The door creaked open, and Jiho stepped inside, his eyes immediately catching the strange sight before him.
There, at the center of the room, stood Gyeonwoo—far too close to Seong-ah.
For a fleeting second, the atmosphere was strange. Gyeonwoo's posture was tense, his face shadowed with confusion, while "Seong-ah" tilted her head with an almost mischievous innocence that didn't belong to her. Jiho's sharp eyes narrowed. He wasn't fooled.
That's not Seong-ah's gaze… that's Bongsu.
The realization flickered through him, and he nearly scoffed. Before he could say anything, Gyeonwoo flinched back as if Jiho's sudden appearance had burned him. He distanced himself so quickly it almost looked like he had been caught red-handed.
"Ah—Jiho," Gyeonwoo muttered, trying to compose himself.
But Jiho had already seen enough. He didn't comment, though. He only shoved his hands into his pockets and let out a long breath. These idiots are going to drive me insane, he thought grimly.
---
Later that evening, the tension still lingered between them. To shake it off, Jiho dragged Gyeonwoo to a nearby arcade. The glowing neon signs lit up the night, buzzing faintly, and the clatter of coins and cheerful chimes filled the air.
They stopped before a row of claw machines, their glass boxes stacked with colorful plushies staring back at them like little silent judges. Jiho fed a coin into the slot, gripping the joystick with focus.
Gyeonwoo leaned against the side of the machine, arms crossed, his face twisted in thought.
"You know," Jiho started casually, eyes still fixed on the moving claw, "that's not really Seong-ah."
Gyeonwoo's jaw tightened. "…I know."
Jiho tilted the joystick carefully, releasing the claw. It missed, and the plushie slipped from its grasp. He sighed but didn't give up.
"But I don't want to hurt her," Gyeonwoo muttered finally. His voice was low, heavy with guilt. "Even if it's Bongsu in there, that's still her body. I can't—"
Jiho turned slightly, his gaze sharp. "Yeah. I know you can't. But listen, Gyeonwoo."
The claw descended again, and this time Jiho's timing was perfect. The plushie was scooped up, dangling helplessly in the machine's grip. Jiho smirked as it dropped into the slot, then bent down to retrieve it.
He brushed the soft fabric against his fingers before pushing it into Gyeonwoo's chest.
"Don't forget—Bongsu isn't trying to cause trouble either. He's just as considerate for Seong-ah as we are. You saw him cry, didn't you? That wasn't a trick. That was real."
Gyeonwoo stared at the plush toy in his hands. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. He remembered Bongsu's tears—the way his shoulders had shaken, the raw grief that didn't belong to a prankster. It had burned into his memory more than he wanted to admit.
"…Tch." Gyeonwoo looked away, his ears faintly red. "You're too good at this, Jiho."
Jiho smirked, slipping his hands back into his hoodie pocket. "Nah. I just know when someone deserves forgiveness."
For the first time that day, Gyeonwoo's lips curved into a small, reluctant smile. He gripped the plushie tighter, as if it was more than just a silly toy—maybe a little bridge of understanding.
And somewhere, Jiho thought with a quiet sigh of relief, maybe this was the start of fixing what was already breaking.
The neon glow of the arcade faded behind them as Jiho and Gyeonwoo stepped out into the night. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of street food from vendors who were still packing up for the evening. Cars hummed in the distance, their headlights slicing through the dark, but on this narrow street it was quiet, almost peaceful.
Jiho shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, walking with an easy stride. Beside him, Gyeonwoo toyed with the small plushie Jiho had won for him, his thumb brushing over its stitched smile as though it might give him an answer to the turmoil in his chest.
"You're really planning to keep that thing?" Jiho asked, his tone teasing but not cruel.
Gyeonwoo shot him a sideways glance. "What, you want it back?"
Jiho smirked. "Please. I don't need some wide-eyed rabbit staring at me from my bed. I only got it so you wouldn't mope around like an abandoned puppy."
"Tch. You're annoying." Gyeonwoo clicked his tongue, but there was no bite in his words. He looked down at the plush again, his grip tightening unconsciously. "…Thanks."
They walked in silence for a moment, the rhythm of their footsteps steady on the pavement. The streetlamps bathed them in pools of light, their shadows stretching long behind them.
"You know," Jiho spoke up again, voice softer now, "Seong-ah's caught in the middle of all this too. She didn't ask for Bongsu to… well, be in her."
Gyeonwoo sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. That's why I can't bring myself to hate him. I don't like it, but—damn it, Jiho—he cried like he was falling apart. What am I supposed to do? Pretend I didn't see it?"
Jiho gave him a sideways look, his sharp eyes studying him for a moment. "…No. That's exactly why I told you to give him the plush. Sometimes forgiveness doesn't come in words. It comes in small things. It's not about the doll, Gyeonwoo. It's about you choosing not to hold the knife to his throat."
Gyeonwoo scoffed, though his ears burned faintly red. "…When did you get so poetic?"
Jiho grinned. "I read a fortune cookie earlier. Said I'd sound wise today."
That pulled a short laugh from Gyeonwoo—reluctant, but real. The heaviness between them thinned, if only a little.
The two of them turned the last corner, their shared house finally coming into view. The windows were lit faintly, warm against the night, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Gyeonwoo stopped in his tracks, staring at the front door. The plushie sat in his palm like a test he wasn't sure he could pass. "What if she—what if he—laughs at me? Or worse, what if Seong-ah comes back and thinks I'm… treating her weirdly?"
Jiho's voice dropped low, steady. "Then deal with it when it comes. But right now? Bongsu needs a reason to believe he's not hated. And Seong-ah—when she returns—she'll feel it too. That kindness you're giving."
Silence stretched between them. Gyeonwoo finally exhaled, shoulders sagging. He tucked the plushie under his arm and started toward the door.
Jiho lingered for a moment, watching his friend. The usually sharp and untouchable Gyeonwoo looked almost vulnerable now, weighed down not by anger but by care he didn't know how to express. Jiho smirked faintly to himself and followed.
"Don't trip on your own feelings before you get inside," Jiho muttered.
"Shut up," Gyeonwoo shot back, though there was no venom in it.
The two stepped into the light of the house, carrying with them the fragile thread of understanding they had begun to weave.
The bedroom was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed on the walls like it had weight. Bongsu—still in Seong-ah's body—sat on the edge of the bed, his posture small, like someone trying to take up as little space as possible. His hands were twisted in his lap, and the faint redness around his eyes hadn't yet faded.
The door creaked open. Gyeonwoo stepped inside, holding the plush doll awkwardly against his chest. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at Bongsu as though the right words might suddenly write themselves in the air.
"…Here," Gyeonwoo finally said, his voice rough. He walked forward and set the plush gently in Bongsu's lap. "Take it."
Bongsu blinked, his lips parting. His hands trembled slightly as he touched the soft fabric, and for the first time that night, something fragile and childlike flickered across his face.
"I'm sorry," Gyeonwoo added, the words tumbling out heavier than he expected. "For being harsh. For acting like you don't matter. You… you do."
Bongsu swallowed, then gave a small, firm nod, his throat too tight to form words.
Silence stretched. Gyeonwoo shifted uneasily before speaking again. "…Send me to her. Please. To Seong-ah. I need to see her."
Bongsu looked up at him, startled, but then slowly closed his eyes. The world around Gyeonwoo began to blur, the bedroom dissolving into haze. Colors swirled like spilled paint until everything went black.
---
When his vision cleared, Gyeonwoo found himself standing in Seong-ah's classroom. The desks were empty, sunlight slanting across the floor in golden lines. The faint smell of chalk hung in the air. His heart pounded—it felt too real.
He walked toward the cupboard at the side of the room, every step echoing in the stillness. As he turned, his breath caught.
Seong-ah stood there.
Her expression softened with relief, but almost immediately shifted into confusion. "Bongsu?" she whispered, her brows furrowing. She thought it was him—Bongsu wearing Gyeonwoo's skin again.
Before she could say more, Gyeonwoo moved. In two strides he closed the distance and pulled her into his arms, clutching her as though she might disappear if he let go.
"Don't go, Seong-ah," he pleaded, his voice breaking against her shoulder. "Please… don't go."
Her body stiffened in his embrace. The warmth, the trembling in his voice—it wasn't Bongsu. Her eyes widened, realization flooding in. "…Gyeonwoo?"
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes fierce with desperation. "It's me. Not him. Just me."
Tears brimmed in her eyes, her lips trembling. "No, Gyeonwoo… I can't. I may hurt you. If I stay, I'll only drag you into this mess. I don't want you to suffer because of me."
But Gyeonwoo only shook his head, holding her tighter. "I don't care. Let me suffer. Let me hurt. Just don't push me away, Seong-ah. I'd rather break with you than live without you."
The classroom seemed to blur around them, the dream trembling on the edge of fading—but in that fragile moment, all that existed was his desperate grip and her wavering heart.
The dream-classroom shifted, growing warmer as if time itself was softening its edges. Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo sat side by side at their old benches, the sunlight spilling lazily across their desks. It almost felt like the past was reaching out to touch them again.
Gyeonwoo leaned back slightly, letting his eyes travel over the familiar walls. "You know… after we moved into twelfth standard, things were different," he began, his voice low, carrying the kind of nostalgia that made the air ache.
Seong-ah tilted her head, watching him carefully as he spoke.
"The students—our classmates—they weren't the same as before. Everyone became… closer, I guess. There was this project where we all grew little potted plants together. You should've seen the classroom, Seong-ah. It looked alive. Tiny green leaves on every desk, like the whole place was breathing with us."
A faint smile curved his lips as he went on. "Kim Jun-ung finally confessed to Do Doyeon. They started dating—couldn't stop smiling at each other. And Hyeri, she and Mo Beom became really close. Always laughing, always in their own world."
His eyes softened as he remembered. "And Jiho and I… we became inseparable. Like brothers. There wasn't a single day we didn't walk home together, talk about everything under the sun."
Seong-ah listened silently, her fingers brushing over the edge of her desk. Finally, she asked softly, "And what about you, Gyeonwoo? Were you happy?"
The question made his heart twist. His mind flashed back to the nights he had spent awake, tracing circles of salt on the floor, reading crumbling texts about spirits, pushing his body to its limits just to chase after one impossible hope—to find her. The danger he had walked into, the shadows he had fought, the countless times he had nearly broken himself apart… all of it for her.
But he couldn't tell her that. Not now. Not when her eyes were searching his face, fragile and uncertain.
So he smiled instead, the kind of smile that hides more than it reveals. "Yeah. I was fine. Happy, even." He forced a light laugh. "I focused on archery. Won a lot of medals. Made everyone proud."
Seong-ah's eyes lingered on him, as though she could sense the weight of everything he wasn't saying. She didn't press, though. She only nodded, her lips curving faintly.
For a moment, the classroom was filled with silence again. But this silence wasn't heavy—it was gentle, like the air between two people who understood each other more than words could ever explain.
Gyeonwoo glanced sideways at her, his chest tightening. If only you knew how much I gave up for you. How much of me still belongs to you.
But instead of speaking, he simply sat there, content with the closeness of her presence—even if it was only in a dream.
Gyeonwoo turned slightly toward her, his eyes lingering on her face as though memorizing every small detail. His voice was careful, almost hesitant, when he asked,
"Seong-ah… how have you been? All this time."
For a moment, she didn't answer. Her gaze drifted across the classroom—the worn wooden cupboards, the faded posters on the wall, the tiny scratches carved into the desks where students had once etched their names. Every corner carried the shadow of him, of Gyeonwoo.
Her lips parted softly, and memories slipped through like light through cracks.
"I used to come here," she admitted, her voice faint, almost dreamlike. "With Bongsu. He would drag me around, complaining, and I… I would just stand here and admire everything you left behind."
Her eyes glistened as she traced the outlines of the windowsill with her finger, her mind falling deeper into those recollections. "It sounds silly, doesn't it? But even when you weren't here, it felt like you were. In the way your classmates laughed, in the way the plants grew, in the way Jiho always talked about you. I… I used to imagine what it must have been like, being near you."
,Gyeonwoo leaned forward a little, watching her carefully.
"And you… how have you been, Seong-ah?" he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.
She froze for a moment, her eyes wandering around the classroom. The desks, the chalkboard, the windows—everything seemed heavy with memories. A thousand thoughts passed through her mind, but she pressed them down, keeping them sealed in her chest.
Finally, with a small, almost forced smile, she answered,
"Yes… it was great."
Her voice was steady, but her eyes flickered, betraying the weight she didn't say aloud.
Gyeonwoo studied her, sensing that there was more behind her words, but he didn't press her. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, the air thick with all the things left unsaid.
He nodded slowly, forcing a faint smile of his own.
"I see… that's good."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply sat there in their old classroom, surrounded by the echoes of laughter and footsteps that had long since faded away. Yet in that silence, the unspoken bond between them felt stronger than any words could have made it.
The quiet of the classroom felt almost unreal, like time had stopped for just the two of them. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Gyeonwoo caught a flicker of movement—Jiho, rushing into the room, calling out for someone.
But Jiho's eyes slid past them, unseeing. He couldn't feel their presence. To him, the room was empty. His footsteps echoed briefly before fading down the hall, leaving Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo cloaked in their dreamlike solitude.
Gyeonwoo's chest tightened. He turned back to Seong-ah, his breath trembling. Without a word, he sank to his knees before her, his hands trembling as he reached up, brushing her cheek with a tenderness that carried all his years of longing.
"Seong-ah…" he whispered, his voice breaking.
Before she could speak, his lips pressed gently against hers. For a heartbeat, she froze—shocked. But then, slowly, as if her heart had made the choice her mind could not, Seong-ah kissed him back. The walls of hesitation crumbled, and in that fragile instant, all the distance between them dissolved.
They held each other close, arms tightening, afraid to let go as if the dream itself might shatter.
And then—it did.
The classroom melted away into nothingness, swallowed by blinding light. Seong-ah's eyes snapped open. Her chest heaved as reality returned, and there, in the quiet bedroom, she saw him. Gyeonwoo—real, tangible, sitting right before her.
Her eyes widened in horror, her voice trembling.
"No… You can't… You can't take Bongsu… you can't!"
Gyeonwoo's gaze softened, but he shook his head slowly.
"I already took him."
Her lips parted, but no words came. The room seemed to tremble under the weight of that truth, the fragile silence heavy enough to break her heart.
Just then, soft footsteps echoed down the hallway. Jiho entered the hall and paused at the doorway, his eyes falling upon the scene inside the bedroom.
There, on the bed, Gyeonwoo and Seong-ah clung to each other, wrapped in the warmth of a fragile embrace, their breathing steady as if sleep had claimed them both.
Jiho's lips curved faintly, his chest swelling with a mixture of relief and quiet joy.
"…It's Seong-ah," he whispered to himself, a smile tugging at his face as he watched them, as though a small piece of hope had just returned to their world.
The sound of soft clattering and sizzling drifted in from the kitchen. Jiho, humming faintly to himself, was bent over the stove, carefully stirring the pot of glass noodles. The fragrance of sesame oil and soy wafted through the air, filling the quiet house with warmth.
Meanwhile, inside the bedroom, Seong-ah sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at a pile of clothes strewn across the blanket. Her brows furrowed as she held up a random piece with both hands, confusion written all over her face.
"Ahh… what's this? Are these… clothes or something?" she muttered, turning the garment around as if it might explain itself.
From where he leaned against the headboard, Gyeonwoo nearly doubled over, laughter spilling out of him. He clutched his stomach, his smile so wide his cheeks ached.
"Yah… don't tell me you really don't know what that is," he said between chuckles.
Seong-ah shot him a glare, but it only made him laugh harder. She pulled out another item—a cheetah-patterned crop top that shimmered under the light. Her nose wrinkled as she held it up by two fingers like it was something suspicious.
"What's this? Is it… a bag?" she asked aloud, tilting her head innocently.
Gyeonwoo fell back against the pillow, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "A bag?!" he wheezed. "Yah, Seong-ah, that's not a bag—it's a top! A crop top! Don't tell me Bongsu actually made you wear this—"
Her face flushed as she hugged the garment to her chest defensively, pouting. "How am I supposed to know? It's so tiny! Who even wears something like this?!"
Gyeonwoo reached forward, gently tugging the cheetah-print from her hands, still grinning. "You would've looked ridiculous in this. No wonder you're traumatized."
Seong-ah swatted at him, but the corners of her lips betrayed a faint smile, her irritation softening under his laughter. For a moment, the heaviness of their situation seemed to lift, replaced by a warmth neither of them wanted to end.
From the kitchen, Jiho's voice floated in, cheerful and oblivious.
"Dinner's almost ready! Don't break anything in there, you two!"
Both of them froze, then exchanged a look before bursting into laughter together.
The bedroom door creaked open, and Seong-ah padded softly into the hallway, the oversized t-shirt she wore brushing against her knees. The faint clinking of chopsticks reached her ears, mixed with the aroma of garlic, sesame, and the rich broth of glass noodles. She followed it like a moth drawn to light.
When she entered the kitchen, her eyes softened at the sight before her. Jiho stood at the table, sleeves rolled up, lips pursed in quiet focus as he carefully arranged bowls of steaming noodles. He moved with a precision that almost looked ceremonial—placing a garnish here, adjusting the chopsticks there, as though making a humble meal into something meaningful.
"Jiho," Seong-ah spoke hesitantly, her voice carrying both uncertainty and hope. "It's me… Seong-ah."
Jiho turned at once. His eyes met hers, steady and sure, as if he had been waiting for her to say those words. A smile stretched across his lips—warm, genuine, and grounding.
"Yeah," he said gently, his tone carrying quiet conviction. "I know. I could tell… from your footsteps."
Her breath caught, her lips parting in surprise. Something inside her—fragile and hidden for so long—stirred at those words. To be recognized not by her face, nor by the body she was in, but by something as delicate and personal as footsteps—it was as though Jiho had reached into the heart of her existence and pulled her into the light.
Seong-ah blinked rapidly, fighting back a sting of tears. Instead, she smiled—a small, tender smile—and moved closer, sitting down on the mat by the low table.
"Show off," she teased softly, her voice trembling just slightly.
Jiho chuckled, returning to his place. "What can I say? I have sharp ears."
At that moment, Gyeonwoo entered the room, carrying himself with his usual quiet composure. He sat beside Seong-ah, close enough that their shoulders brushed. His hand slipped under the table, brushing against hers with a feather-light touch. She glanced at him, and in that unspoken connection, she felt him silently saying, I'm here.
The three of them settled, steam curling upward, filling the small space with warmth. Jiho leaned back with a sigh, feigning exhaustion.
"Eat before it gets cold. I slaved over this, you know."
Seong-ah lifted her chopsticks, twirling the clear, slippery noodles before tasting them. The flavors burst on her tongue—savory, comforting, and alive. Her eyes widened, sparkling as she spoke with her mouth half-full.
"Mmm—it's so good! Jiho, this is… this is amazing."
Jiho's grin stretched wider, pride swelling in his chest. "Of course it is. I don't just cook. I create edible masterpieces."
Seong-ah let out a laugh, the sound carrying freely in the air. Gyeonwoo shook his head, smirking as he chewed.
"Don't get too full of yourself," he muttered between bites. Then, softer, almost as though admitting it pained him: "But… yeah, it's really good."
Their laughter and chatter wove through the meal. Seong-ah found herself eating more than she realized, distracted by the easy banter between Jiho and Gyeonwoo, who seemed to slip into a rhythm of light teasing and quiet care.
At one point, Jiho leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm as he watched Seong-ah slurp a noodle. His voice, quieter this time, carried a hint of affection.
"See? You look more alive when you're eating something warm."
Her chopsticks paused mid-air. The words weren't grand, but they struck her with unexpected force. Warmth swelled in her chest, pushing against the weight she had been carrying for so long.
She glanced at Gyeonwoo, who was pretending to be focused on his bowl, but his hand found hers again under the table. Her lips trembled into a small smile.
For the first time in years, perhaps, Seong-ah realized—this is what it felt like to belong. Not to simply exist, drifting between curses and borrowed bodies, but to sit at a table, laugh, eat, and be recognized. To be home.
The clatter of chopsticks and their laughter filled the small space, yet beneath it lingered an unspoken vow—that whatever storms still waited outside, within these walls, they had carved out something fragile and real.
The dinner had ended with soft laughter and little sparks of warmth. The bowls sat empty on the table, a few stray noodles left floating in the broth. Seong-ah leaned back, patting her stomach, her lips curling into a playful smile.
"Ah… I think I ate too much," she murmured.
Before she could reach for a napkin, Gyeonwoo leaned across and brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb, slow and deliberate. His touch lingered just long enough to make her heart stumble. She froze, her breath hitching, before a soft, pink flush colored her cheeks.
"Clumsy," he teased gently, wiping the spot away.
Her lips parted slightly, as if to protest, but no words came. Instead, she lowered her gaze, feeling her pulse race under her skin.
From across the table, Jiho watched. His chopsticks clattered quietly against his bowl as he set them down, an almost imperceptible sigh leaving him. He leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling, as though the weight pressing down on his chest might ease if he just looked away.
But he couldn't—not really.
The way Seong-ah's eyes softened at Gyeonwoo, the way Gyeonwoo seemed to fit so naturally at her side—it stirred something sharp inside him. He smiled faintly, masking the ache.
Later, the house grew quiet, shadows lengthening as the night settled in. In his room, Jiho knelt by his open bag, folding clothes with meticulous care. Each movement was slow, deliberate—more than just tidying, it was as though he was trying to ground himself, piece by piece, fabric by fabric.
The door creaked softly, and Gyeonwoo appeared, his frame leaning against the doorway.
"What are you doing?" Gyeonwoo asked, his tone casual, but his eyes searching.
Jiho paused, his hands resting on a neatly folded shirt. For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, with a small breath, he spoke, his voice low but steady.
"…I'm hearing it."
"Hearing what?" Gyeonwoo tilted his head slightly.
Jiho lifted his gaze, and though his lips curved in a faint smile, his eyes carried a weight that words could barely hold.
"The sound of fading." His voice broke the silence, deep with quiet ache. "The fading of the first love."
The words hung between them, heavy and unshakable.
Gyeonwoo's chest tightened, his hand curling at his side. For once, he had nothing to say—because in Jiho's voice, in that raw honesty, he felt the truth settle like a shadow neither of them could escape.
Jiho didn't wait for Gyeonwoo's reply. He smoothed down the last shirt, zipped the bag shut, and hoisted it over his shoulder. The motion was calm, almost too calm, as though he had rehearsed this departure in his heart long before tonight.
"I'll be gone for a while," Jiho said, his back half-turned. His tone was casual, but there was a finality in it that Gyeonwoo couldn't ignore.
Gyeonwoo stepped forward quickly, blocking the doorway before Jiho could pass.
"Where are you going?" His voice was firm, but a flicker of worry crept into it.
Jiho's lips curved into a faint, almost playful smile. "Does it matter? You already have her."
The words struck deeper than Gyeonwoo expected. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He could only watch as Jiho gently pushed past him, bag slung across his shoulder, footsteps echoing through the quiet hall.
The sound of the front door sliding open broke the silence of the house. A rush of cool night air swept in, carrying Jiho's scent for a fleeting moment. Then came the soft thud of the door closing behind him.
Gyeonwoo stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the empty space Jiho had left behind. His chest ached with a strange mix of relief and guilt.
Meanwhile, Seong-ah had just stepped out of the bedroom, tugging down the hem of her loose shirt. Her eyes widened when she saw Gyeonwoo standing alone, his expression heavy.
"Gyeonwoo? Where's Jiho?" she asked softly, her voice carrying both curiosity and a quiet tremor.
Gyeonwoo turned toward her slowly, meeting her gaze. For a moment, he debated whether to tell her the truth, but his lips pressed into a thin line.
"He left," he finally said. "With his bag."
Seong-ah blinked, startled, her chest tightening. "Left? Why… why would he—"
But Gyeonwoo stepped closer, cupping her cheek with gentle firmness, his touch drawing her eyes back to him.
"Don't think about it too much," he murmured. "Just stay here—with me."
Her heart faltered at the intensity in his gaze, yet somewhere deep inside, Jiho's fading silhouette lingered, a quiet ache she couldn't explain.
The night air hit Jiho the moment he stepped out, sharp and cold against his skin. He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, forcing his steps forward. Each footfall sounded too loud, like they were echoing the words he had swallowed back inside.
He wanted to laugh at himself—at the ridiculousness of it all. He had cooked for them, sat beside them, watched their quiet smiles and their stolen touches… all while pretending it didn't sting. Pretending he was just the friend, the bystander.
But when he saw Gyeonwoo wipe the corner of Seong-ah's mouth with such tenderness, something inside him broke with a soundless crack. That was the moment he knew—his role was fading.
"The sound of the first love fading."
He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it had been true. What he felt for Seong-ah wasn't something fleeting, nor was it something he could simply erase. It had been pure, strong, and bright… but not enough. Not enough to stand against the bond she shared with Gyeonwoo.
As he walked under the dim streetlights, Jiho's throat burned. His chest felt too tight, as though every breath was scraping against the inside of his ribs. He didn't cry—not yet. He refused to. Instead, he tilted his head to the night sky, blinking hard.
"Seong-ah…" he whispered her name into the empty street, his voice cracking. "Be happy. Even if it's not with me."
The bag on his shoulder suddenly felt heavier, like he was carrying not clothes but years of memories, of laughter, of moments he would never get back.
And yet, through the ache, Jiho smiled. A faint, fragile smile, the kind that only comes when you love someone enough to let them go.
He didn't know where he was walking to. Maybe he didn't need to. All he knew was that he couldn't stay in that house—not when the sound of his heart breaking would drown out everything else.