(Joon Ha's POV)
The night had already begun to fade when I realized I hadn't gone home.
The tea Areum made for me sat on the table, cold now, the faint smell of chamomile clinging to the rim. I watched the way the light hit the mug, soft and uncertain, like it was afraid to wake me from something fragile.
She moved quietly around her apartment, folding blankets, stacking books, pretending not to notice that I'd been staring at the same spot on the wall for hours.
"You didn't sleep," she said gently.
I didn't deny it.
"I didn't want to close my eyes," I murmured. "I'm afraid of what I'll see."
She didn't ask what I meant. Maybe she knew that silence was the only language I had left. She sat across from me, knees tucked beneath her, her hair falling over her shoulder.
"You can talk to me, you know."
I looked at her, really looked. The faint shadow beneath her eyes, the way she always smelled faintly of rain and paint. And for a moment, I wanted to tell her everything, the graves, the nightmares, the things I remembered and the things I didn't.
But I couldn't.
She didn't know about Ji-woo.
She didn't know about Soo-min.
She didn't know that the man she let sleep on her shoulder had just stood in front of her brother's grave and whispered I'm sorry to the wind.
And I didn't know how to tell her that my own body had started counting down days I hadn't yet lived.
Later, she handed me a sketch she'd been working on a faceless figure standing in the rain, arms outstretched, no umbrella.
"Is this me?" I asked.
She shrugged. "It's whoever needs it to be."
I traced the charcoal lines with my thumb, the smudge staining my skin. The figure looked lonely, but also brave, like someone still waiting for forgiveness.
"I want to tell you something," I said.
She waited.
But I couldn't speak. My throat tightened, my chest ached with words that refused to be born.
So I stood and walked to the window, the city breathing quietly below us.
"I'm scared," I said finally. "Of ruining things. Of ruining you."
She joined me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her sleeve brush mine.
"You won't," she said softly. "Unless you keep hiding."
Her words found the cracks in me and stayed there.
That night, I went back to my penthouse.
The silence was heavier here. The kind that didn't wait for company.
On the desk sat the sealed letter from Soo-min. I still hadn't opened it. Her handwriting on the envelope felt like a pulse beneath my fingertips.
Oppa, read this when you're ready.
I was never ready.
The laptop screen glowed in the dark, full of hospital reports and medical correspondence, every email ending the same way: We're sorry, the treatment isn't available… the progression is irreversible.
Pancreatic carcinoma. Stage IV.
I could write the words.
I just couldn't believe they belonged to me.
I pressed my palm against my stomach. Sometimes the pain came like a dull wave, sometimes sharp and electric. The doctors said I had months. Maybe less if I kept ignoring the treatments.
I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over Areum's name.
What could I even say?
That I loved her from the moment I saw her across the café, sunlight tangled in her hair?
That she made me forget the taste of hospital antiseptic and the smell of morphine?
That every laugh from her pulled me one step further from the edge?
Instead, I typed:
> Are you awake?
A few seconds later, the screen lit up.
> Always.
I stared at her reply until my vision blurred. The tears came quietly, like they'd been waiting behind my ribs all day.
I whispered into the empty room, "I love you, I'm sorry."
It wasn't a confession meant for her to hear.
It was an apology to the universe, for finding light too late, for loving someone who deserved forever when all I had was soon.
The phone buzzed again.
> Do you want to come over?
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
My hands were shaking too much.
I sank to the floor, the laptop still open, the blue light washing over me. A list of hospitals blinked on the screen, each one a door already closed.
For a moment, I wanted to break everything. The cup, the table, the glass between me and the city. Anything to stop the ache.
But instead, I buried my face in my hands and let the storm pass.
___________
Hours later, I heard a knock.
I didn't move at first, thinking it was a dream.
But then her voice came through, quiet, cautious.
"Joon Ha?"
I opened the door. She stood there, hair still damp from the mist, holding two cups of coffee. She looked at me, really looked and something in her expression softened.
"You didn't reply," she said. "So I came."
I should have told her to leave.
I should have protected her from what was coming.
But I stepped aside.
And she stepped in.
The city lights cut through the window, painting her in gold and blue. She set the cups down and reached for my hand.
"Whatever it is," she whispered, "you don't have to carry it alone."
And for the first time, I wanted to believe her.
That night, we sat on the floor again, the same way we did before, except this time, there was no laughter, no paint. Just the sound of two people trying not to break.
I watched her trace circles on the rim of her cup, her lips parting like she wanted to ask something but didn't dare.
"I love you, I'm sorry," I said again, this time aloud.
She froze.
Her eyes lifted, searching mine, unsure whether to hold or to run.
"Why are you sorry?" she whispered.
"Because I'm not going to be here long enough to make you hate me."
Her hands trembled. "Don't say that."
But I already had.
She reached for me then, fingers sliding against my cheek, wiping a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
"Stay," she said. "Even if it's just for tonight."
I nodded.
And in that small, borrowed eternity, I let myself believe that maybe love wasn't about how long it lasted, but how deeply it was felt.
When she fell asleep on the couch beside me, her head on my shoulder, I looked out the window again. The city lights blinked like dying stars, and I thought of Soo-min's letter, unopened. Of Ji-woo's grave. Of the rain-soaked sketch without an umbrella.
Maybe that's all I ever was, someone standing in the storm, arms open, waiting for forgiveness that never came.
I brushed a strand of hair from Areum's face and whispered one last time, the words barely a breath:
"I love you, I'm sorry."
Then I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to remember.
Because some memories hurt.
And some, even in their pain, are the only things that make you feel alive.