My alliance with Min-seo was a deal sealed in silence and despair. I gave him the right to save Do-yun, and in return, I received hope. Hope that my death wouldn't be meaningless, and that the one I loved would see the light again.
***
After our conversation in the studio in Mangwon-dong, Min-seo didn't hesitate. He was the kind of man who, once he made a decision, acted methodically and fast. I, on the other hand, became his constant, invisible shadow. I followed him the way I once followed Do-yun — only now, I had instructions.
We started with something simple.
— His favorite café. By the station. You know which one, — I ordered, standing behind Min-seo while he ate cold noodles for breakfast.
— Stop talking into the back of my head, — he hissed without looking up, though his hand twitched toward his temple. — I know.
***
Min-seo called Do-yun. That was the first thing that surprised me. For two weeks, Do-yun hadn't answered a single call. But Min-seo seemed to know some old, forgotten melody that Do-yun couldn't ignore.
One ring. Nothing.
Two rings. Do-yun picked up, and the tension in the apartment became almost tangible.
— What do you want, Min-seo? — Do-yun's voice was dry, empty.
— Just wanted to know how you're doing, — Min-seo replied evenly. — I heard about… Cheon-woo. My condolences.
I flinched. Those words — "heard about Cheon-woo" — sounded so formal, detached. He allowed himself no emotion. Min-seo wasn't trying to be a friend. He was an anchor in a world Do-yun had already let go of.
***
Do-yun stayed silent. The pause was unbearable.
— I'm working on a new project, — Min-seo continued, shifting the topic. — I need a soundscape. You're the best at this. I just want to talk about the sound. Not about… — he stopped before saying death. — Just work.
My heart — the one I no longer had — started to beat faster. Work. The one string that could still pull Do-yun back. Music was his life — his first and only love.
Do-yun was quiet for a long time.
— Fine, — he said at last. — Not for long.
***
The meeting took place two days later. At that same small café by the station, where we once spent hours sketching and writing music while sipping bitter coffee.
I was there before them. Sitting at our usual table by the window. The smell of coffee — a smell I could no longer feel — was torture.
Do-yun came first. He looked terrible: unshaven, pale, wearing a wrinkled, stained hoodie. He sat down without looking around.
I flew closer in thought: "Please, sit up straight. Please, order something you love."
Then Min-seo entered. Calm, neat, radiating life and the real scent of the living world. He approached and sat down across from Do-yun.
— Thank you for coming, — said Min-seo.
Do-yun only nodded.
***
Their dialogue was slow and uneven. Min-seo talked about his photo project — about shadows, light, architecture. About everything but the personal.
— You always ordered a caramel macchiato here, — said Min-seo, not looking at him.
Do-yun flinched. That was my line. My habit. Min-seo couldn't have known that… or maybe he knew it too well.
Jealousy pierced me. It wasn't just an emotion — it was a burning sting, making me almost tangible for an instant. I remembered their closeness in college. Min-seo had been the only one who could make Do-yun laugh when he was angry. And now that man was sitting in my place, speaking my words, bringing my beloved back to life.
I flew at him with thought, trying to scream: "Don't you dare! Don't you dare take our memories!"
Min-seo shuddered. His hand twitched. He felt the wave of my ghostly anger. But he didn't look at me. He looked at Do-yun.
— You look pale. You need to eat, — Min-seo said. There was something in his tone — something beyond "friendly concern."
For the first time in weeks, Do-yun's mask cracked. A single tear welled in his eye, slid down slowly, and fell onto the table.
Min-seo didn't touch him. He just waited.
— Don't do this, Do-yun, — I whispered. — Don't let him see how weak you are.
But that tear was the first sign of success. The ice had started to melt.
***
They spent two hours together. Do-yun didn't talk about music, but about silence. About the weight of breathing. About not being able to throw away my hoodie. Min-seo listened — without interrupting, without judgment.
— He feels guilty, — I whispered to Min-seo. — Tell him I wasn't angry.
Min-seo nodded. A subtle, invisible nod.
— He wasn't angry, Do-yun, — Min-seo said softly. — He left because he was distracted. You said it yourself — he always rushed to sketch something before sunset.
A lie, told for mercy. And it worked. Do-yun looked at him with something that almost resembled hope.
When they parted, Min-seo left a small flash drive on the table.
— It's some music I've been working on, — he said. — Just listen. No pressure.
Do-yun took it. His fingers gripped it tightly — the first real, deliberate movement he'd made in weeks.
***
I followed Min-seo. After a few blocks, I couldn't hold it anymore.
— You shouldn't have mentioned the macchiato. That was ours.
Min-seo leaned against a damp wall and stared at the empty space where I stood.
— You asked me to save him, Cheon-woo. I'll use anything that works — our memories, yours, mine, doesn't matter. I just want him to live again. If that means taking your place for a moment, I'll do it. You agreed to any terms.
His words were sharp as broken glass. And I understood — he was right.
But watching someone else hold the person you'll never touch again… That was a pain even death couldn't dull.
I was jealous. I was selfish. And I realized — it had to happen. My silence had found a substitute.
______________________
"To let go is to love. Sometimes love comes in the form of someone else's hands — the ones holding who you never can. I am a shadow. But even a shadow can watch, hope, and learn to wait."