Page 16 of Scarbound

He read it three times. Then saved it to drafts. Then deleted it.

His stomach twisted. He hated that, for a moment, he had felt ready. He hated even more that he hadn’t followed through.

There was only one person he should never see again: his first love.

He had loved him for years. But after everything that had happened, even the thought of reaching out felt sinful.

Maybe in another life, he thought, draining his glass.

Sunlight slipping weakly through the blinds woke Noeul from restless sleep. He sat up with a pounding headache, the price of the night before. He couldn’t remember how much he had drunk, much less how he’d made it home.

He pulled on jeans and a loose long-sleeved shirt. From the fridge, he grabbed leftover kimchi jeon and a few mochi, along with two painkillers. He packed a small backpack: water, snacks, and a well-worn fantasy manhwa.

“Couldn’t you pick something new for once?” he muttered to himself.

The truth was, he didn’t want to.

He stepped onto the balcony and took a deep breath. The cool air offered brief relief. Today, he would disappear into nature.

As the breeze brushed through his hair, his phone vibrated.

A KakaoTalk notification.

Hope you’re doing okay, hyung.

Five words. No emojis. No context. No explanation.

Noeul stared at the screen. His fingers hovered. He wanted to reply. Something simple. Something human.

You too, Duri.

He didn’t send it. He locked the phone. Not yet.

He took the bus to the outskirts of the city, toward a familiar hiking trail. By ten that morning, his footsteps crunched steadily over the gravel. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on the ground.

He walked for hours.

When he reached a lookout point, the city stretched out below him. He sat on a weathered rock, unwrapped his pancake, and ate in silence. Afterward, he pulled out his worn fantasy manhwa and lost himself in its familiar world.

When the sun dipped toward the horizon, he packed up and headed home. That night, he lay awake for a long time.

Another day surrounded by words, he thought.

None of them spoken to another person.

Sunday passed much the same. He drifted between video games, books, and sketches, filling the silence as best he could.

When night fell, he stared at the ceiling.

He never acted on the quiet yearning for a less lonely future.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

A year passed.

Only his weekends changed. Whenever he could, he escaped into nature. For a few hours, clean air and open trails quieted the noise inside him. By evening, he usually found himself beneath the pale lights of another local bar. He always chose a corner seat. Inevitably, someone would try to strike up a conversation. Every attempt ended the same way. Sundays greeted him with a splitting headache and the sour smell of vomit.

That weekend was the worst he had experienced since arriving in America.