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In the Heat of Seoul’s Summertime, 2027
Seoul in midsummer is a physical assault. The humidity pressed down, thick with the cloying sweetness of street food and the acrid tang of exhaust. Xinlong’s shirt was a damp second skin, but the heat was nothing compared to the glacial dread that seized his chest. A ghost was walking the streets of his city again. Geonwoo was back.
Xinlong navigated the Hongdae crowds with his friends, Sanghyeon and Anxin. The peace he’d constructed since the betrayal in 2025 was instantly shattered when Sanghyeon read the message: “Whoa, Jiahao Ge just sent a message. Says Geonwoo Hyung’s back in town.”
“Geonwoo Hyung? Should I know him?” Anxin asked.
“He was Xinlong Ge’s shadow, right? His best friend from the dance club,” Sanghyeon said, nudging Xinlong.
Xinlong let out a sound like breaking glass. “Not really. An acquaintance whose utility expired.”
“We were partners,” Xinlong stated, his voice a flat, sterile thing from which all emotion had been scoured. It was a rehearsed defense, a wall of monotone. “For competitions. We had a shared goal. That requires proximity, not friendship.”
Proximity. A clinical, insulting word for what they’d had. Proximity wasn't the press of Geonwoo’s fingers on his waist, correcting his posture in the cool, mirrored silence of the studio at 2 AM. It wasn’t the quiet, dizzying intoxication of their first kiss, stolen behind the curtains backstage, a breathless promise. Proximity wasn’t the casual intimacy of shared meals and shared secrets. And it certainly wasn’t the memory that seared him most: Geonwoo, having spent an hour searching the Han River park, pressing a perfect, dew-kissed four-leaf clover into his palm. “So you never run out of luck,” he’d whispered, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch, “Not while I’m around.”
A lie. The cornerstone of my two years of bitterness.
“What’s for lunch?” Xinlong demanded, his voice too harsh, a desperate lurch towards any other topic. He let the ensuing debate wash over him, a meaningless noise that couldn’t quite drown out the terror that Geonwoo’s name had unleashed.
***
Xinlong didn’t go home. He stopped at a convenience store and sat on a plastic chair, nursing a cold can of coffee for two hours. He was waiting. Waiting for the message he knew was coming.
Around 10:30 PM, his phone buzzed. It wasn’t Sangwon. It was an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: Xinlong. Please. It’s Geonwoo. Don’t block me. I’m at the park entrance near the studio. I just need five minutes.
Xinlong stared at the text. He didn’t block it. Instead, he typed a reply, his fingers moving with surgical precision.
Xinlong: I don’t go to that studio anymore. I won’t waste my time traveling for a conversation that ended two years ago. Good luck with your regret.
He expected silence. He got an immediate call. He let it ring six times, staring at the screen, before finally answering, his voice a polished block of ice.
“Hyung,” he drawled, letting the formality cut deep. “I thought I was quite clear. I’m busy.”
“Please, just tell me where you are!” Geonwoo’s voice was ragged, the sound wrenching. “I’ve been trying to find you since I landed. Your number was disconnected. Your mother told me you moved back to China. I thought—"
"You thought what?" Xinlong interrupted, his voice rising in dangerous pitch. "You thought the person you left was dead? I wish I had been. You didn’t think I was worth an email? A single warning text? Don’t waste your drama on me. If you want to talk, you can find me at Sangwon’s party. He told me you were there.”
He hung up, the sharp click a statement of finality. The anticipation was now a low, predatory hum in his veins.
***
Xinlong arrived at Sangwon’s party precisely at midnight. He didn’t head straight inside. Instead, he found Jiahao and Junseo leaning against the outside wall, taking a breather. He needed to shore up his defenses.
“Longlong, you made it,” Jiahao said, looking him up and down. “You look… like you’re dressing for a funeral, not a party.”
Xinlong smoothed the lapel of his black linen shirt. “A funeral is exactly right. The funeral for two years of blissful ignorance.”
“Look, Geonwoo is in there,” Junseo muttered, lowering his voice. “He looks like hell. Sangwon dragged him in, but he’s just lurking by the drinks table. Do you want us to run interference?”
Xinlong looked at his two genuine friends, a rare feeling of warmth momentarily displacing the cold dread. “No. I’m not hiding. I want him to see me. I want him to see that I’m alive, I’m functional, and I’m completely, utterly indifferent. Just… keep the small talk small. If he tries to talk to me, don’t help him.”
“We got it,” Jiahao promised, putting a hand on his arm. “He’s a ghost to you.”
Xinlong nodded once, decisively, and pushed through the door.
***
Xinlong walked straight through the living room chaos, not looking for Geonwoo, but making sure Geonwoo saw him.
He was in the small kitchen, aggressively wiping down a counter that was already clean, when the door opened. Geonwoo stood there, his face pale, his eyes wide and wounded.
“Xinlongie?” Geonwoo breathed, the old nickname grating.
“Hyung,” Xinlong said, not stopping his manic cleaning, not meeting his eyes. “You look thirsty. We have soju, water, regret. Take your pick.”
Geonwoo ignored the sarcasm. He took a hesitant half-step forward. “I—I flew back specifically to find you. I know you’re angry, and you have every right, but I need you to hear me out.”
Xinlong finally stopped, placing the damp cloth down. He turned, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms. His eyes were empty of emotion, a blank, disdainful slate.
“I heard you out two years ago, Geonwoo. The sound was deafening. It was the sound of complete, total, unadulterated silence,” Xinlong stated, his voice low and utterly even. “Now, get out of the kitchen. You’re blocking the ice machine.”
Geonwoo flinched as if struck. He stepped aside, but didn’t leave.
***
The drinking game started. Xinlong joined, playing the role of the aloof participant. When the bottle pointed at him, he chose Truth.
“Who was your first kiss?” Anxin chirped.
Xinlong focused intensely on his cup, erasing the memory with every word. “It was a long time ago. I barely remember it. Completely unremarkable.”
A pained stillness settled over Geonwoo, who was watching from the doorway.
A few rounds later, the bottle spun fast and stopped with the cap pointing directly at Geonwoo. Dare.
Leo, sensing the tension, grinned nervously. “Okay, Geonwoo. Dare: Give one piece of advice to a heartbroken person.”
Geonwoo didn’t hesitate. He walked directly out of the doorway and into the circle of players, crossing the space between them until he was standing uncomfortably close to Xinlong.
He looked down at Xinlong, his eyes pleading for a single flicker of acknowledgement. His voice, though quiet, was heavy with sincerity. "The advice is: Don’t wait for closure. If the person who hurt you has the answer, you’ll die before you hear it. You have to write your own ending, even if it’s the wrong one."
The air left the room. It was too raw, too direct.
“What’s the real story with that four-leaf clover you keep in your wallet?” Sanghyeon asked, quickly trying to shift the focus, pointing at Xinlong.
Xinlong didn’t look up, instead giving Geonwoo an unblinking, hostile look. “It’s a reminder,” he said, his voice laced with bitter irony. “That you shouldn’t put your faith in silly things. Luck, promises, permanence... that kind of thing. It’s just a souvenir of bad judgment.”
The bottle spun again. It landed on Geonwoo. Truth.
Leo asked: “Biggest regret, Geonwoo?”
Geonwoo’s voice was raw with yearning, his eyes locked on Xinlong. “Leaving without an explanation. Letting the most important person I knew believe that I didn’t care.”
The confession was a public, wrenching apology. Xinlong’s reaction was none at all. He slowly lifted his cup, took a long, deliberate sip, and placed it back down with a soft click. The utter lack of reaction was the final, crushing blow. You are not even worthy of my hatred.
Geonwoo took a hesitant half-step toward him, his hand lifting in a small, pleading gesture, as if to say, please, stop hiding from me.
Xinlong’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper, the anger in his eyes burning cold. “I’m not avoiding you,” he hissed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You ceased to be a person to me two years ago. You are just the space where something used to be. You were a bad project I had to discard. A season, Geonwoo, and it passed. We were nothing. And I am utterly uninterested in the nothing you represent.”
“You’re impossible,” Geonwoo whispered, utterly broken.
“I am what your abandonment made me,” Xinlong countered. “You are history. I learned to live with your ghost. Living with you in the flesh is simply out of the question.” He turned his back. “I need some air.”
***
Sangwon, the host, watched the tense, destructive exchange from the archway of the hallway. He felt ill. He knew both of them too well; he’d been the reluctant middleman in their turbulent two-year relationship and was now the reluctant arena for their explosion.
Anxin walked over to him, her expression grim. “That was brutal, Sangwon Hyung. I think you need to tell Leo Hyung to get Geonwoo Hyung out of here before Xinlong Ge detonates.”
“I can’t,” Sangwon sighed, running a hand over his face. “I told Geonwoo he could come. He’s been a mess since he landed. He needs to say it, and Xinlong needs to hear it. This… this is their reckoning. Anything else would just postpone the inevitable.”
“Postpone what?” Jiahao asked, joining them. “The inevitable destruction of both of them? Xinlong has finally built a fortress around himself, and Geonwoo is here with a battering ram of guilt.”
“Exactly,” Sangwon said, his voice barely a whisper. “Xinlong’s fortress is built on a lie, the lie that Geonwoo didn’t matter. It needs to fall. Maybe the destruction will let them build something real, or maybe it will just be ashes. Either way, it has to happen tonight.”
He watched as Geonwoo slowly, heavily, followed Xinlong out to the balcony. The first real conversation in two years. And it’s a public execution.
***
Xinlong slid the door to the balcony open. The sudden rush of hot, humid air was a small relief. He gripped the cold railing, shaking with contained fury. The door slid shut behind him. Geonwoo.
“I came back for you,” Geonwoo said, his voice ragged. “Every second of those two years was hell. I deserve your hatred, but I don’t deserve this distance.”
“Then you wasted a plane ticket,” Xinlong replied, not looking at him. “There’s nothing here for you to come back to. I am not a museum for your guilt.”
Geonwoo pressed on, desperation sharpening his confession. “My father was sick. My family found out about us, about how I felt, and they forced the choice. I was weak. I was terrified. I destroyed everything because I knew if I kept any way of contacting you, I would break my promise to them. I knew I’d come running back. I didn’t choose the silence to hurt you. I chose it because it was the only way I knew how to obey them and survive. But every day, I failed, because the choice was wrong.”
Xinlong turned, the indifferent mask replaced by cold, pure fury. “You talk about survival. What about mine? You let me believe I wasn’t worth a single text. I mourned you. I bought flowers for a ghost. You ruined me, Geonwoo. You taught me that the person who loves you the most is the one who will leave the biggest hole. You came back expecting an audience for your magnificent tragedy!”
“I know!” Geonwoo sobbed, collapsing against the railing. “I am so sorry. I deserve everything you throw at me. But please, let me try to earn it back. I will quit my job, I will move to wherever you are. I will take your anger. I will take your hatred. I will earn the right to breathe the same air as you.”
Xinlong let out a long, shuddering breath, the rage burning out, leaving behind only vast, cold emptiness and profound despair. “There’s nothing to earn,” he whispered, the fight gone. “I can’t. I don’t know how to look at you and not see the ghost that haunted me for two years. You still make this about your guilt, your need to earn. You still don’t see me.”
He delivered the final, painful truth. “I’m leaving. I’m moving back to China. My flight is in three weeks.”
Geonwoo’s shoulders slumped, but he straightened, his voice firm with terrifying resolve. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll wait. I’ll quit my job. I’ll arrange a visa. If it takes three weeks or three years or the rest of my life, I will wait. Distance doesn’t scare me anymore. Only losing you again does.”
Xinlong stared at the fierce, wounded honesty in Geonwoo’s eyes, and the grudge. That heavy, protective stone wobbled violently. The crushing despair was momentarily challenged by a painful, terrifying spark of longing. A single, watery smile, so fragile it was barely there, touched Xinlong’s lips. It was the smallest, most agonizing crack in the glacier.
“I... I don’t know what that means,” Xinlong whispered, his voice catching on the words. “But... I’ll text you.”
It was not forgiveness. It was not a reunion. It was the acceptance of a devastating, painful uncertainty.
“Long-ge-ya,” Geonwoo breathed, the old nickname a gasp of fragile hope. “I’d like that more than anything.”
Geonwoo reached out, his hand hovering near Xinlong’s cheek, waiting for permission. Xinlong, after a moment that stretched into an eternity, closed his eyes and subtly leaned in. Geonwoo’s fingers gently cupped his jaw, the touch so tender it threatened to shatter Xinlong entirely. Geonwoo leaned in slowly, pressing the softest, most chaste kiss to his cheek, a breath of desperate, reverent tenderness. Then, with a whispered plea, he shifted, placing the most tentative, heartbreakingly gentle kiss upon Xinlong’s lips. It was less a passionate kiss and more an apology sealed against his skin, a vow that tasted of salt and sorrow, a fragile promise of making amends.
Xinlong pulled back, his eyes open, his breath uneven. The kiss was a tiny, flickering candle against a storm of grudge and despair. It solved nothing. It healed nothing. But the weight on his chest had shifted. He had three weeks to decide if this tiny spark of agonizing hope was enough to rebuild a life from the ruin.