Work Text:
“Do you still have the last text your ex sent you?”
Taeyong has known the reason why he’s there from the moment he sat down on the high stool. He agreed to it, thinking it would’ve given him closure, and yet, when the question comes, it still leaves him kind of surprised. Maybe he isn’t as ready as he thought he were.
He sends a glance towards the camera in front of him, the filming crew is standing behind it, but the lights pointed at him are too bright and he can’t clearly see their faces, or perhaps it’s just his own illusion, and then, he glances down at the phone held between his fingers. He tightens the grip around it a bit more before nodding.
He’s there, isn’t he? He can’t back out when he’s so close to saying those words out loud.
“Yeah, I do,” Taeyong says, voice perhaps a little too low, but no one tells him to be louder, so Taeyong clears his throat and unlocks his phone.
He has to scroll through dozens of chats to find the one he’s looking for, but once his eyes catch his name, he stops. Everything stops. He forgets about all the lights and people around him, there isn’t a camera filming anymore, and Taeyong’s back to two years ago, alone in a bedroom that was supposed to be for two, the light coming from the phone the only one in the darkness of the night. Back then, that text was the only thing he had left.
Taeyong clears his throat again, a sorry whispered under his breath for taking too long, but he isn’t even certain it leaves his lips, and after, he gently presses his thumb down on the screen. His eyes focus on the text, it isn’t long and it wasn’t even supposed to be that important, but it still makes a lump form in his throat.
“He—he actually wasn’t my boyfriend,” he says, looking up at the camera. He hopes his eyes don’t look as wet as he feels them, and that his voice doesn’t waver much when he speaks the next words. “I mean, he was, but we were supposed to get married before we—yeah, so… yeah. It was like that.”
The filming crew doesn’t urge him to be quicker—before they started recording they actually told him he could’ve taken all the time he needed, so Taeyong looks back down to the phone and stares at the chat for a few more seconds. His thumb almost brushes against the top of the screen, where the contact name is, the picture he set is still there, smiling and happy, but he stops before he can click on it and make it bigger.
“It... he was running late from work, so he sent this not to make me worry,” he says, a low chuckle escaping from his lips. Taeyong grips the phone tighter. He takes a deep breath, and then he pretends to read the words. But he knows them by heart.
“Hey, baby, I still have to finish some things so don’t wait for me to have dinner, just eat before it gets too late . ”
Taeyong stares at the text until the letters become blurry. He doesn’t even know how many times he has read it, or how many times he has let the words play in his head with a different voice.
“Is that all?”
Taeyong’s head snaps up. He chuckles again, but this time, the sound is kind of wet. “No, sorry, there’s more,” he whispers, and then looks down to keep speaking. “Don’t stay up to wait for me, I don’t really know when I’ll finish. Goodnight. I love you. Heart.”
He doesn’t dare to glance up at the camera. Taeyong doesn’t know what he was expecting to happen, but nothing changes. His chest still feels hollow and his heart doesn’t go back to being whole, all its pieces are still scattered on the floor under his feet like the pieces of a broken vase.
Then, he lets his thumb brush from the bottom of the screen to the top, as if suddenly a new text would appear, but it doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t happen, Taeyong has waited two years for a new message to appear.
“Have you ever sent him a text after the break-up?”
Taeyong clears his throat, hoping the lump in it would just go away, but it doesn’t.
“Yeah,” he answers, eyes down, “after five months, I sent him I miss you, but he… he never replied.”
“Did you want him to?”
Taeyong laughs under his breath, and then finally looks up at the camera while he locks his phone. “I don’t know, actually,” he reveals with a sigh, “I sent it without thinking about what I was doing, and because I missed him, but I really didn’t think about that.”
“Why did you break up?”
He knew that question was coming, and yet, it almost makes him grimace. He doesn’t only because there’s a camera in front of him.
Taeyong takes a deep breath, and for a moment, he looks to the side, where there aren’t any lights and there isn’t anyone standing with their eyes fixed on him.
He agreed to it. He agreed to read his texts, to the questions, to being filmed, but for a brief moment, he asks himself why he’s there. When he agreed to do it, he told himself it was a way to let it out, that if he would’ve let the words out in front of a camera, then they would’ve stopped weighing down his chest and breathing would’ve felt a little easier. But now, he doesn’t know if that will ever happen, no matter what he does.
“We hit a bump in the road, but it—it wasn’t anything new. Sometimes, we used to fight and then we made up, so I never thought it was unfixable, but—it was for him.”
His eyes sting with tears, but he tells himself not to cry. He can’t cry, not because there’s a camera recording him, but because he has already cried too much over it. He can’t remember a time when he cried for a different reason.
“I kept pressuring him about the marriage, I mean, we were engaged, so we should’ve gotten married at some point too, right?” Taeyong looks down at his right hand, he doesn’t wear the ring anymore, he stopped a long time ago, but sometimes, he looks at his hand expecting to find it and then when he doesn’t see it, the hollowness in his chest just gets a bit bigger.
“I think… I think he kind of regretted it? We had just moved in together and his job wasn’t really stable, but he still proposed, and maybe only after he realized that he should’ve waited a bit longer before doing it,” he admits, a sad smile curves his lips. Sometimes, Taeyong wishes he could turn back time, that he could go back and fix everything before it could’ve broken.
“I realized this only after, since I kept obsessing over the whole thing, but back then I was really blind and just kept pushing him, asking why he was stalling, why it was taking so long, until he broke down and said some really hurtful words—now, I don’t blame him, I should’ve understood, and maybe it really was too early.”
“What happened after?”
Taeyong fiddles with the phone and searches for the right words. It’s never easy to talk about it, but for some strange reason and for the first time ever, the words come easily, as if they had been ready on the tip of his tongue for the whole time.
“He wanted us to take some time to be apart from each other, you know… to think, I guess. I was hurt, so I let it happen and then, he just kept slipping through my fingers,” he explains, eyes set on the camera. “I think he felt guilty, as if he thought it was all of his fault since he proposed and then, he kind of changed his mind. Maybe he thought we couldn’t have ever gone back to what we were, as if he had broken something between us and it was irreparable, so that’s why when we met again after a few weeks, he told me that we didn’t want the same thing. He left before I had the time to really understand what he truly meant.”
His chest doesn’t feel lighter, and it doesn’t hurt less than before, but it gives him a sort of comfort. He never thought he would’ve had the strength to talk about it without shedding tears, and yet, his cheeks are still dry. Maybe it’s a step forward, maybe he can start to think he can get over it. That he can leave all of it in the past, where it really belongs.
“How did you meet?”
Taeyong smiles at the question. Even if they aren’t together anymore, remembering about those days always ignites a special warmth in the center of his chest.
“We attended a class together back in college and most of the time he sat by my side, so we just started talking, first about the class and then about other things too. I had a crush on him, but I didn’t do anything,” he chuckles, “but eventually he asked me out, and then we started dating. We were together for almost five years.”
“Have you had another relationship since then?”
Taeyong laughs, short. Maybe it would’ve been easier if he had. “Not really, not serious ones at least,” he admits, “I have some regrets left, and I think… I still think we could’ve fixed it somehow, but I never tried, and now—now it’s just too late, isn’t it?”
♡
After a while, Taeyong forgets about the interview.
Even if it didn’t really help him like he thought, it still felt good to speak about what happened, to just talk without worrying about what the person in front of him would’ve thought. He’s aware that his interview, together with the ones of many other people, will be released on Youtube, but it isn’t the same. Strangers will watch it, and probably will comment about his story, and yet, it’s different. He won’t have to see the pity in their eyes, the same pity he saw into his friends’ eyes, or have to hear their words of comfort that actually never helped, that never fixed anything.
So, he forgets about it, and even when an email appears in his inbox with the link of the video, he keeps forgetting to watch it. In the end, he never does watch it. After all, he already knows what he will hear.
It’s Jaehyun who reminds him about it, and Taeyong can’t understand why, but he wishes the other hadn’t.
“I watched your interview,” is the first thing Jaehyun tells him as soon as Taeyong sits down at the table, always the same one near the glass window that overlooks the hall of the building the agency they work at is.
“Really,” he says, voice flat. “How did I look?”
“You didn’t cry,” Jaehyun comments with a small grin on his face, ignoring Taeyong’s question. “It’s progress.”
Taeyong sighs, but then he remembers how careful Jaehyun used to be with him, the way he could sense that the other always took a bit too long to pick his words, as if he was making sure that what he would’ve said wouldn’t have hurt him, and thinks it’s better like this. It’s much better, it doesn’t matter if Jaehyun makes fun of him.
“If you’re only going to insult me, stop talking about it,” he feigns to be offended, but then, he feels a sudden urge to stop talking about it for real, so he tries to change the topic. “Did you already order?” he asks, hoping that if he talks about food Jaehyun will be distracted.
His tactic doesn’t work, though.
“Yeah, the usual for you,” Jaehyun answers, and after, his face becomes serious, grin gone from his lips, and Taeyong knows he will go back to the interview before he can even hear his next words. “You never told me you didn’t blame him anymore.”
Taeyong chuckles, low, and looks to the side, where some people are waiting in line near the counter to get their order. He doesn’t want to keep looking at Jaehyun, not when he already knows what he will see in his eyes.
“Hating someone requires a lot of strength,” he says, only loud enough to let Jaehyun hear his voice over the chatter of the cafeteria, eyes still fixed somewhere on the wall behind the counter, where the menu is. “And blaming only him for what happened is childish, I was in the relationship too. He blew up like he did because of me, because I pressured him too much.”
Jaehyun remains silent, and Taeyong wonders if he can truly understand his words. He’s been together with Johnny since college, and even after years, their relationship is still strong, just like it has always been, so probably he can’t really understand what Taeyong went through. He can’t understand how it all feels because Johnny’s by his side, and if he has to be honest, Taeyong wishes Jaehyun will never understand.
“Did you think he watched it?”
The question is stupid, and it leaves his lips before Taeyong can even think about what he’s saying. He doesn’t know about the interview, so he surely hasn’t watched it, or maybe he did, if he found it on his feed and got interested enough. Taeyong can’t know. His phone didn’t chime with any new text.
Jaehyun sighs, and only then, Taeyong turns his face to look at him. He looks sad, lips almost curved down. “You know I don’t really talk to him anymore,” he replies, avoiding his gaze, “so maybe he did?”
When he left, he didn’t only leave Taeyong behind, but all of his friends too. Taeyong doesn’t know why, just like he doesn’t know many other reasons why, but he thinks it’s because he didn’t want their friends to pick a side, so he chose on their behalf and then he just cut them off. Taeyong’s aware he isn’t the only one hurt.
“Do you think he’s happy?”
Jaehyun takes a while to answer, but when he does, Taeyong wishes he hadn’t asked the question in the first place. He should’ve gritted his teeth and kept his mouth shut. “I don’t know, hyung. I only know that he was happy with you and I still can’t really understand why he left.”
“Me neither, Jaehyun.”
♡
One morning, Taeyong wakes up to a new text and it begins all over again.
At first, he can’t believe he’s awake. He must still be sleeping, because the name he’s seeing is one he hasn’t seen in two years, and Taeyong can’t just believe it. But then, he blinks and blinks again, and the text never disappears. It just stares back at him, almost mocking him, telling him haven’t you waited two years for this, wasn’t it something you wished for, why don’t you believe it now.
Taeyong doesn’t know what he should do. He can’t think. He can’t think. So he lets his body take control. He watches his finger slide on the text to unlock the phone, digit the password and then, with his heart beating loud in his ears, he watches the text appear beneath that I miss you.
Hey, it says, I watched the video. Taeyong closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He isn’t sure he wants to know what comes next, but the second after he’s opening his eyes to keep reading. I don’t think it’s too late. And just like that, it ends. Taeyong almost laughs. The sound forms in the back of his throat, ugly and heavy, and it stays there, waiting. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe that after two years, he thought those words were enough. Taeyong doesn’t even know what he was expecting to read, but it surely isn’t that. With a snort, he locks the phone and throws it behind himself on the bed, annoyed.
He doesn’t care if he can see Taeyong read the text and didn’t answer, he waited one year and half for a reply, so now he will know what that means. He just can’t bring himself to think about an answer. What should he even say? Haha how funny? Or maybe something along the lines of you didn’t have to wait two years before saying that.
All the hurt he has felt for the past two years has suddenly transformed into a big ball of anger, and he feels so pissed off by the text he’s certain he’d break his phone if he had to read it another time.
He watched Taeyong pour his heart out, confess he doesn’t blame him anymore, that it happened because they both made mistakes, and what he came up with was only a I don’t think it’s too late? As if they broke up two weeks ago.. As if he didn’t stay silent for all that time, when he could’ve replied to his text, even one month after or one year, and say he missed Taeyong too.
He waited so long for that text to come, he waited and waited, but it never made his phone light up. And when it finally did, it isn’t what he was hoping for. It really isn’t.
Taeyong tells himself to ignore it, to just ignore he ever read that text, erase it and pretend it never happened, but deep down, he doesn’t want to. He knows too well he doesn’t want to, and that he can’t pretend it didn’t happen. So, with a sigh, he reaches for his phone and unlocks it again.
The text is still there, obviously, and while trying to put all the anger boiling in his veins aside, he reads it again. I don’t think it’s too late. Too late for what? Taeyong can’t even remember what he said exactly, his mind has gone blank.
He doesn’t bother to watch the whole video, he just finds the last part of his interview, and then watches himself speak. He knows it’s him, but at the same time, it feels like the one talking in the video isn’t him, he hears the words and thinks did I really say that, as if someone was controlling him and Taeyong wasn’t aware of what he was saying.
Taeyong watches himself say I still think we could’ve fixed it somehow, but I never tried, and now—now it’s just too late, isn’t it? and wonders why he said those words. And also why among all the things Taeyong said, it’s what he chose to focus on. Why didn’t he text that he missed Taeyong too? It would’ve been much easier.
And then just like that, with his eyes still focused on himself, video paused, silent tears gather in his eyes and they start falling down on the screen, making his sight blurry. He tries to keep his sobs quiet, caged inside himself, and wonders about how it would’ve been if he had forgotten about the other, if he had stopped loving him a long time ago. But he never did, even if sometimes he thought it would’ve been better, he never was able to rip that love out of his heart, so he just left it there, never growing smaller, but instead, taking more and more, and making his chest hollow.
With hot tears on his cheeks, Taeyong knows that even after two years and with only a text, Doyoung’s able to hurt him like no one else can.
♡
In the end, he doesn’t reply.
Some part of him wants to, it truly wants to, but another part, slightly bigger, stops him from opening the chat and sending a text back. So he waits, for what, he doesn’t know, but he waits anyway.
He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t know what he should text back, and maybe it’s true, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to give himself some kind of hope. But the text hangs over his head, waiting, and Taeyong’s aware he can’t ignore it forever, that he won’t have the time to be ready before it will start demanding his attention.
He doesn’t say anything, either. He doesn’t tell Jaehyun nor Johnny, and he certainly doesn’t tell Yuta, almost as if he could convince himself that if he doesn’t tell anyone, then it’s like it never happened. He can keep it a secret, and after some time, he can just forget about it.
Of course, it doesn’t go like that, because after a bit more than a week since that morning, Jaehyun corners him and Taeyong’s too surprised by the other’s words to come up with a lie.
“He texted me.”
Taeyong stares at him, and tells himself he must haven’t really understood what the other’s saying.
“Doyoung hyung texted me,” he says again, voice a whisper, Doyoung’s name almost said through gritted teeth. “He asked me about you.”
Taeyong blinks. “He did what,” he asks, but it doesn’t even come out as a question. It all seems like something that would only happen in a dream.
Jaehyun sighs, runs his hand through his perfectly-styled hair, and then, sighs again. “He asked if you were well. Why did he ask me, hyung?”
At those words, Taeyong laughs, loud and hysterical, but he cuts it short soon after. He shakes his head and tells himself he should’ve answered. Something like go back to your two years-long silence.
“He texted you first, right, hyung?” Jaehyun asks then, and Taeyong almost drops his cup of iced coffee. He knows he can’t keep his face straight, that he grimaces before he can stop himself, and with that, Jaehyun understands. “He did, didn’t he?”
Taeyong takes a deep breath. “Hey, I watched your video. I don’t think it’s too late,” he recites, the words almost taste sour in his mouth. He could lie, but it’d take strength Taeyong doesn’t currently have, so he just admits it.
“And you didn’t reply.”
He nods. “What should I have said? He made me so mad.”
Jaehyun shakes his head, sighing. “Among all the things he could’ve said.”
“I just can’t understand,” Taeyong vents out, he has been thinking about that damn text and everything related to it for days, and he feels like his head will explode soon if he doesn’t say anything. “Why did he send that? Why only after two years? And why only after he watched that stupid video?”
Taeyong can’t understand. He’s been trying to, but he just can’t, so he hopes Jaehyun will.
“I’m not really sure, hyung,” Jaehyun tells him, thoughtful, and Taeyong’s shoulders sag. “But maybe he didn’t think you felt like that?”
“Like what? He didn’t think I still loved him?” Taeyong snorts a laugh, but if it’s the actual truth, if Doyoung really thought Taeyong had stopped loving him, then it hurts. Oh, it hurts so deep.
Jaehyun shrugs his shoulders, “You won’t know if you don’t text him back,” he suggests, and Taeyong’s tempted to tell him to fuck off, but, “what do you have to lose?” Jaehyun adds then, and Taeyong pauses.
Jaehyun’s right. He already lost Doyoung, so no matter what he will say, it won’t make the situation worse, and yet, he doesn’t want to. There’s always that what if in the back of his mind, it haunts him and whispers things Taeyong doesn’t want to hear, so Taeyong isn’t sure he wants to risk it all.
What if he loses that flicker of hope that hides deep in his heart too, what will he do then? So he keeps waiting. Taeyong has waited for two years, one month more or less won’t make a difference. He’s used to waiting.
♡
After three weeks, Taeyong’s almost certain Doyoung understood what his silence means. He doesn’t text again, and Taeyong doesn’t know if he’s glad or not, and Doyoung certainly doesn’t try to contact him in a different way.
Taeyong finds himself staring at that text more times than he’d like to admit, but sometimes, he still can’t believe it. He can’t wrap his head around it, he can’t understand why, not when Taeyong was so sure Doyoung didn’t want him anymore.
After two years, he had almost started to accept it, he was starting to get over it, and now, all he can think about is Doyoung once again.
It’s almost funny, since no matter what, it’s like he isn’t allowed to forget him, like he has to carry Doyoung with him forever, even if Taeyong doesn’t want to. He’s stuck to him, and when Taeyong thinks he’s starting to forget about him, then Doyoung makes sure Taeyong doesn’t.
It must be his fault. If he hadn’t agreed to shoot that video, Doyoung wouldn’t have ever texted him. He would’ve kept living his life wherever he is and Taeyong would’ve been allowed to get rid of all those feelings that only weigh him down, that make him feel like he’s constantly dragging a dead body.
Maybe those feelings actually resemble a dead body, something he wants to get rid of, but that can’t be rid of easily, so Taeyong’s forced to drag it behind himself, even if it’s heavy and it makes his arms burn with the strain, he still has to grit his teeth and just drag it along everywhere he goes.
But now, Taeyong’s tired, he’s so tired, and he doesn’t have any strength left. He doesn’t know for how much longer he will hold on, but he knows that he’s sick of it, that he’d do everything to get rid of it, and yet, a small and almost quiet part of himself tries to convince him he shouldn’t leave it behind, that he needs to carry it around just a bit more. Doyoung’s text only made that part louder, it whispers sweet lies and tells him he can’t abandon it. Taeyong’s so weak. He chose to believe those lies and kept dragging the body, even if it’s become so heavy it almost doesn’t move anymore and it feels like his arms will fall off soon.
♡
It’d be a lie if Taeyong said he forgets about it, deep down he has accepted he won’t, but he pretends he did. If Jaehyun asks him something about it, Taeyong just shrugs his shoulders and says it doesn’t matter anymore. It matters, it really does, because Taeyong still loves Doyoung, but he doesn’t want to think about it. He wishes he could rip all the thoughts and memories away.
So he can’t say it happens when Taeyong has started to forget again, since he never did in the first place. It happens when Doyoung is all he can think about. And for the first brief moments, Taeyong’s convinced it’s all a figment of his imagination.
As usual, Taeyong leaves work around six, and while he’s busy wrapping his scarf that keeps sliding down around his neck, he glances up not to crash against anybody. But among all the strangers walking around him, he sees a face he knows too well. A face he hasn’t seen in two years.
Taeyong stills, scarf left half-unwrapped around his neck, and blinks. The other doesn’t disappear, no matter how many times he blinks, he remains there, standing up and looking back at him.
He doesn’t know what to do, or how to react. What should he do? Should he pretend he didn’t see him and keep walking? Or should he wait for the other to do something first? After all, he was the one who came by Taeyong’s workplace.
But Doyoung doesn’t do anything either. He just stares at him, as if he can’t believe Taeyong’s there in front of him, and Taeyong thinks he should be the only one feeling like that.
Then, Doyoung takes a step towards him, and another, and another, until they’re one in front of the other.
Taeyong stares back. He hasn’t changed much, he tells himself, and yet, it all feels so different. Maybe it’s him who remained stuck in the part, who’s still the same, who can’t bring himself to turn his back and walk away.
“Why are you here?” he asks, but for the first few seconds after he has said the words, Taeyong doesn’t register that he was the one who spoke. They leave his lips before he can tell himself to pretend Doyoung isn’t there. Doyoung left, he left him, and he can’t just come back like that. He can’t wait for him there, as if it’s something he does often. He can’t come back and pretend they haven’t seen each other in two years. As if it’s all in the past.
When Taeyong actually realizes what he has said, he clears his throat and crosses his arms against his chest.
“You never replied,” is Doyoung’s answer. His voice hasn’t changed either, not like Taeyong expected it would have. The person in front of him is still the same he used to kiss two years ago, who held him when they slept, and yet, he isn’t anymore. He isn’t the same person, because that person Taeyong knew, maybe even better than he knew himself, wouldn’t have ever left.
Taeyong almost scoffs and bile rises in his throat. Then, he looks him in the eyes. “What were you expecting me to reply,” he says. It isn’t a question. Taeyong doesn’t want to know, or maybe he wants to, but it will hurt him.
He fixes his eyes somewhere behind Doyoung’s shoulder and tells himself to keep them there, that it’s safe, better than the other’s face.
Doyoung doesn’t answer, he doesn’t say anything at all, and Taeyong wants to scream. He wants to scream so loud, until his throat will bleed and he will lose his voice, but he doesn’t. Not because they’re outside and he doesn’t want to cause a scene, but because Doyoung doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve Taeyong’s words, if he’d scream, it’d mean Taeyong cares, that he cares enough, and even if he does, he wants Doyoung to believe he doesn’t. He wants Doyoung to believe that Taeyong’s heart is cold, even if he watched that stupid video, and his heart was everything but cold in it.
He wants to laugh too. He can’t even remember all the nights he cried himself to sleep, wishing for something like this to happen, for Doyoung to come back, for an explanation, for something, as long as it erased a bit of that sadness he always felt. And Taeyong waited, at first he really believed Doyoung would’ve come back, or that at least, he would’ve given him an explanation, but he never did. He never came back. So now that he’s back, Taeyong doesn’t know what to feel, he was certain he wouldn’t have ever seen him, but now he’s there.
“Are you really not going to say anything?” he asks then, words said under his breath only loud enough for Doyoung to hear them, and can’t stop himself from looking at him. It was always so easy to read him, to understand what he was thinking or feeling, but now, Taeyong has forgotten how to do it, he looks at him and finds nothing.
At his words, Doyoung takes another step towards him. Taeyong doesn’t move, even if he wants to run away.
“I’m sorry,” is what he says. As if it would fix everything. As if it would make Taeyong forget, erase how hurt he feels.
This time, Taeyong actually laughs, but he knows he would prefer crying.
“You’re sorry?” he asks with a snort, and his voice sounds harder from the way he imagined it to be, colder, almost as if he really doesn’t care. “You’re sorry, Doyoung?”
Taeyong shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he says then, “you shouldn’t have texted me.” He points a finger towards the other’s chest, it doesn’t touch him, but maybe he wishes it did, so he could press it down, hard, until it reached Doyoung’s heart and made it bleed. Just like he made Taeyong’s heart bleed. “You left. You left.”
“I was scared,” Doyoung tells him in a whisper, and when Taeyong meets his eyes, he knows Doyoung isn’t lying. His voice is a whisper, but it’s so loud in his ears.
“And I wasn’t? You think I wasn’t scared? You should’ve talked to me,” he says back, and contrary to what he believed, Taeyong feels so calm. “But you just left.”
It all feels like a dream. Taeyong can’t hear anything besides Doyoung’s voice and he can’t see all the strangers walking around them. He can’t see anything. It’s only Doyoung. It has always been Doyoung, Taeyong has never seen anyone else since the day he met him.
“I’m sorry,” Doyoung repeats, voice almost broken, as if he’s in pain too. But he was the one who left, why is he suffering? “I’m so sorry, Taeyong.” The way he says his name makes him weak, he thinks that if Doyoung tried hard enough, just saying his name over and over again would be enough to make him forgive him.
“No matter how sorry you are, it won’t change anything. You can’t fix it, Doyoung,” Taeyong tells him, but he doesn’t know if it’s the truth. He doesn’t know anything anymore. What he does know is that he wants to go home and pretend nothing ever happened.
“I don’t want to fix it, I just—I shouldn’t have ever left.”
Tears sting his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry.
“But I’m here now,” he adds, and Taeyong’s surprised he heard the words for how low they are. “The truth is… I never wanted to leave, and even after, I always thought about coming back, but I was ashamed, Taeyong. I was so ashamed.”
Taeyong watches him take a deep breath.
“I didn’t deserve to have you back after what I did, after telling you I didn’t want to get married anymore, so I—I never came back, but then… I watched your video and realized.”
“Realized what?”
“That you were still waiting for me to come back. Even after two years.”
Taeyong shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Doyoung,” he says, voice broken, “you can’t come back after two years and expect to find me with open arms.”
He wants to cry his heart out, he really wants to, but somehow, the tears remain caged in his chest.
Doyoung remains silent. He looks at him, and Taeyong wishes he could build a wall in front of him, that he could hide behind it so Doyoung wouldn’t be able to look right through him like he’s doing in that moment. Because Taeyong can’t read him anymore, Doyoung’s eyes have changed, but he knows that his haven’t, that they’re always the same.
“But in the video… you said—”
“It was a stupid video, okay? It doesn’t matter what I said,” Taeyong cuts him off, he doesn’t want to hear his words. He knows what he said, and until then, he never thought about regretting it, that maybe he shouldn’t have done it, but now, he is. He is regretting each word he has spoken. It’s his fault if Doyoung’s there. Only his.
“I was caught up in the moment and said things I shouldn’t have said,” he adds, even if it’s a lie. Even if he wanted to say those words. “It was a mistake.”
At his words, Doyoung’s face falls. It’s like he had his own beliefs, as if he thought Taeyong would’ve reacted in a certain way, and now he’s realizing he had been wrong from the start.
Maybe, Taeyong has changed too, and Doyoung is as blind as Taeyong feels.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry,” Taeyong tells him, because he is, he feels sorry for many things. It shouldn’t have gone like this. It shouldn’t have happened after two years. “I really think it’s too late. For us to fix things, that is.”
Doyoung nods. The person he knew would have fought harder, but they aren’t what they were two years ago. Then, his shoulders sag and fingers run through dark hair. Shorter, Taeyong notices.
His eyes burn, but his voice comes out firm when he speaks again.
“I’ll go first. Get home safe, yeah?”
Taeyong doesn’t wait for an answer, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to give Doyoung his back and walk away if he had to hear what the other has to say. So, as soon as the words are out and he can’t take them back anymore, he just turns around and walks away, even if it’s in the wrong direction.
In the end, he doesn’t manage to wrap the scarf around his neck. His fingers are too busy brushing the tears away from his cheeks.
He’s hurt, but he doesn’t know where the pain comes from. Perhaps, from everywhere.