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February pressed cold into the soccer field, the kind that settled deep into muscle and bone. The grass was brittle under Juhoon’s cleats, pale and flattened where practice had worn it down, and the floodlights overhead cast long, harsh shadows that made everyone look sharper than they really were.
Juhoon moved through drills on instinct. Pass, sprint, turn. His breath came out steady, controlled, fogging the air in short bursts. Around him, his teammates were loud—complaints, laughter, shouted encouragement—but Juhoon stayed quiet, focused, eyes flicking toward the school building every time the ball rolled out of bounds.
The auditorium lights were on. They always were.
When the final whistle cut through the night, Juhoon slowed to a jog, then stopped, hands braced on his thighs as he caught his breath. Sweat cooled fast against his skin. Someone clapped him on the shoulder as they headed toward the locker room, already talking about graduation, about what came next. Juhoon nodded when spoken to, answered when necessary, but his attention was already elsewhere.
He showered quickly, changed just as quickly, and left with his bag slung over one shoulder, cleats knocking against his back with every step. Outside, the air felt sharper, quieter. The school loomed dark except for that one glowing section, warm light spilling through tall windows like an open invitation.
Inside the auditorium, sound wrapped around him before sight did.
A piano, steady and sure. Then a voice.
Juhoon paused just after entering.
Martin stood center stage beneath the lights, face tilted slightly upward, eyes half-closed as he sang. His brown hair was pushed back messily, short enough that it framed his face without hiding anything, every expression laid bare. He moved when he sang. He didn’t do big, dramatic gestures, but instead small ones—hands lifting, shoulders turning, like the music lived too close to the surface to stay contained.
Juhoon leaned against the back wall, backpack still on, and watched.
Martin looked softer under the stage lights, his features smoothed by warmth and shadow, but there was nothing fragile about the way he held the room. Even now, tired and mid-rehearsal, he commanded attention without trying. The band kids scattered through the seats were quiet and focused. Juhoon understood the feeling. Martin had always had a way of pulling focus, not by demanding it, but by existing fully.
The song swelled, then softened, and Juhoon felt it settle somewhere behind his ribs, familiar and heavy. He’d heard Martin sing hundreds of times. It never felt routine.
When the last note faded, there was a brief, reverent silence before someone called out feedback. Martin laughed lightly, breathless, rubbing at the back of his neck as he nodded along. Then his gaze lifted, sweeping the darkened seats, and landed on Juhoon.
The change was immediate.
Martin’s shoulders relaxed, his smile turning warmer, more private, like he’d found something he hadn’t realized he was looking for. Juhoon lifted his hand in a small, unconscious greeting, and Martin mirrored it before turning back to the piano, ready to start again.
Juhoon stayed until rehearsal ended. He always did. Even when it ran late. Even when his phone buzzed with reminders of homework and forms and things he was supposed to be preparing for. Waiting had never felt like a burden when it came to Martin.
When the lights finally dimmed and shoes squeaked against the auditorium floor, Martin hopped off the stage and jogged down the aisle, shrugging into his coat as he walked.
“You didn’t leave,” he said, like it still surprised him.
Juhoon shrugged, easy. “Coach kept us late.”
Martin smiled at that, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He looked tired in the way that came from doing something you loved too much to stop. They stepped back out into the cold together, the contrast sharp enough to make Martin hiss softly before laughing.
They walked close. Close enough that their shoulders brushed every few steps. Close enough that it felt intentional without ever being acknowledged.
They didn’t talk much. They rarely did on nights like this. The silence between them was practiced, filled with years of shared routines and unspoken understanding. Footsteps echoed. A train passed somewhere in the distance, low and steady.
“You were good today,” Juhoon said eventually.
Martin hummed, pleased but shy. “You say that every time.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
Martin glanced at him then, searching Juhoon’s face with that familiar intensity, like he was trying to read something Juhoon hadn’t said. Juhoon kept his expression calm, neutral. He’d learned how.
They reached the corner where they always split, the streetlight overhead casting a soft halo around them. For a moment, neither moved.
“Tomorrow?” Martin asked.
Juhoon nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Martin smiled, lifted a hand in a lazy wave, and turned toward home without looking back.
Juhoon watched until he disappeared down the street.
Only then did he turn the other way, the cold settling heavier against his skin. Graduation paperwork sat folded in his bag. Acceptance letters waited at home. March loomed ahead, unavoidable.
Juhoon exhaled, breath blooming white in the air.
February was ending. Time was moving. And no matter how quietly he walked, he could feel it counting down something he wasn’t ready to name.
The convenience store was almost painfully bright for how late it was.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off the glass doors and the pale tile floor. The shelves were full, the fridges humming steadily, but the place felt hollow, like it existed just for them at this hour. One worker stood behind the counter, half-leaning, half-lost in his phone, barely glancing up as Juhoon and Martin settled onto the stools by the window.
Juhoon liked this place because it was neutral. Because nothing important ever happened here.
Tonight, that illusion didn’t last.
They sat close, knees nearly touching, paper bowls of ramen steaming between them. Martin took off his lid too fast and hissed, laughing as hot broth splashed dangerously close to his fingers.
“You’re going to burn yourself,” Juhoon said automatically.
Martin grinned, unfazed. “I always survive.”
Juhoon watched him lean in over the bowl, sleeves pushed up, hair falling forward in a way that made his face look softer under the harsh lighting. Martin always looked like this when he wasn’t performing—unguarded and smaller somehow. Like the world hadn’t demanded anything from him yet.
Juhoon cracked his chopsticks apart and stirred his own ramen slowly, letting the steam hit his face. They’d done this dozens of times—after practice, after rehearsal, after long days that left both of them too tired to go home yet. It was one of those rituals that didn’t need planning. Just a shared understanding that neither of them was ready to end the night.
The store was almost silent except for the low hum of the fridge units and the occasional clink of chopsticks against paper.
“So,” Martin said casually, like he wasn’t winding himself up. “You get your schedule for March yet?”
Juhoon nodded. “Yeah. Orientation stuff, mostly. It’s… a lot.”
“Seoul National University,” Martin said, tone light, teasing. “Figures.”
Juhoon huffed softly. “You say that like it was a surprise.”
“I mean,” Martin shrugged, slurping a mouthful of noodles before they’d cooled properly. He hissed through his teeth, eyes watering, and Juhoon reached out automatically, pushing Martin’s water bottle toward him.
Martin paused, fingers brushing Juhoon’s as he took it.
Their hands lingered for half a second too long.
Martin cleared his throat and took a drink. “You were always going to end up somewhere like that.”
Juhoon didn’t respond right away. He focused on his ramen, on the simple, grounding motions of eating. The future felt close lately. Too close. March waiting just ahead, neat and inevitable.
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. The worker behind the counter glanced up once, then went back to his phone.
Martin slowed first.
Juhoon noticed because he always did. The way Martin stopped slurping noodles like he was starving. The way his chopsticks hovered, uncertain, before he set them down on the edge of the bowl.
Juhoon didn’t look at him yet. He knew better than to rush moments like this.
“Hey,” Martin said quietly.
Juhoon lifted his gaze.
Martin was staring into his ramen like the answer might be floating somewhere between the noodles. His face looked softer under the harsh lights, shadows pooling under his eyes. He chewed at his lower lip, then laughed weakly.
“I was going to wait,” he said. “But I’m bad at waiting.”
Juhoon felt something tighten in his chest. He nodded once. “Okay.”
Martin inhaled slowly. “I heard back.”
Juhoon didn’t ask from where. He already knew.
“I mean,” Martin rushed on, hands fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the counter in uneven rhythm. “You know I sent stuff out. Just to see. Just in case. I didn’t—”
“Martin,” Juhoon said gently.
Martin stopped. Looked up.
“I got in,” Martin said.
The words landed softly. Carefully. Like he was afraid of what would happen if he let them hit too hard.
Juhoon smiled immediately. It was instinct. Real. “That’s amazing.”
Martin watched his face closely, eyes searching. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Juhoon said, and meant it. “That’s… that’s really amazing.”
Relief flickered across Martin’s face, quick and bright, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. “It’s Juilliard,” he added, quieter now, like saying it out loud made it more dangerous. “For music. They—” He laughed, breathless. “They gave me a scholarship.”
Juhoon felt the world shift.
New York rose in his mind, vast and distant, an ocean away. August. Airplanes. Time zones. Everything stretching thin.
He kept his expression steady.
“That’s huge,” he said. “You worked so hard for it.”
Martin nodded, swallowing. “I know it’s far. I mean—really far. But I don’t even have to go until August, so there’s time. And I just—” He cut himself off, fingers curling into the sleeve of his thin sweatshirt. “I wanted you to know.”
You’re the last person I’m telling, hung unspoken between them.
Juhoon understood it anyway.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Martin’s shoulders sagged, tension releasing all at once. He smiled, small and grateful, eyes shining just a little too much. “I was scared you’d be weird about it.”
Juhoon shook his head. “Why would I be?”
Martin shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re hard to read sometimes.”
Juhoon almost laughed. If you only knew.
He wanted to say it then—that he’d been bracing for this. That he’d already started letting go. That every plan he’d made for March had carefully excluded Martin because it hurt less that way.
Instead, he said, “I’d never be weird about you getting an opportunity like this.”
It was the truth. Just not the whole one.
They talked after that—about visas, dorms, paperwork, how overwhelming New York sounded. Martin complained about the idea of having to use English all the time even though he knew it well. How it was different when it wasn’t just something he switched into, but something he’d have to live in. How Korean was still the language that lived in his chest, no matter how Canadian his dad was.
Juhoon listened. He understood more than he let on. Asked quiet questions. Offered reassurance where he could. Stored away details he didn’t know what to do with yet.
Behind the counter, the worker yawned, entirely unaware that something irrevocable had happened six feet away.
When they finished eating, Martin bumped his shoulder lightly against Juhoon’s as they stood.
“Same tomorrow?” he asked, hopeful. Unaware.
Juhoon met his eyes.
For a moment, the words caught in his throat. Then he nodded. “Same tomorrow.”
Outside, the cold hit hard as the door slid shut behind them. The light from the store spilled onto the sidewalk and then disappeared, leaving them alone under the streetlights.
Juhoon walked Martin home like he always did.
He matched his steps. Kept his hands in his pockets. Listened to Martin talk about nothing and everything.
And all the while, he carried the weight of a future that had already begun to move, with or without him.
The auditorium buzzed long before the ceremony began.
Programs rustle. Cameras click. Parents fill the seats that rise in tiers as you go up the auditorium, leaning forward, calling out names, scanning rows of black gowns for familiar faces. The stage glows under warm lights, curtains drawn back to reveal the podium and school banner, everything too bright and too final.
Juhoon sits among the small graduating class that are in the first few rows of seats, cap settled squarely on his head, hands folded neatly in his lap. He can hear his parents somewhere behind him—his mother’s voice clear even among the noise, his father’s low and steady. He doesn’t turn around.
To his right, Martin can’t sit still.
He keeps shifting in his chair, leaning forward to whisper something to another classmate, then leaning back again, knee bouncing with nervous energy. His cap is already crooked, hair escaping at the edges. Even seated among a few dozen other students, he draws the eye without trying.
The ceremony unfolds in orderly segments. Speeches about resilience and futures blur together, applause rising and falling on cue. Juhoon stands when instructed, sits when told, claps when names are called. His body moves on autopilot.
Then Martin’s name echoes through the auditorium.
The reaction is immediate. Applause swells louder than before, cheers rippling down from the seating above. Martin stands from his chair, smoothing his gown as he walks down the aisle toward the stage steps. He looks calm, too calm, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
Juhoon’s chest tightens.
Martin accepts his diploma with an easy grin, bows slightly out of habit, then turns back toward the crowd. His gaze sweeps over the few rows of students and finds Juhoon instantly.
The smile he gives him then is smaller. Private. Grounding.
Juhoon claps until his palms sting.
By the time the final name is called and the closing remarks begin, the feeling in Juhoon’s chest has settled into something heavy and unmoving. Words about beginnings wash over him without landing. All he can think about is how much this feels like an ending.
When the ceremony ends, the auditorium erupts. Students surge into the aisles. Families pour down from the seats. Laughter and shouting fill the space as cameras are raised and caps are lifted. Juhoon barely has time to stand before his parents are there, pulling him into proud, familiar embraces.
“You did well,” his father says, squeezing his shoulder.
His mother smooths his gown, eyes shining. “We’re so proud of you.”
Photos follow—one, then another. Smiles held just long enough to feel real. Juhoon answers questions from classmates about March, about Seoul National University, about how fast everything is happening.
But his eyes keep drifting.
He spots Martin near the front of the auditorium immediately, surrounded. His mom has both hands on his face, laughing and crying at the same time. His dad stands close, tall and quiet, pride written plainly across his expression. His sister hovers nearby, phone already raised, directing them into better lighting like it’s second nature.
Juhoon’s chest aches.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells his parents.
They nod easily, already distracted by another family waving them over.
Juhoon weaves through the crowd on instinct alone. Martin notices him right away and breaks away without hesitation, grin bright and unguarded.
“Juhoon hyung!”
They meet halfway, hugging easily despite their height difference, gowns tangling awkwardly between them. Martin’s arms are warm and familiar around him, the contact lingering just a second longer than casual—too natural to question, too brief to say everything it wants to.
“We actually did it,” Martin says, breathless, pulling back just enough to look at him.
Juhoon nods, throat tight. “Yeah. We did.”
Martin’s mom steps in next, smiling fondly as she pulls Juhoon into a hug like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You made it,” she says warmly, patting his arm. “I was wondering when you’d find us.”
Juhoon laughs softly. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“You never do,” she says, squeezing his shoulder before turning back to Martin, pride shining.
Martin’s sister leans in, already snapping photos. “Juhoon, stand closer,” she says, half-laughing. “You’re basically family at this point so I’m putting you in the album.”
Martin groans. “Noona.”
She smirks. “What? I’m not wrong.”
The words settle heavier in Juhoon’s chest than he expects.
Then Martin’s dad steps forward.
Juhoon straightens instinctively, offering a small bow before switching to English without thinking. “Congratulations, sir. I know how hard he worked.”
Martin’s dad’s expression softens immediately, recognition clear. “Thank you,” he replies, relieved. “You’ve been with him through all of it.”
Martin blinks, glancing between them. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
Juhoon shrugs, a little embarrassed. “It felt easier.”
Martin’s dad nods once, deliberate. “Take care of him,” he says simply.
Juhoon swallows. “I always do.”
For a small moment, it feels like standing inside something fragile and perfect. The noise around them dulls. The light softens. This isn’t an introduction or a milestone.
It’s proof.
Proof that Juhoon has already been woven into this life so deeply that leaving it will hurt far more than anyone here realizes.
A teacher approaches then, touching Martin’s arm gently, murmuring something Juhoon can’t hear. Martin’s expression shifts from confusion, then surprise, then disbelief.
“I—hang on,” Martin says, glancing back apologetically. “I’ll be right back.”
Juhoon nods automatically.
He watches from a few steps away as Martin is pulled into a small cluster of faculty near the side of the stage. They speak quietly. Hands gesture. Martin bows instinctively, laughter breaking out as someone claps him on the shoulder.
It isn’t loud or public, but somehow, that makes it worse.
Juhoon stays where he is.
He watches Martin smile in disbelief, watches teachers congratulate him, watches the future unfold in hushed voices he isn’t part of. When Martin finally turns back, scanning the crowd, Juhoon is already stepping away, his parents calling his name from across the auditorium.
Later, Martin will find him, they’ll talk, and there will still be time. But standing there amid celebration and applause and futures rushing forward, Juhoon understands something with aching clarity:
This isn’t the goodbye that will break him. That one is still coming, and he doesn’t know yet how he’ll survive it.
March arrives without asking permission.
Classes begin at Seoul National University under early spring light, the campus still edged with cold. Juhoon learns new paths quickly—lecture halls tucked between trees, the best places to sit without being noticed, the rhythm of days shaped by syllabi and deadlines. He makes friends easily enough. Group chats form. Names stick. People invite him for coffee after class, for late dinners, for drinks on weekends.
Life moves forward, but Martin isn’t there.
Martin’s birthday comes and goes in the middle of it all, quieter and stranger than Juhoon expects. He sends a message just past midnight, fingers hovering before he hits send, then follows it with a photo from his dorm window of the city still half asleep. Martin replies immediately, joking about getting older, about the way the day already feels different without Juhoon around, about plans that don’t quite feel the same.
Juhoon keeps the chat open longer than necessary.
In April, he still reaches for his phone out of habit. He sends photos of campus paths dusted with cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom, asks how piano and guitar rehearsals are going, whether Martin’s fingers are sore yet. Martin replies quickly, enthusiastically, words tumbling over each other like they always have, as if distance hasn’t changed anything at all.
Juhoon lets himself believe that for a while.
Come see this, Martin texts once, sending a shaky video of a rehearsal room filled with music.
Juhoon watches it twice.
In May, the replies take longer.
Not because Martin cares less—Juhoon knows better—but because their days no longer overlap the way they used to. Juhoon has lectures that end late. Martin has rehearsals for musicals he’s joined for fun that run even later. They still meet, sometimes, on weekends. Convenience store ramen turns into scheduled dinners. Spontaneity fades into effort.
Juhoon doesn’t complain. He tells himself this is normal. That this is what growing up looks like.
By June, he’s used to walking campus without checking his phone every few minutes. Used to laughing with new friends, studying late in libraries that smell like paper and dust. He learns which cafés stay open the latest, which staircases are quiet, which benches feel safest when he needs to sit still.
He tells stories about Martin like they’re anecdotes from another chapter of his life.
My friend from high school, he says. He’s a musician.
The words sit wrong in his mouth every time.
In July, Martin gets busy in a different way.
There are auditions. Final performances. Preparations for Julliard that Juhoon doesn’t fully understand. Martin sends photos of sheet music sprawled across his bed, captions joking about being overwhelmed. Juhoon sends encouragement, reminders to eat, short messages meant to feel light.
He doesn’t say I miss you because that feels like he’s asking for something.
By end of July, even the rhythm of their messages has changed.
Not broken, never that, but stretched thin, like something pulled too far too often. Sometimes days pass without a word. When they do talk, it’s good. Warm. Familiar. But there’s an awareness beneath it now, unspoken and constant.
That August is right there.
One afternoon, after a long lecture before their small summer break, Juhoon sits on the stone steps overlooking the lower part of campus. The sun is warm, students scattered across the grass below him, laughter drifting up in pieces. Someone beside him talks about summer plans. Someone else complains about finals.
Juhoon nods where appropriate.
He pulls out his phone without thinking.
There’s a photo Martin sent earlier that morning—his room half-packed, a suitcase open on the floor, clothes folded too neatly inside. The message reads:
This feels fake.
Juhoon stares at it longer than he means to.
He imagines Martin in that room, surrounded by things he’s about to leave behind. Imagines the quiet after everything is boxed up. Imagines a version of August where he isn’t there to walk him home from his own house one last time.
The thought settles heavy and unmoving in his chest.
A friend drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You okay?”
Juhoon blinks and pockets his phone. “Yeah.”
It’s true. Mostly.
He’s doing well here. Thriving, even. He’s finding his place, learning how to be someone outside of the routines he built around Martin. He laughs. He studies. He plans.
And still, there are moments when he hears music drifting out of an open window and turns automatically, expecting to see Martin leaning against a wall, eyes bright, already halfway into a song.
There are moments when he reaches for his phone and stops himself, realizing there’s nothing urgent to say.
There are moments when the absence feels louder than anything else.
Juhoon watches the sun dip lower over campus, shadows stretching long and soft.
August waits, patient and inevitable.
And for the first time since high school graduation, he lets himself admit the truth quietly, without drama or expectation:
He doesn’t just miss Martin. He misses the version of his life where Martin was woven into almost every day. That loss settles beside him on the steps, familiar and heavy.
The August heat lingers in Juhoon’s room like it’s reluctant to move on.
The window is cracked open just enough to let warm air drift in, the steady whir of the fan helping it circulate through the room. Cicadas hum in the distance, their sound blending with the muffled noise of the neighborhood outside. Late afternoon light spills through the curtains, softened by the fabric, turning the room gold as dust motes float lazily in the air. Everything feels suspended, as if time has agreed to slow down for them this weekend, just days before Martin boards his flight to New York.
Martin is sprawled across Juhoon’s bed, one arm tucked beneath his head. He’s been there for hours now. They both have. Moving from the kitchen to the living room and finally here, talking about nothing and everything, sharing snacks, laughing softly, lying side by side like they’re afraid that standing up might mean the day ends faster.
Juhoon sits against the headboard, knees drawn up, hands loosely clasped in his lap. He watches Martin more than he listens. The way Martin’s fingers trace absentminded shapes into the blanket. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, only for him to brush it away with a small huff of annoyance. The way he keeps smiling today—too easily, too brightly—like he’s trying to fill every quiet before it can become dangerous.
Juhoon lets him.
But the weight in his chest has been building all day.
It isn’t sudden. It isn’t sharp. It’s slow and crushing, like something heavy settling where it doesn’t belong. Every glance at the clock. Every mention of later. Every time Juhoon catches himself thinking, remember this, because he knows there will come a day when he can’t.
Martin starts to trail off mid-story.
It’s subtle at first—just a hitch in his voice, a sentence left unfinished—but Juhoon feels it immediately. When Martin looks over, his brows knit together, concern soft but unmistakable.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You’re really quiet. Like… more than usual.”
Juhoon hums in response, noncommittal, eyes fixed on the wall opposite the bed. The light there is thinning, shadows stretching longer across the paint. He focuses on that instead of the way Martin’s voice has gone careful.
The mattress shifts.
Martin pushes himself upright, closer now. The bed dips beneath his weight, the space between them shrinking without either of them meaning to. “Did I say something weird?”
“No,” Juhoon answers too fast.
Martin doesn’t believe him.
He watches Juhoon for a long moment, eyes searching in that familiar way, like he’s always known how to read what Juhoon won’t say out loud. “You sure?”
Juhoon nods.
Then stops.
The truth presses hard against his throat, urgent and unrelenting. His chest tightens, breath going shallow, like he’s been holding something in for years and it’s finally demanding air.
“I don’t think,” he starts, then has to pause, jaw tightening. “I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m fine.”
The room stills.
Martin doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush him. He just waits patiently. Somehow, that makes it worse.
Juhoon swallows. His fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans, gripping hard enough to ground himself. “I’ve been trying all day,” he admits. “Trying to just… enjoy this. Us. Like if I hold onto it hard enough, it won’t slip away.”
His voice wavers despite his effort. “But it feels like there’s something sitting on my chest. Like if I don’t say it now, it’s going to crush me.”
Martin’s expression softens instantly. “Juhoon…”
“It hurts,” Juhoon says. The word feels inadequate, but it’s all he has. “That you’re leaving.”
Martin goes very still.
Juhoon keeps going because if he stops now, fear will take over. “I know I’m supposed to be happy for you. And I am. I swear. But every time I think about you being so far away—about not seeing you like this anymore—it feels like something inside me is tearing itself apart.”
He finally looks at Martin.
Color blooms across Martin’s cheeks, slow and unmistakable. His lips part, but no sound comes out. His eyes shine, wet but not spilling yet, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
“I didn’t realize how deep my heart was in this,” Juhoon continues, voice barely above a whisper. “In you. And now it feels too late to pretend it isn’t.”
The silence stretches.
Juhoon feels exposed in it, raw and unguarded. For one terrifying second, he wonders if he’s ruined everything.
Then Martin laughs.
It’s soft and shaky and completely wrong for the moment.
“You can’t just say things like that,” Martin says, voice trembling. He drags a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing darker. “You’re not allowed to say things like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Juhoon says immediately.
“No,” Martin says quickly. “Don’t stop.”
He turns fully toward Juhoon now, breath uneven. “I thought I was the only one.”
Juhoon’s heart stutters. “The only one what?”
Martin exhales, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I’ve been in love with you,” he says, words spilling out before fear can catch them. “For almost two years.”
Juhoon’s vision blurs.
“I didn’t say anything because you’re my best friend,” Martin continues, voice cracking. “And then Juilliard happened, and I thought—how selfish would it be to tell you when I’m the one leaving?”
Juhoon lets out a breath that feels like something finally giving way. “I thought the same thing.”
That’s what breaks Martin.
His eyes fill instantly, tears spilling over as he scrubs at his face, embarrassed and overwhelmed. “We’re idiots,” he mutters.
Juhoon laughs softly, brokenly. “Yeah. We are.”
They sit there like that, breathing through the truth now resting between them. Slowly, carefully, Juhoon reaches out. His fingers brush Martin’s hand, tentative, giving him time to pull away.
Martin doesn’t.
He turns his hand instead, fingers sliding between Juhoon’s like it’s instinct, like it’s always known where it belongs. The warmth of it sends a shiver straight through Juhoon’s chest.
They sit there, hands intertwined, foreheads almost touching.
Juhoon opens his eyes just as Martin exhales softly, breath warm against his cheek. Martin is close—closer than he’s ever been without crossing a line. His lashes are dark against flushed skin, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what words are safe anymore.
Neither of them move.
Then Martin whispers, “Can I…?”
Juhoon nods immediately. “Yes.”
Martin leans in slowly, giving Juhoon every chance to pull away. Their foreheads brush first, soft and accidental, before Martin’s lips finally meet his.
The kiss is gentle. Careful. Warm and unsure. It’s nothing like the dramatic ones Juhoon has imagined or seen in movies—it’s better. Real. Their lips press together softly, both of them breathing through it like they’re afraid of breaking something precious.
They pull apart, barely.
Martin lets out a breathless laugh. “Okay. Wow.”
Juhoon smiles faintly. “Yeah.”
They look at each other for a moment longer, and then Martin leans in again.
This kiss is surer. Still soft, but more confident now. Juhoon kisses him back without hesitation now, lifting his free hand to cup Martin’s jaw, thumb warm against flushed skin. Martin melts into it, making a quiet sound that goes straight to Juhoon’s chest.
When they part again, they’re both smiling.
And then the tears come anyway.
Martin’s breath hitches, smile wobbling as his eyes fill again. “I’m sorry,” he says reflexively.
Juhoon shakes his head, lifting his hand to Martin’s face, wiping away the tear with his thumb. “Don’t apologize.”
Another tear falls. Then another. Juhoon keeps brushing them away gently, over and over, like he can ease the hurt with careful enough touch. His own vision blurs, a tear slipping down his cheek without him stopping it.
Martin laughs weakly through it. “This is such bad timing.”
Juhoon nods, voice thick. “Yeah.”
They stay like that—laughing softly, crying openly, foreheads pressed together, hands still tangled.
After a while, Martin inhales slowly. “So…” His voice is quiet now. Vulnerable. “What are we then?”
The question hangs heavy in the air.
Juhoon doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Martin and feels the full, terrifying weight of loving him hit all at once.
“I want to be your boyfriend,” he says.
Martin’s breath catches sharply.
“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” Juhoon continues. “But I don’t know how to do that when you’re going to be so far away.” His voice drops, rough with honesty. “I don’t want to love you halfway. Through a screen. Counting hours. Counting days. I don’t know if I’m strong enough for how much it’s going to hurt.”
Tears spill again, quiet and unstoppable.
“I love you,” Juhoon says softly. “Enough that I’m scared of what it’ll do to me when you leave.”
Martin presses his forehead to Juhoon’s shoulder, shaking. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers.
Juhoon wraps an arm around him, holding him close. “I don’t either.”
They don’t solve it. They don’t promise anything yet.
They just hold each other, hearts bare, knowing that whatever comes next, this truth will go with them.
The airport is louder than Juhoon expects.
Wheels skim over polished tile, announcements echo overhead in clipped, practiced tones, and people move past them with purpose, dragging their lives behind them in neat, manageable suitcases. Everything feels too functional for a moment like this. Too efficient.
Martin’s family stands a short distance away.
His mom fusses quietly with his carry-on, straightening straps that don’t need straightening before stepping away. His older sister scrolls through her phone with exaggerated focus, deliberately facing the other direction. His dad stands near the windows, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the pavement outside like he understands exactly what kind of space to give.
Juhoon notices all of it. The distance. The kindness.
Martin stands in front of him with his backpack slung over one shoulder, passport tucked loosely in his hand. He looks steady in a way that tells Juhoon he’s already cried a few more times in his own bedroom.
He looks taller here somehow—five inches of height that Juhoon suddenly feels acutely aware of, the familiar difference made sharper by the fact that this is the last time he’ll be standing this close for a while.
They don’t talk much. Everything that mattered was already said.
“Text me when you land,” Juhoon says quietly.
Martin nods immediately. “I will.”
“And eat,” Juhoon adds, because loving Martin has always come out sideways.
Martin lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “I promise.”
They stand there a little too long, close enough that Juhoon can feel the warmth coming off him. Time thins around them, stretching, reluctant to move forward.
Martin shifts first.
He steps in and folds over Juhoon easily, chin settling against the top of Juhoon’s head. His arms wrap around Juhoon’s shoulders with practiced familiarity, like this is something they’ve always known how to do. Juhoon presses his face into Martin’s shoulder, arms tightening around his waist, holding on longer than he should, breathing him in like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him.
Martin’s grip tightens in response.
For a moment, it feels like the rest of the airport fades away—like it’s just them again, suspended in that quiet they found in Juhoon’s bedroom. Like if they stay like this long enough, time might forget to keep moving.
“I love you,” Martin says softly, voice low enough that it’s just for him.
Juhoon closes his eyes.
“I know,” he says, because anything more would break him open.
When they pull apart, Martin keeps his hands on Juhoon’s shoulders for a second longer than necessary, grounding himself. His eyes shine, but his smile is still there—brave in that way that hurts to witness.
Juhoon lifts his hand without thinking.
A strand of Martin’s hair has fallen out of place, slipping forward the way it always does. Juhoon smooths it back gently, fingers brushing Martin’s temple, tucking it where it belongs. The touch is brief, careful, devastatingly familiar.
“Bon voyage,” Juhoon says.
The words sound lighter than they feel.
Martin freezes for half a second, something flickering across his face. Then he nods once, deliberate. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Bon voyage.”
Behind them, Martin’s mom clears her throat gently. It is not a rush, just a reminder. His sister finally looks up, eyes soft, pretending not to notice the way Martin hesitates.
Martin takes a step back. Then another.
Juhoon stays where he is.
Martin turns once more, lifts a hand in a small wave meant only for him, and then he is gone, swallowed by the line at security, pulled forward by the inevitability of movement.
Juhoon watches until there is nothing left to watch.
Around him, the airport keeps moving, bright and busy and unchanged. Maybe this is what love looks like now, he thinks, standing still, wishing someone well, and hoping they carry a piece of you with them when they go.