I'd watched the world unravel into its autumn colors from the upstairs window, tucked beneath the sleeves of an oversized cardigan and the weight of my own silence. The trees outside looked like they were burning; blazing gold and rust-red, crowned in sorrowful fire. Below them, the wind played with fallen leaves the way I imagined gods once played with mortals: gently, and then not at all.
The festival was in full swing across town. I could hear the faint echo of drums, the hush of fireworks trembling through the air like distant thunder. Laughter floated in with the breeze, threaded through with the scent of cinnamon, soy glaze, and wood smoke. The city was celebrating the season's turning. And I was here. Waiting for a reason not to be.
Then the door creaked open, already impatient.
Seungyong appeared, already sighing. "You're not even dressed," he said, stepping into the room like he owned it. "We gave you a thirty-minute head start."
"I never said I was going," I muttered.
"Which is why," Sejun's voice added, smoother than the silk of his jacket, "we decided to stage an intervention."
I looked up finally. They were all there.
And they were breathtaking.
Seungyong was dressed like a royal prince, wrapped in silk. He wore a hanbok of deep navy and plum, embroidered along the collar with silver clouds and wind patterns that shimmered when he moved. His jeogori flared slightly with each step, like he was slicing through the very air. His hair was brushed back with clinical precision, and yet, something in his gaze made the ensemble feel less cold, more haunted. He looked like a ghost that refused to be forgotten.
Next to him, Daeho walked in. His hanbok was more like that of a noble: an ivory jeogori tied with a tangerine sash, layered beneath a rich green durumagi coat that flared dramatically when he spun in the hallway earlier. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing calloused wrists wrapped in charm bracelets of old beads and leather cord. He had tied his hair slicked back like Seungyong, but with strands escaping and falling into his eyes with boyish rebellion. He looked like autumn itself had decided to wear a smile.
"Come on," he whined, nudging my foot with his. "You're not skipping this. You promised."
"I didn't promise."
"You said 'maybe,' in the group chat." Sejun hummed, his voice rich, resonant, and slow like thunder rolling in the distance. "That counts."
He stepped forward, and gods, he looked like someone had sketched him from a future that still remembered its past. Sejun's modern hanbok ensemble was clean-lined and light blue, paired with tapered pants and polished boots. His jeogori had been reimagined as a fitted jacket with geometric buttons shaped like ginkgo leaves. He wore a long overcoat draped across his shoulders, and under it, a turtleneck that gave him the air of a scholar-turned-celebrity, while his shoes were clean white sneakers, of all things.
He looked less like he belonged to a different era, and more like he was the bridge between then and now. History had never looked so effortless.
And finally, there was Haneul.
He had chosen midnight for his palette; black slim pants, a fitted jeogori cut more like a jacket, the material matte with whispers of starlight woven into the fabric. It shimmered not with sequins, but the fine gleam of something expensive and secret. He wore no accessories. Not even a pin. His sleeves brushed his knuckles. His hair fell like shadows, parting just enough to let his dark eyes see the world while hiding himself in return.
Well, damn, since they were all dressed up, I definitely wasn't going to deny myself the eye candy.
"All right," I pretended to be reluctant, finally standing. "Give me ten minutes."
But Seungyong smirked, not buying my facade for even a second. "Make it five."
I stepped out in a modern casual hanbok in soft lavender and muted charcoal. My jeogori cropped to the waist and tied with a velvet ribbon. The skirt was airy and flowed like river mist, paired with white ankle boots that peeked beneath the hem. I'd braided my hair loosely to the side, pinning it with a moonstone clip I hadn't worn in years.
We walked together into the heart of the city, where the Autumn Festival had unfurled like a painting in motion. Lanterns swayed overhead—crimson, saffron, and pale jade—strung across the streets like the threads of forgotten wishes. Beneath them, crowds moved in easy joy, children tugging at their parents, couples taking photos beneath gingko trees, elders folding paper blessings beside altars of fruit and smoke.
We passed paper lantern vendors and booths selling calligraphy fans, stopping only when Seungyong challenged Sejun to a game of tuho, of all things. It devolved into a competition between the two of them and a small child who was disturbingly good at throwing arrows into the jar.
Daeho bought two sweet potato lattes and handed me one without comment, sipping his while poking at the tteok skewers with exaggerated concentration.
Haneul was silent as always as he lingered near the edge of the stall, his eyes drawn not to us, but to a musician playing the gayageum on a low wooden stage nearby. Something flickered in his expression. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but I didn't. I only stood beside him until he glanced sideways and offered me the tiniest nod, like a thank you for saying nothing.
Then, we played ring toss. Sejun won me a plush tiger, which I carried like my own child. We tasted too many street foods. Hotteok, crispy on the outside and molten within. Fish cakes on sticks swimming in spicy broth. Twisted donuts dusted in sugar that clung to our lips.
We watched a fireworks show that turned the sky into a dream of fire and gold, and when the lights burst above us, I caught the shadows dancing in all their eyes.
It was perfect.
That was, until it wasn't.
The crowd pulsed with laughter and music, and still, I felt the hush before a storm.
Because some threads don't snap cleanly when cut. They fray. They catch. They tangle back around your ankles just when you've forgotten they were ever there.
I saw her before she saw me.
Or maybe she saw me first and gave me the illusion of advantage. She always did like to copy my style.
And just like that, the world faded again. The sounds of drums, the laughter of children, the crackling of fried batter, the murmuring of couples passing by—all of it blurred behind the sharp, shining outline of her presence.
She wore a modern hanbok in pastel rose; soft and sweet, but tailored to draw the eye. The jeogori was cropped, the sleeves sheer with embroidered clouds. Her skirt flowed like sighs, pooling just above white ankle boots. She looked like something between a doll and a dagger.
So-hye Choi. No, Sadie now. Though I'd only ever used the American name like a thorn in my mouth. In my memory, she was still So-hye, the name I used when we whispered after midnight and threw our friendship out like a lasso around the world.
She caught my eyes mid-thought. Her smile bloomed like it had never once been cruel.
Sadie and I had drifted away from the lantern path. Whether by accident or quiet design, I didn't know.
We ended up near the quieter edge of the riverbank, where vendors sold paper flower boats to set afloat in the water, each one carrying wishes written in soft brushstrokes. People came here in pairs: couples and friends, parents with children. It was where you made your wish known without saying a word.
"I still don't get why you never told me about him," Sadie murmured, lips grazing the rim of her porcelain cup. "The tall, pretty boy with the haunted eyes."
"Well, it's not like we've kept in touch. There was no need to." I shrugged, gazing at the river.
"Mm." She watched a petal boat drift into the water. "He's quiet. Possessive, I bet. The kind that gets under your skin without even trying."
I didn't answer. Because she wasn't wrong, but she wasn't entirely right either.
Then her gaze slid sideways, catching me like a tide pulling back. "But he's not here now, is he?" she hummed, tone velvet-slick. "And I am."
She stepped closer. Her hanbok shimmered in the golden spill of river lanterns. The pink of her skirt echoed the faded hue of my own hair. A mirror, if mirrors could choose their reflections. I touched the soft ends absently. The pink was fading. My roots, dark and impatient, had started to show.
"Tsk," she stepped closer, gaze flicking upward. "Your roots are showing. How unlike you." Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. "Want company next time you go? I've been meaning to find a new place anyway."
Her attitude now was like looking into a mirror of my past self. Always threading in with easy offers, knowing they'd sound harmless. Knowing that underneath, they wouldn't be.
"Is this your way of saying I look bad?" I asked.
She grinned. "It's my way of saying you look too good to leave it half-done."
We stood there for a long breath. Surrounded by people, music, lights, and yet trapped in the quiet that belonged only to the two of us. I wasn't sure if it was nostalgia or grief, or if those were just two sides of the same mirror.
The words clung to the air like perfume. Sweet. Ploying. Lingering too long.
"I didn't know you'd cut your hair."
"I didn't know you'd turn yours pink."
We both laughed a little. It came out wrong.
"Daphne," she whispered softly.
I gave her a look from the corner of my eye. She caught it instantly.
"Aureal," she corrected, with a wink. "Sorry. Still adjusting. So…" she asked, playful again. "About that salon date. You free next weekend?"
I smirked, though it felt like a cliffside beneath my ribs. "I'll check my calendar."
And then—thank the gods, the stars, or whichever saint watched over me—I heard footsteps.
Quick, certain.
Sejun.
His silhouette came into view just past the row of paper lanterns, framed in autumn light and the hush of festival air. And the second his eyes landed on me, something in his face shifted.
Relief, first. Then something deeper. Sharper.
"Found you," he chuckled, voice light but intentional. "You disappeared."
I offered a faint smile. "Sorry. Didn't mean to vanish."
His gaze flicked briefly to Sadie. His tone didn't change, but his posture did. Slight. Protective.
Sadie smiled, all teeth and silk. "So-hye Choi. A very old friend."
She held out a hand, but there was a glint behind her lashes, like a cat inviting you closer just to sink its claws in.
Sejun smiled back, but didn't take her hand. "Sejun Young. I'm with her."
I touched Sejun's arm, gazing up at him and to catch his attention. "It's fine. I just needed some air. Ran into Sadie."
His eyes moved to me, softening immediately. "All's okay. I just got worried when I didn't see you." He stepped in a little closer. Close enough that our shoulders brushed.
Sadie noticed. Of course she did.
I could feel the moment Sadie clocked it. Her eyes dipped to where Sejun's fingers rested just shy of my waist, then back to my face. The corners of her mouth twitched as if she were deciding whether to sneer or sass back.
"Mm," Sadie hummed, taking a step slightly closer to me. "Daphne and I go way back. We used to wear each other's clothes in high school," she said sweetly. "Everything from sweaters to socks. We were basically—"
"Sisters?" Sejun's smile deepened, but it was the kind of smile that bared teeth. "Sounds like a sisterly kind of bond."
There was something in his tone. Light, innocent on the surface, but dipped in something sharp. Sadie's smile faltered.
"I wouldn't call it that." Sadie's smile didn't waver. "She used to have better taste in friends."
"I'd say her taste's only improved," Sejun replied smoothly, picking up a skewer from the tray and offering it to me. "Want one?"
I took it, beaming, mostly out of instinct. "Thanks!"
"You're welcome," he murmured, his knuckles brushing mine in the handoff. "You need someone who remembers to feed you."
Sadie's brow arched. "She always ate well with me."
"She's fond of my cooking more. Especially my grilled beef with fried rice. She says it tastes like something her past self might have wept for." he replied, grinning. "Sometimes I think about surprising her with breakfast in bed, but the problem is…" His gaze flicked to me. "She always wakes up before I do."
"Oh," she mumbled slowly. "Oh."
Her eyes darted between us, the pieces clicking together in all the wrong ways. I could practically hear the misunderstanding harden into certainty.
"Well," she hummed, brushing her hair behind her shoulder with too much force. "I guess the years really have changed her."
"Oh, they've brought out the best in her," Sejun smirked, so lightly it was nearly a caress. "And I get a front-row seat."
Sadie's gaze turned sharp, but her smile didn't falter. "Must be nice."
"It is," Sejun agreed.
Then, Sadie's voice interrupted the short silence. "So you… cook for her every day?"
Sejun turned to her, shrugged, glowing. "As often as she lets me."
"Tch… better you than that silent statue, but still…" Sadie's voice went air-thin. "Do you live together or something?"
Sejun smiled and nodded. I said nothing. The truth—that I shared a soul-bound house with four men tied to a supernatural phenomenon—would've just raised more questions, none of which I was ready to hand her on a silver plate.
I pulled him aside by the sleeve, shooting Sadie a quick glance and smile as Sejun leaned in closer to me while I whispered.
I swatted his arm. "You made that sound way worse than it is."
"She misunderstood. I didn't lie," he grinned, smug. "Besides, it's not my fault she assumed the breakfasts were post-sin."
My face heated. "Sejun—"
"You could've clarified for her."
"So could you."
"But where's the fun in that?"
I flushed red, covering my face with one hand while the other held the skewer. Here I was, between a boy who cooked like he loved me and a girl who used to dress me in her colors so no one else could.
Sadie was quiet, which meant she was recalibrating. Her lips were pressed into a soft smile, but her eyes had narrowed, their warmth folding into something surgical, precise. She stared at Sejun the way a chess master stared at a board already mid-game, already late.
Then—
"Aureal!" The voice boomed across the street like sunshine breaking through stormclouds.
Daeho.
I turned just as he barreled through a nearby cluster of festival-goers, waving a cotton candy stick in one hand like a flag. Seungyong followed at a slower pace, adjusting his attire with visible irritation. Haneul, of course, trailed behind them, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he didn't care, while he noticed everything.
Daeho skidded to a stop in front of us, beaming with the kind of energy that could turn war zones into carnivals.
"There you are!" he said, eyes landing on Sadie. "Wait—you must be one of Aureal's girl friends!"
Sadie blinked again, and I watched the chaos unfold behind her eyes. "Right…"
Daeho stuck out a hand. "I'm Daeho. Aureal's friend. The oldest, wisest, and most devastatingly charming."
Seungyong coughed. "He's also the dumbest."
Daeho grinned like he hadn't heard. "And this is Seungyong. Fashion tyrant. He picks all my outfits and judges everyone and everything."
Seungyong rolled his eyes but nodded at Sadie. "Charmed."
Haneul said nothing. He gave a polite incline of the head and stared off somewhere else. Sadie remembered him, and glared at him conspicuously.
Daeho offered Sadie the cotton candy stick, like peace on a stick. "Want some?"
Sadie turned it with a strange, distracted smile, still studying me. "Nah, nothing sweet can top her."
"Yeah that's true. She gets it!" Daeho let out a hearty laugh, slapping Seungyong's back as the latter sighed like the world was late for rent.
She looked at me one more time. Her smile was painted, sharp as she waved softly while leaving. And just like that, she folded herself back into the crowd, her silence louder than the drums in the distance.
Seungyong watched her go with a crooked smirk. "Who was that ray of sunshine?"
"No one important," Sejun replied, leaning down to take a bite out of my skewer stick.
Daeho leaned toward me. "Was she mad about something? Did I interrupt a fight?"
"You diffused a bomb," I muttered.
"Oh." He brightened. "Yay, me!"
Seungyong rolled his eyes and pushed us toward the next row of stalls. "Come on, before he adopts more of your ex-girlfriends."
"She's not my—" I started, then sighed. "Forget it."
Haneul said nothing, but when we walked again, he stayed behind me. Close enough to be protective, far enough to barely notice.
And somewhere beneath the festival lights, between veiled barbs and lingering touches, I had the sudden, dizzying feeling that this wasn't over. That this was only the first move on a board I hadn't realized we were playing.
The paper lanterns swayed overhead like drifting thoughts, light and slow, caught between a pulse of wind and warmth. Beneath their glow, the stalls had begun to quiet. The crowd thinned, laughter fading into distance, softened by the whispering hum of traditional music in the air. My hands were still sticky from sugar syrup and the cotton candy I didn't finish. The aftertaste of Sadie's perfume still clung to my senses, ghostly. But she was gone now, swept into the night like the end of a chapter I didn't realize I was still reading.
I should've felt relief.
Instead, I felt like the inside of a snow globe someone had just shaken. All sparkles and chaos trapped behind glass. I stood still in it, pretending I wasn't dizzy from the way the ground felt uneven beneath my shoes.
But then, there was Haneul.
He had returned quietly from one of the food stalls, walking with the steady gait of someone who made no sound unless he wanted to. In his hand was a small plastic cup filled with coconut tapioca pudding, topped with golden mango cubes that looked like sunlight chopped into jewels. There was even a tiny folded spoon tucked under the plastic lid. He held it out to me. I blinked at it.
He said nothing, he rarely ever did, and I knew that. Sometimes I just wished he would speak to me, at the very least.
I took the folded spoon and dug into the creamy sago pearls, swirling it just enough to gather both mango and coconut in the bite. It was sweet, familiar, like summers back then in the Isles, spent by a fan, barefoot on tiles, metal spoon clinking against glass, mango juice sticking to your fingers.
I lifted another spoonful, then paused. A playful thought flickered into me, impulsive and featherlight. I had lifted it toward him without thinking, like muscle memory from being close to someone. It was such a small gesture—feeding someone a bite of dessert—but it said things neither of us usually said aloud.
He blinked, visibly startled— and just like that, my memory turned on me, and I froze.
Not because the pudding had begun to drip, not because the music behind us swelled with laughter or that couples passed by with fingers intertwined like ivy.
I froze because I remembered— because somewhere behind my ribs, a memory flared; To that day, that moment, with the same hands, the same air. I had tried to hold his hand while we walked. Nothing dramatic. Just fingers, brushing. Reaching. A gesture born of fragile courage. He had looked away then. Not rejecting me outright, but enough to leave my skin stinging with embarrassment. As if affection were a game he refused to play, even when I no longer wore armor.
So what the hell was I doing now? This was Haneul, and Haneul had never liked affection out in the open, even if there was nobody else around to pay attention.
The spoon hovered between us, and I faltered.
"Oh—wait," I stammered quickly, flustered, beginning to pull the spoon back. "Sorry, I forgot you're—uh—not into… you know. Stuff like that. My bad."
And something in the way he held my gaze—steady, unblinking, bare—felt like an apology for every moment he'd once pulled back. But that was probably just me overthinking things, reading too much into the smallest of gestures.
Except it wasn't.
He simply tilted his head—just enough to be close, not enough to overwhelm. He didn't pull back immediately. His gaze remained locked on mine, unflinching. I wasn't sure if I was blushing or burning. My body swayed a little, unmoored by how still everything else had become. My mind flooded with poetry, fragments of lines I had long forgotten.
A flicker of mango clung to the corner of his lip. And for one wild moment, I thought of brushing it away with my thumb, just to see if he would let me.
But I didn't. I was still trembling from the shift. Because I didn't trust this softness, not yet. And maybe because a part of me was still catching up, still waiting for the rejection that didn't come this time.
"Do you like it?" I asked, because I needed something to say. Something to fill the charged quiet that had bloomed between us like fire beneath ice.
His voice was soft. "It's sweet."
I didn't know if he meant the pudding or the gesture. Maybe both, maybe neither, but my hands shook a little as I went for another spoonful—this time for myself—and sat beside him on the low wooden bench where the two of us had paused.
Children ran past in the distance, shrieking with laughter as they chased paper lanterns down the gentle slope of the park. A couple to our left lit a wish balloon and sent it climbing into the twilight. And somewhere behind us, the scent of roasted peanuts drifted from an old man's cart.
I hadn't even realized my own breath had hitched until his voice gave it permission to drop.
Somewhere behind us, laughter from the food stalls filled the silence. The world was still turning, lanterns still swaying. But I couldn't hear any of it. Not the drums starting up, not the footsteps brushing past, not the breeze rustling the sleeves of my dress.
"I didn't think you'd…" My voice broke off like a frayed thread. I didn't know how to finish it. I didn't even know what I was asking.
The space between us was no more than the width of a breath. And still, it felt like an ocean.
I remembered the way his fingers had flinched from mine days ago, when I reached out in the hush of a side street, when all I had wanted was to thread them through his. The way he let the silence do the rejecting for him. I remembered how foolish I had felt, how I had tucked my hand into my coat afterward as though it were something shameful. Something unlovable. I remembered the look in his eyes that day I tried to hold his hand. I remembered how that silence hadn't felt sacred at all. It had felt like I was being slowly exiled from something I had barely begun to understand.
So why now? Why, in front of a thousand floating lanterns and the syrupy scent of festival smoke, would he close that space, even if only for a second? Why lean in? Why take the bite?
So I looked at him now, his profile catching the warm festival glow, and I let myself ask—not aloud, but in the language of glances— Why did you take it?
Was it just a bite of dessert, or was it a fragile offering returned?
I laughed under my breath because I didn't believe it could be the latter. Not truly. I didn't trust that I was wanted. Not after the way my past affections had been met with restraint, with silence, with the retreat of his eyes. And yet, still, part of me hoped. Part of me watched the curve of his jaw, the slow blink of his lashes, and hoped he'd say something. Anything. A word. A syllable. A soft laugh.
He didn't answer. But instead, he lifted the spoon from my hand and dipped it again into the pudding. This time, he held it up for me.
My heart stumbled.
I leaned forward and took the bite. The sweetness flooded my mouth, but something else flooded my chest. I didn't look up at him right away. I couldn't. My fingers trembled slightly, more self-conscious than before, but not from rejection this time. From something else. From the startling realization that he had accepted.
The night festival swelled and sang around us. Lights strung from booth to booth like stars pinned to a fake sky, voices bright with sugar and mischief. Children chased bubbles shaped like moons. Someone nearby was blowing bubbles again. I could hear the quiet pop of them disappearing on skin. A thousand things were happening at once, and yet the world still narrowed into this soft-edged silence around us. The moment no one noticed.
Except me. Except him. He was still watching me. His gaze softened. I hated when he did that. When he looked at me like he could see underneath the paper and silk. Like I was nothing but old ink bleeding through cheap linen.
He had eaten the spoonful like it meant something, or nothing. Maybe I was imagining things again. Projecting poetry into blank spaces, pretending we were the kind of people who could touch without flinching. Trying to read a man with too many pages and very little words.
And sooner than I'd hoped, it ended. The moment didn't shatter— it dissolved. Time, like traffic and grief, waits for no one.
"Found you two," Seungyong's voice came from behind like a breeze that slammed a door.
I didn't even flinch. Maybe I had expected this moment to end, after all, moments with Haneul always ended. That was the rule I had learned with him: whatever warmth he gave, he would take it back the second it caught fire.
Seungyong squinted at us suspiciously. His expression never screamed emotions, but it was always the eyes that betrayed him. Tonight they narrowed like catching something they weren't meant to see. But he said nothing. He just lifted his phone, glanced at the screen, and groaned. "We gotta go. If we wait another half hour, we're gonna be stuck in traffic all the way back."
I felt the air leave my chest the moment Haneul took a step back from me. His hand that had been loosely resting on the back of the bench was now clenched at his side. A breath ago, he had leaned into my space with such quiet hunger that the world had stopped spinning.
Now, he stood like a stranger who had only borrowed the illusion of intimacy.
I stared at the spoon still sticky with coconut milk, and it might as well have been a blade. I should've known better. I did know better. I knew how he was, always skimming the surface of affection like a ghost unsure if it deserved to haunt the living.
But even knowing didn't stop the quiet sting of shame blooming in my chest.
Seungyong clapped his hands once. "Come on, slowpokes. Sejun's already calling shotgun. Daeho's pouting because he thinks he looked the best and no one took photos of him. Let's go."
And just like that, the moment collapsed in on itself, as if it had only been a trick of the festival lights.
Beside me, Haneul's hand rested on his side. Still, relaxed.
I thought about how close it had been to mine just minutes ago. How he had leaned in, not just for the pudding, but for something unspoken, raw, even. I thought about how quickly he had recoiled when Seungyong came.
I hated that I noticed. I hated that I cared.
So I closed my eyes. In the back of my mind, I replayed his mouth parting slightly, the way his lashes lowered as he took that bite, how his breath mingled with mine for just a moment too long.
The only thing worse than being rejected was being almost chosen. And maybe that's what always hurts the most— not the moments themselves, but how easily he leaves them behind. As if they never clung to him the way they still cling to me.
He always lets go faster.
By the time we got back, the golden trail of sunset had already melted down the horizon, leaving behind a sky threaded with plum-colored clouds. I was the first one to unlock the door.
My shoes were off before the others caught up, and I stood at the edge of the hallway, looking down at our shared space, the living room still smelled faintly of Daeho's cologne from earlier and someone's failed attempt at microwaving dumplings.
Daeho groaned behind me. "Man, we looked so good. And now we have to change?"
Sejun breezed past him, unbothered, already pulling off his jacket. "Fashion is pain, and temporary."
"I wanna be pretty forever," Daeho grumbled.
Their voices bounced around the apartment like familiar music. I stood there a while, letting them fill the silence I couldn't.
Haneul walked past me without a word. He brushed a hand over my shoulder—barely—like a whisper too unsure to be called a touch. Then he disappeared into his room.
I changed out of my hanbok slowly, folding the silky fabric with more care than necessary. My makeup was half-wiped, my straight hair now wavy from having been kept braided the whole day.
If I didn't move, I could almost pretend the evening didn't happen. That it was all a dream stitched together by festival lights and misplaced hope.
My stomach growled.
"I'm ordering chicken and beer," I called out toward the living room.
A chorus of approval came back.
"Bless you, goddess of takeout," Sejun cheered dramatically, tossing himself onto the floor mat like he was being sacrificed to the heavens.
"Make sure to get cheesy ones!" Seungyong added, already rummaging through the fridge for the leftover pickled radish.
I placed the order with muscle memory, the familiarity of it all making my chest ache.
By the time the food arrived, the apartment smelled like salt and chili and the sharp tang of carbonated beer. We sat in a loose sprawl; Seungyong perched on the arm of the couch, Sejun cross-legged on the floor, Daeho with his legs stretched across the rug and his head resting on a throw pillow.
Haneul didn't sit beside me.
He hovered near the edge of the living room, beer in hand, nodding at jokes but not laughing out loud. He looked like someone only half-present in his own skin.
"You know," Sejun said between bites of drumstick, "I'm so happy I didn't have to cook tonight. I love you all deeply, but your midnight cravings are a curse on my soul."
Seungyong raised his beer. "To fried chicken saving Sejun from emotional burnout, then!"
Daeho cheered and clinked bottles with whoever would let him.
I took a swig of mine. It fizzed and burned a little, just enough to make the evening blur around the edges.
Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, we made a different kind of noise.
Even with the banter and the warmth, my eyes kept darting back to Haneul.
I wanted to catch him looking. I wanted proof that the moment earlier meant something. But his gaze never met mine.
It was cowardly, the way he acted like nothing had happened. As if his lips hadn't touched the spoon I had lifted with shaking fingers. As if he hadn't leaned in so slowly, so intentionally, that I had forgotten how to breathe.
Now he sipped his drink like a man who had never tasted sweetness in public.
And I laughed at someone's joke just a little too late, like my heart was stuck in a different hour than the rest of the room.
The night dragged on, messy and comforting. Beer bottles emptied. Chicken bones stacked. Seungyong passed out half-on, half-off the couch. Daeho talked about renting a karaoke machine for the weekend. Sejun started playing soft indie music from his phone, something gentle and mellow and vaguely sad.
I got up, stretched, and grabbed my empty cup.
As I walked past Haneul, he looked up.
For a second, just a second, his mouth parted as if to say something,
But he didn't.
And I didn't stop.
Some moments live in stillness, while others die in silence.