His chest ached.
Not from sympathy. Not pity.
Recognition. Reverence.
He did not approach.
Instead—he moved slowly. With purpose.
He dimmed the overhead light. A soft amber glow filled the penthouse like candlelight trapped in glass.
Then he walked to the kitchen.
Filled the kettle. Three drops of lavender. Honey, but not too much. A clean cup.
He moved like a man who had done this before.
Not recently. Not in this life.
But before. Somewhere deeper.
In the bathroom, he ran a bath. Warm, not hot. The kind of warmth that didn’t ask the skin to forget, only to soften.
On the bed, he laid out clean clothes—loose black pants, soft cotton shirt, the kind that felt like breath when worn. He left them unspoken, folded neatly at the corner.
Then he returned.
Sat on the floor. Not beside Haneul, but near. Diagonally across. Far enough to breathe. Close enough to be present.
Haneul’s voice cracked through the stillness.
“Why him?”
A pause.
“Why any of us? What the fuck did we ever do?”
Seungho’s reply came low, grounded.
“Nothing.”
Another beat.
“And too much.”
Haneul didn’t look up. But he kept speaking to the space between them. A confession in staccato.
“He wasn’t even like me. He wasn’t angry. He was just—bright. Too much. Too fast. The kind of person who... gets remembered for being loud and obnoxious and… gorgeous and then for being gone.”
He shuddered, head still buried.
“I keep thinking—what if it was me instead? What if I’d walked out alone? Would they have crossed the street?”
Seungho answered after a moment.
“They would’ve run.”
A breath. A twitch of the mouth. Almost a laugh. Almost.
