Chapter Text
The sound of metal clinking echoed from the kitchen window next door. Sungchan didn’t need to check. He knew Eunseok had just dropped a spoon in the sink again.
It was a quiet Sunday morning in March, the kind that clung to winter's chill but carried hints of spring. The air smelled like boiled eggs and toasted bread. Sungchan, dressed in gray sweats and an old band tee, leaned on his balcony railing with a mug of coffee. From here, he could see into the second floor of Eunseok’s house.
Sure enough, the curtains were half-drawn, and Eunseok’s fluffy head of just-woke-up hair bobbed around the kitchen.
At exactly 9:12 AM, his phone buzzed.
EUNSEOK: u better not be drinking that boring black coffee again
EUNSEOK: come over
EUNSEOK: i made toast and apple juice (it’s sweeter than ur coffee)
EUNSEOK: it’s my birthday i get to boss u around.
Sungchan smiled. Same thing every year.
He set down his mug, slipped on slippers, and padded across the short, familiar path between their houses. Their families had lived side by side since kindergarten, the kind of neighbors who didn’t knock, just shouted from the gate.
The front door was already open. Eunseok was standing in the kitchen, wearing a cartoon-print hoodie and mismatched socks, holding a plate of toast in one hand and peanut butter in the other.
“Happy birthday, old man,” Sungchan said as he stepped in. “35 years of being a loser, congratulations.”
Eunseok rolled his eyes. “You’re six months younger. Barely counts.”
“Where’s is auntie and uncle?” Sungchan asked, and he meant Eunseok’s parents.
“Mom left for yoga class, Dad went fishing.”
Then he shoved the plate at him. “Eat. I made the eggs runny just how you like them. Which is gross, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Sungchan said, taking a seat. “And you remembered.”
“I always remember. I’m considerate like that. Unlike someone who didn’t text me happy birthday until 11 AM last year.”
“I was at a funeral,” Sungchan said calmly.
“Still,” Eunseok grinned. “Ghosts have reception.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. The house was quiet except for the gentle hum of the space heater and the occasional ding from Eunseok’s phone, which he ignored. The TV played an old variety show rerun in the background, low and familiar.
“You gonna do anything today?” Sungchan asked. “Family dinner?”
“I already did it last night,” Eunseok replied. “Mom tried to introduce me to her friend’s daughter. Again.”
Sungchan grimaced sympathetically. “You survive?”
“Barely. She asked me if I wanted two or three kids. I said I wasn’t sure I wanted any. I don’t think she took that well.”
“You don’t want kids?”
“I don’t even want to date right now.” Eunseok wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I haven’t dated in two years, did you realize that?”
Sungchan blinked. “Seriously? That long?”
“Yeah. Weird, right? Me. King of three-month flings. You’d think I’d be climbing the walls by now.”
Sungchan chuckled. “I thought you’d at least have a new situationship by Lunar New Year.”
“Same,” Eunseok said, a little quieter. “But... I don’t know. I just got tired. Of the talking stages. Of pretending to want things I’m not even sure I want.”
Sungchan didn’t reply immediately. He stabbed at the yolk of his egg with his fork, watching it bleed into the toast.
“I get it,” he said finally. “It’s exhausting. Wanting something. Not getting it. Thinking you did. Realizing you didn’t.”
There was something behind his words. Eunseok glanced at him, his eyes lingered for a second too long.
“You okay?”
Sungchan gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m always okay.”
They both knew that wasn’t entirely true. Sungchan’s wedding had been called off a month ago. Four years, nearly engaged, invitations already mocked up. Then: “I can’t do this, Chan-ah,” followed by a confession of an affair and the usual apologies that meant nothing.
He hadn’t talked much about it since. Eunseok hadn’t pushed.
After breakfast, they sat on the floor, playing some dumb co-op game they’d been stuck on for weeks. They lost. Again. Eunseok yelled at the screen. Sungchan laughed at him while sudenly pushed a paper bag to his lap. And then Eunseok mood immediately changed after he got the birthday present from the same person since 30 years ago.
It was the same as always.
But when Eunseok got up to get more water, Sungchan watched him walk to the kitchen — still barefoot, still in those dumb socks — and felt the quiet press a little heavier on his chest than usual.
Another birthday. Another year. Still side by side. Still not quite moving forward. Both of them are stuck in different kinds of relationships and their problems.
Later that afternoon, they went their separate ways, Sungchan to run errands, Eunseok to meet a friend for coffee. Not a date, not officially at least.
Just someone from an app who’d messaged him last week with a cheesy pick-up line he’d found amusing enough to entertain.
***
The cafe was bright, modern, and smelled faintly of caramel syrup. The guy — Jisoo? Jaemin? Something with a J — was cute, talked fast, and clearly very into him.
“You look younger than thirty-five,” the guy said with a grin. “Do you work out?”
Eunseok smiled automatically. “Just yoga. Occasionally. When I feel like being a responsible adult.”
The conversation was easy. Flirty. A little shallow, but that was the point.
He’d done this a hundred times before. Ask the right questions, laugh in the right places, give enough without giving too much. It was a performance he could do in his sleep.
“So… would you want to grab dinner sometime? Proper date?” the guy asked, eyes hopeful.
Eunseok hesitated for half a second. Then smiled. “Maybe. I’ll let you know?”
He wouldn’t, he knew it. The guy probably did too.
They parted with a wave and vague promises to "text soon."
Outside, Eunseok slipped his phone into his coat pocket and stared up at the gray sky. It was barely 5 PM, but the clouds were already dimming. The chill bit through his sleeves.
Another almost-connection. Another forgettable face. He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t anything.
Just... empty.
***
Meanwhile, Sungchan stood in the aisle of a convenience store, staring at a shelf of cup noodles and unable to decide if he wanted beef or kimchi.
His phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number that unfortunately he remembers so well.
“Hey… I know I shouldn’t text you. But I just wanted to say I’m sorry again. Hope you’re doing okay.”
He stared at the screen, fingers hovering. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again. Eventually, he just locked his phone and dropped it back in his coat.
At the counter, the cashier asked, “Need a bag?”
Sungchan blinked. “No, I’m good.”
He walked home with two cup noodles in hand, the wind nipping at his knuckles, the ghost of her voice still echoing in his chest.
At home, he passed by the shelf in his bedroom. The small, expensive box still sat unopened in the corner, two silver rings inside, one slightly larger than the other.
He should’ve returned them. Or sold them. Or throw them in the Han River like they do in dramas.
But he didn’t.
He just sat down on the edge of his bed, peeled back the lid of his cup noodle, and thought of pouring hot water before he realized the room across his room had its light on.
It means Eunseok already got back from his little date.
So Sungchan decides to grab the other cup of noodle and his mind decide he will bother Eunseok again now.
***
The sky was deep navy, and the air still carried winter’s chill despite the calendar claiming it was spring.
Eunseok sat cross-legged on the narrow balcony outside his bedroom, one hand resting on his knee, the other loosely holding a cigarette between his fingers. The ember glowed and dimmed in rhythm with his thoughts.
From below, on the first floor, the faint sounds of his mom laughing with the neighbors auntie drifted up through the open window. Clinking dishes, a K-drama playing too loud, someone calling his name and getting ignored.
He didn’t turn when the sliding door creaked open.
Sungchan stepped out, carrying two cups of instant noodles, steam still rising from the lids. His glasses fogged slightly as he stepped into the cold, and he gave a quiet sigh.
"Your mom’s hosting again?" Sungchan asked, handing him one of the cups.
Eunseok took it silently, blowing gently on the surface. "Yeah. Something about your mom bringing kimchi over so they had to have a mini reunion.”
Sungchan sat beside him without another word. They both leaned back against the wall, knees almost touching, breathing in the quiet hum of the city in the background.
After a moment, Sungchan reached over and plucked a new cigarette from Eunseok’s hand. “Lighter?”
“Inside.”
Sungchan exhaled hard through his nose, clearly too lazy to get up. He just brought the cigarette to his lips, grab Eunseok’s, and let the ember catch the end of his own, and lit it that way. Then passed it back without a word.
Eunseok watched him quietly.
Sungchan didn’t smoke. Or eat instant noodles. Not unless he was spiraling.
“You sure you wanna eat this junk?” Eunseok asked, poking the lid of Sungchan’s cup. “Sodium’s like 70% of your daily limit. You’ll have to run three hours just to break even.”
“I didn’t come here for nutritional advice,” Sungchan muttered, puffing smoke into the cold air.
That was confirmation enough.
Eunseok didn’t press it. Not yet. But he noticed the way Sungchan’s hands were just a little shaky. The way his shoulders sat heavier than usual. The way he’d been barely home these past few weeks — always working late, always making excuses to stop by Eunseok’s house and never going back to his own.
He’d been avoiding his mom. Avoiding the house. Avoiding the truth.
Eunseok slurped a mouthful of noodles, then put the cup down beside him and finally said, voice soft.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
There was a long pause.
Sungchan didn’t answer right away. He kept smoking, eyes fixed on the streetlights flickering in the distance. Then finally, he let out a dry laugh. No humor in it.
“She cheated on me.”
Eunseok didn’t react. Just listened.
“She said it only happened once. But the way she looked when she said it—” He stopped. Shook his head. “I think she wanted out before I ever proposed.”
“I thought you already did,” Eunseok said quietly.
“I did. Last fall. She said yes.” Sungchan glanced at him, then looked away again. “Turns out saying yes doesn’t mean anything if you're scared shitless six months later.”
He took another drag from the cigarette.
“I already paid for the hall. The catering. Her dress was picked. My parents knew. I even—” He swallowed hard. “I even had the playlist. With your dumb suggestion of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ as the first dance.”
Eunseok smiled faintly. “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t even know why I’m mad,” Sungchan said. “She left before it got worse. Saved me a lifetime of wondering. But still... I feel like someone pulled a rug from under me, and I’ve been falling ever since.”
Eunseok didn’t say anything. Just took a slow drag and let the silence settle with them.
“I should’ve seen it,” Sungchan muttered, voice low. “She kept talking about freedom. About not wanting to be someone’s wife. I just... ignored it.”
“You wanted it too much,” Eunseok said. “That’s not a crime.”
Sungchan turned his head. “And you? You stopped dating entirely. What’s your excuse?”
Eunseok flicked ash over the edge of the balcony. “I got tired of playing a part.”
“What part?”
“The guy who always knows what he’s doing.”
Sungchan didn’t push further. He didn’t have to.
For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, knees touching, smoke curling into the night, two cups of cooling noodles between them.
It was strange, how grief could be so quiet.
How sometimes, the only person you could sit with in the aftermath wasn’t the one who broke your heart, but the one who never left in the first place.
***
They were halfway through their lukewarm noodles, cigarettes extinguished in an old ceramic pot, when the balcony door creaked open.
“Hyung!” Anton’s voice rang out suddenly. “Come downstairs. Dinner!” and he left immediately.
Eunseok glanced toward the voice. “He’s surely your brother”
Sungchan sighed through his nose. “Yeah. He never knocks.”
“You guys are so polite,” Eunseok muttered sarcastically, grabbing his cup of noodles and getting up.
“Hey! Don’t bring that—!” Sungchan started, but Eunseok was already out of the room, balancing the half-eaten cup like it was fine china.
The living room downstairs was bright and loud — lights too white, the TV blaring muted commercials, and the smell of grilled mackerel mixing with soy-glazed chicken, banchan, and something faintly burnt. A long dining table had already been half-filled with dishes.
Eunseok paused at the stairs, slightly thrown off. “Wait, this is a whole thing?”
“Apparently,” Sungchan muttered beside him, straightening his sweatshirt and adjusting his glasses like armor.
Their moms had clearly coordinated another spontaneous joint dinner — something they used to do often when the boys were in school, but less now. Still, it wasn’t surprising. Their families had known each other for decades.
“Eunseok-ah!” his mom called from the kitchen, already wearing her red apron with little white bears on it. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t eating properly upstairs? I made your favorite!”
“I was eating,” he mumbled, raising his cup as proof.
She swatted the air like she could shoo away his entire lifestyle. “Cup noodles don’t count as food. You’ll ruin your stomach and die before you even get married.”
“There it is,” Eunseok muttered under his breath.
Across the room, Sungchan had gone quiet.
His mother was already seated at the table, next to Eunseok’s father. She glanced up just briefly when Sungchan entered, eyes flicking to him with an unreadable look. Not cold exactly, but not warm either. Just distant.
Sungchan lowered his gaze and sat at the far end without saying anything.
Their dads, meanwhile, were busy clinking glasses of soju, talking about news, the price of rice, and neighborhood gossip. Typical dad things.
Anton waved from the couch with a toothy grin. He was wearing gym shorts and an oversized hoodie, clearly just dragged into this by their mother.
“Hyung, did you seriously ditch this food for cup noodles?” Anton called out.
“Don’t start,” Sungchan said, rubbing his temple.
As they all sat down, plates were passed, chopsticks lifted, bowls clinked. Conversation buzzed in patches, the kind of easy background chatter that happens when everyone avoids the real topic in the room.
“So Eunseok,” his mom started, already gearing up. “That girl I told you about last week — she’s back from Canada. You should meet her. She works in design and loves dogs! You love dogs, right?”
“I don’t even have a dog.”
“But you like them.”
He sighed. “Eomma.”
His mom pressed on. “You’re thirty-five now. Thirty-five! Don’t you want to settle down before your metabolism turns against you?”
“Thank you for the medical warning.”
Sungchan stifled a laugh with his chopsticks.
Eunseok’s dad added, not unkindly, “He’ll figure it out. He always takes the long road.”
Sungchan’s mom, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke.
“I just hope,” she said, her voice calm but sharp around the edges, “that when it’s time, he doesn’t pick someone who says they’re ready but runs when it gets real.”
The table went still.
No one said anything. Even the TV had gone to a black screen between commercials, like it sensed the tension.
Sungchan didn’t look up. His jaw was clenched just barely.
Eunseok’s mom shifted uncomfortably. “Ah… some people just get scared, that’s all.”
Eunseok looked between them all, eyebrows raised.
Then, with perfect comedic timing, he picked up a lettuce wrap the size of his fist and stuffed it entirely in…. Anton’s mouth.
“Mmhffshh good,” As if understanding the timing, Anton said with full cheeks, giving a thumbs up.
Everyone chuckled, the air slowly loosening again.
“Eat, eat,” Eunseok’s dad said, breaking the silence as he reached for the kimchi. “Don’t waste your mother’s labor.”
Sungchan’s mom didn’t speak again for the rest of the meal. She barely touched her food.
***
Later, after dishes were done and leftovers packed into plastic containers, the families slowly trickled out or back to their respective homes.
Eunseok walked up the stairs first, Sungchan a few steps behind.
“Thanks for the save,” Sungchan muttered under his breath. “Your mom almost pulled out the family registry again.”
“You’re welcome,” Eunseok replied. “And your mom should try writing K-drama scripts. That was brutal.”
“She’s just disappointed,” Sungchan said flatly. “She’s trying not to say it outright.”
“You shouldn’t be the only one carrying that.”
Sungchan didn’t answer. Behind them, the last light downstairs flicked off. The house returned to quiet. But the silence between them lingered, weighty and full of things neither of them were quite ready to name.
***
After little talk, Sungchan came back to his house. The quiet hum of routine wrapping around him like a blanket. But Eunseok couldn’t sleep.
He lay on his side, staring at the faint shadows the streetlight cast through the curtain. His room still smelled faintly of smoke and noodles. Across the wall — a few meters away — was Sungchan’s room and maybe Sungchan inside.
That thought was strangely comforting.
He reached out and tapped the wall lightly, like a knock only Sungchan would hear.
He didn’t expect a reply.
But then — tap tap — two soft knocks back. He smiled.
His mind suddenly went back to 30 years ago.
***
Eunseok was crying in the backyard.
His shoelaces were tangled, and his knee was scraped from falling off the tiny plastic slide. His mom had gone inside, and the tears came fast and hot.
But then, from the other side of the fence, a boy with a bowl cut and serious eyebrows peeked through the gap in the wooden boards.
"You okay?"
Eunseok sniffled. "No."
The boy disappeared. A minute later, the side gate creaked open, and he walked over, dragging a mini first-aid kit in one hand and a green dinosaur bandage in the other.
"I’m Sungchan. My mom says we’re neighbors now.”
He knelt down awkwardly and started patting Eunseok’s leg with the clumsy hands of a child who’d seen too many cartoons.
“You're doing it wrong,” Eunseok mumbled.
“I’m trying,” Sungchan said, sticking the dinosaur bandage on crooked.
From that moment, they were inseparable.
Years passed.
They were nine, crouched in the hallway during a blackout, armed with flashlights and half-eaten choco pies.
“If we die tonight, I want you to have my Pokémon cards,” Sungchan said solemnly.
“You don’t have Charizard.”
“Yeah, but I’m getting one. Someday.”
At eleven, they built a makeshift treehouse in Eunseok’s yard with stolen wood and a lot of duct tape.
They called it The HQ and swore no one else was allowed. Not even their future girlfriends.
“Don’t tell your mom I’m here,” 14 years old Sungchan whispered, slipping in through their almost connected balcony.
“You say that every time,” Eunseok said, handing him a bag of chips.
“I mean it this time. She thinks I’m at Taekwondo class.”
They collapsed onto the bed, playing video games until 2 a.m., their laughter muffled with pillows. They talked about school, about crushes, about how weird it was that time was going faster than before.
Then silence.
“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re adults?” Eunseok asked suddenly.
“Like what?”
“You here. Me here. Still… like this.”
Sungchan shrugged. “Probably. Unless one of us dies first.”
“Morbid much?”
“Just realistic.”
They didn’t say it, but they both liked the idea — the security of this, unchanged.
When they were eighteen, the night before the college entrance results came out, they sat on the rooftop, a shared bag of tangerines between them, jackets zipped up to the chin.
“I’m gonna bomb the math section,” Sungchan muttered, staring up at the black sky.
“You always say that. Then you end up ranking in the top ten.”
“Well, I’m due for failure.”
“Okay. I’ll bring snacks to your retake session.”
They laughed. Then they sat in silence, letting the weight of change settle around them.
“If we end up in different cities,” Sungchan said eventually, “we’ll still talk, right?”
Eunseok nodded. “Obviously. Who else would I complain to about everything?”
“You better call me every week.”
“You better answer.”
At twenty-two, Sungchan helped Eunseok move into his first crappy apartment for his first ever job. The stairs were steep, the walls smelled like damp, and Eunseok’s bookshelf fell apart twice.
“This place is cursed,” Sungchan said, catching a screw between his fingers.
“It’s called character,” Eunseok argued.
“It’s called tetanus risk.”
Still, they stayed up until dawn putting things together. Pizza boxes littered the floor.
Later that night, Eunseok found a small sticky note stuck to the inside of his cupboard:
"Don’t die alone in here. Call me if the bookshelf collapses again. - SC"
He didn’t take it down.
At twenty-seven, Sungchan called him at 11:42 p.m.
“Eunseok-ah,” he said, voice low. “I just got rejected.”
“Bad?”
“Public, in front of her friends.”
“Shit. Stay where you are. I’m coming.”
They ended up eating convenience store fried chicken under a bus stop sign.
“I think I’m unlovable,” Sungchan muttered, sipping a canned beer.
“You’re dramatic,” Eunseok replied. “You just liked the wrong person.”
“…I also spilled coke on her dog.”
“That may have done it.”
Sungchan sighed. “You always make it worse.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“…Yeah. You are.”
***
Back in the present, Eunseok’s fingers hovered near the wall.
Tap tap.
And again—
Two soft knocks answered back.
Their lives had changed, stretched, split and circled back again.
But some things stayed the same even in silence, even through a wall.
Sungchan is still here.
***
The wedding venue was all warm lights and soft jazz.
Eunseok tugged at his collar for the fifth time that night. He hadn’t worn a tie in two years, and his skin was reminding him why.
“Do I look like someone attending an insurance seminar?” he grumbled, eyeing himself in the mirrored wall as he and Sungchan stood near the bar.
“You look like someone who only showed up for the cake,” Sungchan replied, sipping mineral water.
Eunseok rolled his eyes. “That is why I came.”
The reception hall was beautiful — sleek, understated, but undeniably romantic. Round tables draped in ivory linen, centerpieces with blush roses and eucalyptus, a soft murmur of happy guests filling the air. On stage, a string quartet played a slowed-down version of a pop song Eunseok barely recognized.
This wasn’t just a wedding — it was Shotaro and Wonbin’s wedding.
Two people Sungchan and Eunseok had known for years — Shotaro, Eunseok’s dependable, older college senior who used to help him sneak out of boring lectures, and Wonbin, Sungchan’s college junior who clung to him like a puppy and never stopped talking. Somehow, somewhere along the way, the four of them had become a ragtag found family. They’d all met, clashed, teased, and laughed… and now, two of them had fallen in love and made it all official.
And the matchmakers? Eunseok and Sungchan.
“Hey, there they are!” a familiar voice called.
Wonbin bounded over first, beaming, looking far too energized for someone who just said vows an hour ago. Shotaro followed right behind, walking a bit more slowly but smiling just as wide.
“You guys look great!” Wonbin grinned, already reaching to hug them both, tux and all. “Thank you for coming, seriously.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Sungchan said, returning the hug.
Shotaro stepped in next, firm but warm. “Really… we mean it. This only happened because you two kept pushing us. So you’re both getting an honorable mention in our vows — emotionally, at least.”
“And now you’re both stuck with us forever,” Wonbin added with a wink.
They laughed. Eunseok playfully feigned horror. “God help us.”
“Enjoy everything, okay?” Shotaro said, patting their shoulders as he looked between the two of them — a little longer on Sungchan. “And hey… I hope this kind of happiness finds you both too.”
Wonbin smiled at that, softer now. There was a weight behind their words neither of them voiced, but they didn’t need to. Everyone knew. Sungchan’s almost-wedding was never explicitly talked about — but it lingered in the air.
And then just like that, Shotaro and Wonbin were whisked away to other guests.
The clink of champagne glasses and a burst of laughter followed them.
Eunseok and Sungchan stayed near the back, by a tall table no one had claimed. For a while, they just sipped drinks in silence, letting the music and lights swirl quietly around them.
Then Eunseok exhaled. “You ever realize how weird weddings are when you’re not part of one?”
“How so?”
“I dunno. Like you’re watching this huge performance and everyone else is a character with a role. And you’re just… background.”
Sungchan nodded slowly. “I guess it does feel like that now.”
Eunseok glanced sideways. “You okay?”
Sungchan didn’t answer at first. He just swirled the water in his glass.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Eunseok added.
“I’m fine,” Sungchan said finally. “Just tired.”
A beat passed. Then, out of nowhere, Eunseok said, “I haven’t dated in two years.”
Sungchan blinked. “You already said that.”
“Yeah. Nothing serious since Yunho. And even that was—” He waved vaguely. “—a disaster.”
“But you’re always dating,” Sungchan said, genuinely surprised.
Eunseok smiled faintly. “Yeah, that’s the thing. I think I forgot how to not date. Or I used to date just to not be alone. And then suddenly I realized I didn’t even know what I wanted. My mom kept pushing marriage, and every time I got close to someone, it turned into pressure. So I stopped.”
Sungchan nodded quietly, thoughtful.
“I just got tired,” Eunseok added. “Burnt out, confused… So now I just kind of exist. Like an idle NPC.”
“You’re more like a glitchy side quest,” Sungchan said dryly.
Eunseok laughed.
Then he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “I think I just got used to being with someone all the time. But it was always someone… temporary. I never had to think too far ahead, because I always had you next to me anyway.”
Sungchan looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Eunseok hesitated, then shrugged like it was nothing. “Even when my relationships ended, you were still there.”
A small, quiet beat of silence passed.
Then, casually — but not that casually — Sungchan said, “So are you saying you want to marry me or something?”
Eunseok scoffed. “Wow, who proposed to who now?”
“You’re the one getting all emotional in a wedding venue. It’s peak cliché.”
“You brought it up first!”
“…Maybe I am.” Sungchan suddenly said after a few moments.
Eunseok blinked. “What?”
“You’re the only one who hasn’t left yet. And we already know how to live together without murdering each other.”
“Wait, are you seriously proposing right now?” Eunseok still laughed, thinking it was their joke like how it usually done.
“I’m just saying,” Sungchan said with a shrug. “Maybe if nothing else works… we marry each other and just give up on everyone else.”
Eunseok's laughter stopped. And later that night, lying in bed, the words came back to him.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t left yet.”