pair of bright blue skis, poles splayed uselessly at his sides. He pushed forward, wobbled, tried to correct himself, and promptly fell backward into the snow.

Sunghoon stared.

Then he laughed.

It slipped out before he could stop it. Not mocking. Just being fond of the other.

Jake groaned, rubbing his lower back, clearly debating whether dignity was worth getting up for.

Sunghoon skied over without thinking.

“Here.”

He extended a hand.

Jake looked up, startled, then took it. His grip was warm even through gloves.

“Thanks,” Jake said, breathless.

Sunghoon nodded. “First time skiing?”

Jake hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“I saw you snowboarding yesterday.”

Jake blinked. “You did?”

Sunghoon shrugged. “Skiing and snowboarding are different, but the balance, the weight shifts, the edges, they’re similar. You can use some of what you already know.”

Jake frowned like he was trying very hard to understand, and Sunghoon found himself smiling again.

He removed his goggles.

Jake froze.

Recognition flickered across his face, followed by something like awe.

“Park Sunghoon,” Sunghoon said, holding out his hand properly this time.

“Sim Jaeyun,” Jake replied, shaking it. “But you can call me Jake.”

Sunghoon nodded. “Okay.”

He spent the next hour teaching Jake how not to fall.

Or, more accurately, how to fall less.

Jake stumbled constantly, laughed at himself, apologized too much. He listened carefully, tried hard, and looked genuinely proud every time he improved even a little.

Sunghoon told himself he was just being polite. That helping someone was normal.

Still, he stayed longer than he needed to.

When Jake finally managed a full run without falling, he threw his arms into the air like he’d won something.

“I did it!”

Sunghoon smiled. “Good. That’s the first of many.”

They stopped near the edge of the slope, both slightly out of breath.

“I owe you,” Jake said suddenly. “Do you… want ice cream?”

Sunghoon laughed. “Ice cream?”

Jake’s ears turned red. “Sorry, in Australia, I usually give ice cream. It’s a tropical country—”

“I’m kidding,” Sunghoon said quickly. “You don’t have to give me anything. Teaching you was actually… nice.”

Nice.

The word surprised him.

“You’re almost my age,” he added, as if that explained anything. “Not a kid.”

“What does that even mean?” Jake said. “And I can be younger than you.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“19.”

“I’m 19 too. Actually, I just turned 19 last December 8.” He is not sure why is he giving his birthday to stranger like that. 

Jake gasped. “I just turned 19 last November 15!!”

Sunghoon smirked, teasing Jake is fun. “See? I’m younger than you.”

“What? By… 23 days? That’s not even a month” Jake protested.

“It still counts.”

Then Sunghoon said, lightly, without thinking too much about it, “Alright, Jake hyung, you don’t have to give me ice cream. Just be my friend”

Jake is still sulking. “I can’t be friends with someone younger than me”

Sunghoon chased after him, laughing.

“I’m just kidding, Jake. Yah! be my friend. And let’s be friends in Korea too.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Sunghoon wasn’t the type to ask someone to be his friend. He never had to. His schedule was always full, his circle already solid, loyalty something that came naturally without being requested.

But with Jake, the words had come out easily, almost instinctively, before he could stop himself.

Until Jake finally turned back and said, “Okay.”

Something settled in Sunghoon’s chest.

Comfortable. Warm. Familiar.

Sunghoon didn’t understand why that single word made him feel oddly victorious.

Later, much later, he would tell himself this was normal. Making friends was easy. That Jake was just easy to like. Bright. Earnest. Kind in a way that didn’t ask for anything in return.

He had a girlfriend.

He wasn’t confused.

He wasn’t attracted.

This was just friendship.

That’s what he told himself when they exchanged numbers.

When they met again in Korea.

When college turned into shared meals, shared space, shared silences.

When they decided to share an apartment near campus.

Sunghoon would think back to the snow, to that ridiculous ice cream offer, and smile, unaware that this was the moment his life had already begun bending towards Jake.

THE FIRST TIME HE KNEW: SUNGHOON 

It happened on a Friday.

It always did.

Movie night, cramped sofa, half-finished snacks, Jake laughing too loud at things that weren’t even funny. Sungchan came too, of course. Everyone who knew Jake knew Sungchan. He hovered, obvious, shameless, affectionate in ways that made Sunghoon’s jaw tighten every time.

Sunghoon told himself it didn’t matter.

He told himself Jake didn’t like Sungchan like that.

Still, it burned.

When Sungchan finally left, waving cheerfully like he belonged there, something in Sunghoon snapped.

“Why did you invite him?” Sunghoon asked, sharper than he meant to.

Jake froze. Then turned.

“Why can you invite Sohyun,” Jake shot back, voice raised, “but I can’t invite anyone?”

That stopped him.

“What?” Sunghoon said. “You’re okay with Sohyun. She’s my girlfriend.”

Jake laughed, humorless and tired.

“So should I accept Sungchan as my boyfriend then?” Jake asked.

“So he can join us every movie night?” Jake added. 

Sunghoon’s chest tightened.

“You don’t even like him like that,” he said.

Jake looked at him, anger flashing, then something worse.

“How do you know?” Jake asked.

“What do you know?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer.

Because suddenly,  he didn’t know.

“I know because I can see it,” Sunghoon said instead.

Jake’s shoulders dropped.

“You’re being selfish, Sunghoon.”

The words landed harder than any accusation.

“Okay,” Sunghoon muttered, desperate to regain control.

“Then don’t ever do that again.”

“Why?” Jake asked.

Sunghoon opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because Sungchan was kind. Smart. Good to Jake.

And the truth, the terrifying truth, was that it wasn’t about Sungchan at all.

It was about the image of Jake with anyone.

Jake walked into his room without another word.

That night, Sunghoon didn’t sleep.

And in the early morning, he found Jake asleep on the sofa, curled slightly, hair falling into his eyes, peaceful in a way that felt unfair.

Sunghoon stood there, heart aching.

That’s why.

He loved Jake.

Not like a friend.

Not like a habit.

But in a way that twisted his stomach and made him jealous and afraid and unwilling to share.

The realization terrified him.

So he avoided Jake.

And missed him.

Distance only made it worse.

When Jake texted Where are you? Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. He went home, wrapped his arms around him, and Jake hugged him back like he’d been waiting.

“Please,” Jake whispered, “let’s not fight anymore.”

Sunghoon nodded against his shoulder.

They promised Friday nights would be theirs again.

Not long after, Sunghoon broke up with Sohyun.

He didn’t explain much. He didn’t have to.

Then came the competition.

The silver medal.

Sunghoon held it in his hands and knew, knew, it wasn’t his alone.

So he gave it to Jake.

Not as a trophy.

As a confession.

Jake understood.

And that’s how it started.

No dramatic question.

No formal words.

Just two people finally admitting what had been there all along.

And years later, after forgetting, losing, breaking, remembering, Sunghoon still knew. 

The first wish he ever made was loving Jake.

And it was the only one that never failed him.