We stepped out into the night. The cold hit softer than I expected, brushing past like a warning instead of a threat. For a while, we said nothing. Our footsteps filled the spaces words didn't. The streetlights cast us in soft gold, stretched our shadows ahead of us like they were trying to outrun us.
It was late. The kind of late where the streetlights blur into soft halos and the city starts to exhale, its chaos settling into something gentler. We walked side by side, me and Sejun, drifting along the sidewalk like we had nowhere better to be. The night air was cool, a little damp, and I could still taste the sharp sweetness of whatever cocktail I'd downed an hour ago. My legs weren't quite cooperating, so Sejun had taken it upon himself to steer me; one arm braced firmly around my shoulders, like I might suddenly veer into traffic or a lamppost if left unchecked.
Honestly? He wasn't wrong.
For a moment, just a flicker in time, I felt... normal. Like one of those late-night movie girls whose problems only lasted ninety minutes and came with a catchy soundtrack. There were people around; clusters of students laughing too loud, the kind of laughter that buzzed in your chest even if you weren't part of the joke. Somewhere nearby, the smell of fried butter and grilled meat clung to the air, street food stalls glowing under fluorescent lights like little beacons. Cars rushed past in glints of metal and sound, their tires hissing on damp asphalt. It was all so painfully alive. So ordinary.
And if I didn't think too hard—if I let the noise and neon and Sejun's warmth pressed against me distract me—I could almost believe that this was my life. That I was just a girl walking home with a boy after a night of drinking. Not someone with an empty void where her soul used to be.
Sejun didn't say much. He never did when he knew I was drifting like this. He just guided me patiently, placing himself between me and the road every time a car passed, like some old-fashioned gentleman in a dark jacket and nicely-fitting cargo pants. Occasionally, he'd nudge me away from a garbage bin or an inconveniently placed signpost, his hand firm and steady. He didn't make a show of it. Just did it like breathing.
I glanced up at him then, catching the way his dark hair fell into his eyes, the slope of his nose lit by the amber glow of the streetlamp. He really was disgustingly good-looking. That kind of quiet, broody handsome that made strangers do double-takes and assume he played guitar in a band or wrote poetry in secret.
Forget normal. Who needed it?
Unconventional wasn't so bad. Everyone's life was stressful in some way. At least mine came with occasional free drinks, the smell of midnight dumplings, and a walking piece of visual serotonin who made sure I didn't end up face-first in a gutter.
Could be worse.
Probably will be.
But for now—this city, this night, this warmth—I let myself enjoy it. Just a little.
By the time we turned onto our street, the buzz from the drinks had settled into a pleasant hum under my skin. Not quite drunk anymore, just soft around the edges. Sejun still had his arm around me, though I didn't really need it at that point. I think we both just got used to the weight of it.
I exhaled slowly as we approached the door. The cold air caught in my lungs, grounding me. The quiet felt like velvet after the low thrum of the city, soft and heavy. No more student laughter, no more neon signs. Just the sound of our footsteps, uneven and close, and the low creak of the wooden steps as we climbed them. The house looked like it had already tucked itself in for the night. All the windows were dark, except for the soft glow from the hallway lamp that we always left open.
Sejun let go of me to unlock the door, the warmth of his arm slipping away when he opened it with a *click*, holding the door open as we got in and left our shoes by the rack. I stumbled, but he caught me, holding me by the elbow, looking like he wasn't even trying to. He always moved like that; calm, casual, there when needed.
The house was asleep. You could feel it. The way sound dulled against the walls, the way the air shifted like it didn't want to wake anyone. The stairs creaked under our weight as Sejun and I made our way up, both of us moving slower now that the chill of the outside air had worn off. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by the amber glow of the overhead bulb; just enough light to see the uneven frames on the walls, the scattered shoes no one ever put away, and the quiet that blanketed everything like a shared secret.
We stopped in front of my door first. His hand dropped from my shoulder, the warmth fading with it.
"Well," I said, rubbing at the back of my neck. "Thanks for babysitting me home."
He smiled softly. "Someone had to make sure you didn't wander into traffic."
"I was aiming for the storm drain, actually. Seemed cozier."
He huffed a laugh, that small, breathy sound I always noticed but never pointed out. Then he leaned a shoulder against the wall beside my door, eyes scanning my face like he was trying to memorize it. He always did that; watched people like he was writing about them in his head. "You okay?" he asked. Not the casual kind. The quiet kind, the kind that came from knowing someone wasn't.
"More or less," I said, shrugging. "Leaning toward less."
He nodded like he expected that answer. "Still," he said, "you seemed... lighter tonight."
"Alcohol does that," I said, giving a tight smile. "Temporary illusion of functional mental health."
"I meant with me," he said gently.
That made something falter in my chest.
I looked at him. Really looked. His dark eyes, always so calm, so steady. And I thought about how quiet he'd been the whole way home; guiding, never pressing. Letting the night be what it was. "I felt normal," I admitted. "Or like someone playing normal. Close enough."
He didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "I'm glad."
I wanted to say more. To explain. To apologize for things I hadn't done yet. But instead I gave him a nod, fingers already curling around my doorknob.
"Night," he said, hand lingering on the stair rail. "Goodnight," I replied, softer than I meant to.
And just before I slipped inside, he added, quieter, "Call me if the normal slips too far away."
I didn't promise I would.
But I didn't say no either.
Inside, my room felt untouched by the outside world; like time had paused here, waiting for me to return. The curtains were drawn, the small lamp on my desk still faintly glowing. I peeled off my jacket and tossed it onto the chair, the silence loud now that Sejun wasn't beside me. I took a deep breath. Then another. And finally moved to the vanity.
The girl in the mirror looked like someone else. Eyes rimmed in smudged eyeliner, lips fading of color, cheeks slightly flushed. Somewhere between real and performed. Between me and whatever version of me everyone else got to see. My darker black roots were beginning to show, I'd probably have to visit a salon and get a retouch on pink dye soon.
I pulled off my earrings one by one, setting them down with tiny clinks.
My fingers were halfway through brushing my hair down when I paused.
I could feel it. That strange electric awareness of being watched– no, anticipated. Like someone was on the other side of the door. Growing up in a strict and watchful household, I had learned to sense whenever someone was approaching since I was young.
I waited.
And then, like clockwork, came the knock. A soft one. Once, then again.
I didn't move.
"Aureal," came the voice I'd been avoiding all week. Haneul's.
Of course he came. Of course it was tonight.
I rose from my seat slowly, legs suddenly heavier than they had been before. My hand reached for the doorknob on its own. I probably shouldn't be confronted while still tipsy. But what if Sejun was right? No, I know Sejun was right. I shouldn't keep avoiding my problems. But I doubt I'd be able to face Haneul while sober.
It wasn't like I planned it. I didn't wake up and decide, I think I'll be a terrible person to someone who's only ever been kind to me. It just… happened. A look, a step back, a convenient excuse not to be in the same room. And then another. And another.
I just couldn't stand the tight knot of guilt that twisted in my stomach every time I remembered the way I'd snapped at him. Over something so stupid, too. He hadn't done anything wrong. Since then, I'd been doing everything I could to slip away whenever he was nearby.
It wasn't that I didn't want to see him. It was that I didn't know how to anymore.
And lately, I'd started to realize that... I hadn't been spending time with him at all. Not really. Out of everyone, he was the one I'd drifted furthest from. Further than Seungyong, and that's when I knew I messed up. And maybe he'd noticed.
No, he definitely noticed. Of course he noticed. Haneul wasn't stupid. He just pretended to be sometimes; soft-spoken, quiet, careful with his words. But that didn't mean he was blind.
When I snapped at him, I saw the way his face had changed. Just for a second. He hadn't said anything about it afterward, hadn't made a big deal. He never did. That was Haneul. Quiet. Soft-spoken. The kind of person who disappears from a room without anyone noticing; but I felt it. I felt the absence. It was me who'd made him feel like he wasn't wanted.
When I opened the door, he was already watching me like I'd bolt out the window if he spoke.
But I didn't speak. Surprisingly, he did.
"You always leave every time I come near you," Haneul said, his voice soft but deliberate. "Did I… do something wrong?" My head jerked up, eyes meeting his just as he glanced away, down toward the floor. "Do you… hate me now?"
"Hate you?" I said, startled. "What? No! Absolutely not. Why would you even think that?"
The words rushed out of me, clumsy and too loud. I sounded frantic. Because I was frantic. I hated how fast I answered. Like I was trying to cover up a crime. He didn't seem comforted. He just looked down again, then slowly pulled something out from behind his back.
A bottle of mango juice.
My heart nearly cracked in half.
He'd been the one. Every day, one would appear somewhere nearby; by my desk, my bag, or the windowsill. I hadn't known who was doing it. I thought maybe it was just one of those weird things the guys did sometimes without explanation. But now I saw it clearly. That had been him. And I hadn't even touched the one he left today. Now I wished I'd drunk the whole thing on the spot.
He held it out to me gently, like he wasn't even sure I'd take it. "You didn't drink it…"
And that was when the guilt hit. Not like a wave. More like a slow, sickening crawl—curling into my chest, twisting low in my stomach, pressing until I couldn't breathe right. I felt my shoulders sag under it. The guilt began crawling up from my chest, slow and choking, blooming behind my ribs and turning my face warm. I tried to keep it from showing, but it bled through anyway; I could feel it.
"Haneul, I…" I swallowed. "No, it's not like that. I just forgot. Look–!"
I took the bottle from his hands like it could somehow fix everything. I twisted the cap and took a sip, then another, then a few more. The juice was cold and far too sweet, but I kept drinking anyway, desperate to show him something.
But he just looked at me. That unreadable look. His expressions were always like that; soft, quiet, but impossible to decipher. It made you want to study him, pick him apart like a puzzle, just to find the part that told you how he really felt.
Even when I held up the empty bottle—like it was evidence in a trial—he didn't say anything.
"Look, I finished it," I added, smiling like an idiot. A crooked, desperate thing that probably looked as guilty as I felt. Still nothing. Just his eyes on mine. And then he nodded once, barely, and turned toward the door.
No.
No, no, no, no.
"Wait!"
I was standing now, fingers tightening around the now-empty bottle. My chest rose and fell with each breath, shallow and unsure. Something in me cracked open.
"Haneul, I'm sorry," I said, voice quiet but firm. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I've just been... stupid. And scared." He didn't turn around yet, but I knew he was listening. "I guess I've been avoiding you. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn't know how to face you after what I said."
God, even saying it made my throat ache.
"Then… why?" He turned. Slowly. Calmly.
Why? I hated that question. But I owed him the truth.
"I guess it's easier to act like I didn't mess things up... if I just avoid dealing with it. I didn't mean to make you feel like that. I've just been... stupid. And scared. And... guilty. I didn't know how to face you. Not after what I did."
I felt like a child, trying to hide behind my fingers and thinking no one could see me. It was pathetic. I didn't realize he was walking toward me until I could feel it.
"Because…" I looked down. My grip tightened around the empty bottle. "It's easier to pretend I didn't mess anything up if I don't look at it. If I don't look at you."
The silence that followed was heavy. Not hostile. Just full of everything I hadn't said before.
He walked toward me quietly, not saying anything. But I felt his presence like a tide rolling in; soft, steady, impossible to ignore. By the time I looked up, he was standing right in front of me. "You didn't mess anything up," he said.
His voice was low. Gentle.
"You're the one who always takes care of us," he went on. "Even when you're tired... even when you're not okay... you still care."
My breath caught.
I looked up, slowly. "But I snapped at you," I said, my voice breaking. "I ignored you. I ran away every time I saw you. That's not what someone who cares–"
Before I could finish, his hands were on my cheeks. Gentle. Steady. Warm. Cupping my face like I might disappear if he wasn't careful.
He held me tight, pulling me in as I felt his lips give me a soft kiss. Just at the corner of my eyes, but it was so close it made my heart stutter. Like a brush of breath. It wasn't quite a proper kiss. Not fully. Just close enough to steal my breath, soft enough to ask a question without needing words.
Haneul was a man of few words. But in that moment, it was like I could hear his thoughts, prayers, and wishes.
We lingered there.
Not asking for anything.
Not expecting anything.
Just hoping—maybe—that this could be enough.
That I'd understand.
That I'd stay.
So I did.
Haneul didn't flinch. He stood there, face gentle and patient. That was the worst part. The grace of it. The kindness that remained even after I'd twisted it. He didn't demand apologies or explanations. He just… stood there. A boy made of quiet loyalty and unsaid truths, letting me take my time while the clock inside me thundered louder than my heart.
"Breathe," he whispered softly, his voice speaking to me like an angel from above. He reached for my wrist, not to pull, not to hold, just to rest his fingers over the skin. Light. Barely there. But I felt it. The weight of it. The warmth. The pulse under my skin responded as if it had been waiting for his touch all this time.
The bed dipped beneath me as I sat down. I didn't let go of his hand. Neither of us said anything. He knelt in front of me like I was someone worth kneeling for, and I hated that it felt holy. Like I'd been forgiven before I even asked.
"I'm not good at this," I confessed.
His lips curved upward, barely. "I know."
I almost laughed. But I didn't. Instead, I watched his fingers—long, pale, and steady—come to rest just above my knee. It wasn't a bold touch. It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't heat. It was grounding. A weight I hadn't realized I needed. Like I'd been floating this whole time and only now started sinking back into the shape of myself.
I looked at him. Really looked. The slope of his nose. The soft fan of lashes over eyes that carried storms even in stillness. The slight arch of his brows like he was always waiting to be misunderstood. And I thought, what a cruel thing it is to hold someone you don't know how to keep.
It would've been easier if he were angry. If he raised his voice, demanded closure, asked for reasons. It would've made sense if he accused me of being heartless. If he said something unforgivable so I could blame him for the distance instead of myself. But he didn't. He never did. Haneul didn't build walls to keep people out; he just became so quiet no one thought to knock.
And yet, here he was. In my room, in my silence, choosing to stay.
The night outside was still. I could hear the soft hum of the fridge down the hallway, the distant traffic far beyond the windows, and the steady breath of the boy who somehow made all those sounds feel less lonely. The lamp cast us in amber, shadows dancing gently on the walls.
"I didn't mean to run," I whispered.
"I know."
"I just… get scared."
"I do too." He nodded. "You're not the only one who doesn't know what to do with feelings."
I leaned back, just enough for the vanity to catch my spine, and stared at the ceiling like the answer was written in the plaster cracks.
"When I was little," I began, surprising even myself, "I never got to hide. During storms, after fights, and tiring tests. I just… had to stay normal. Even during long silences when the air felt heavier than words. There was no tiny space that felt mine. Where no one could see me cry."
His thumb grazed my knee. I hadn't noticed I was shaking.
"You don't have to explain anything," he murmured.
"You say that," I trembled, eyes closed. "But people always want to know. Why I'm cold. Why I'm guarded. Why I retreat like a wounded thing the moment someone gets too close. They say it like a compliment—'You're so strong'—but what they really mean is 'You're so good at hiding when you hurt.'"
He moved then. Not abruptly. Just enough that I felt the shift in gravity. His weight beside me, one knee bent on the floor, one hand reaching for mine.
"For tonight," he said, "just be."
That sentence stayed with me. Hung in the space between us like a warm coat in a snowstorm.
Just be. Not fix. Not perform. Not explain.
I let my body follow the words before my mind could argue. Slid down the chair and onto the floor beside him. We sat like that for a while, backs against the vanity, shoulders touching. No questions. No verdicts. Just the quiet rhythm of two people remembering how to exist beside each other without armor.
I tilted my head against his shoulder, and to my surprise, he tilted his against mine.
"Is this okay?" I whispered.
"Yes."
"Even if we don't talk about it?"
"Especially if we don't."
I didn't ask what he meant by that. I didn't ask questions if I wasn't prepared for the answers that would hurt.