Hajoon stepped out of the shower, the water cooling on his skin as steam clung to the air around him. He pulled a towel around his waist, running a hand through his damp hair before sinking onto the edge of the bed. His body felt lighter, the fatigue that had weighed on him throughout the day starting to lift. But it was the heaviness in his chest that wouldn’t go away—the persistent knot of anxiety and frustration that had settled deep inside him.

Iseul.

The thought of her tugged at him in a way that made his heart ache. She’d been slipping away from him, a distance growing between them, subtle but unmistakable. And Taeung—it was always Taeung now. He could feel it, could sense the way she was being pulled toward him, like the two of them were sharing something Hajoon couldn’t quite reach. Something deeper than words.

Taeung’s small advances that Hajoon refused to acknowledge, now resurfaced like a storm.

Hajoon reached for his phone, unlocking it out of habit. 

His thoughts wandered back to earlier that day, on the bus ride to Paju. The memory twisted in his mind, stoking the embers of his growing frustration. Iseul had been sitting with Taeung, just a few rows back from him, her head tilted toward him as they talked. Hajoon had watched them, pretending not to care, but every laugh, every soft exchange between them had set him on edge. Somehow in a bus full of conversation, all he could hear was the exchange between Iseul and Taeung.

Their clear, agonizing, words that shot through his ears. He had never been able to keep Iseul engaged in a conversation with him like Taeung did.

He had tried to focus on something else, anything else, but his attention kept drifting back to them. He wanted to see her face, wanted to know what they were talking about. Something in their posture had bothered him—the closeness, the ease of their conversation. He needed to know what Iseul’s expression looked like as she spoke to Taeung. Was she smiling in that soft way she did when something truly moved her? Was her face open, engaged, in a way that made it clear this wasn’t just idle chatter?

No, he knew what she looked like, but none of it registered in his head. Hajoon prayed she was only acting, a disingenuous attempt at keeping her boss’ secretary at bay.

On that bus ride…

He’d leaned back to get a better look, just a quick glance at her expression, but the moment he tried, Samuel shifted beside him. Deliberately.

Hajoon’s irritation had flared instantly. Samuel, who had been sitting next to him the entire ride, had leaned against him like some kind of damsel, his body pressing against Hajoon’s side in a way that felt far too intimate, far too deliberate. It wasn’t just casual closeness—Samuel had leaned into him with purpose, his head resting against Hajoon’s shoulder as if they were close friends, or worse, something more.

He remembered how he stiffened up, his whole body recoiling at the contact. The way Samuel was pressing into him wasn’t just annoying—it was suffocating. His arm had draped across Hajoon’s lap, his body sprawling into Hajoon’s space with an air of entitlement that made Hajoon’s skin crawl. And yet, Samuel had done it with a casualness that left no room for complaint, like he was daring Hajoon to call him out on it.

What the hell is he doing? Hajoon had thought, teeth clenched. But as much as he wanted to shove Samuel off him, the bus was crowded, and the last thing he wanted was to make a scene. Still, the way Samuel’s body was pressed against his, lingering as if trying to make a point, made Hajoon feel trapped. He could barely move without Samuel adjusting himself, leaning in even closer as though he belonged there.

Worse, the unwanted closeness had made it impossible for Hajoon to look at Iseul without feeling Samuel’s presence like a tumor ingrained in his brain. Every time Hajoon tried to look back, Samuel shifted again, his head resting against Hajoon’s shoulder in a way that was both infuriating and sickening. It was like Samuel knew exactly what he was doing.

And in that moment, on the bus, with Iseul and Taeung just out of reach, Samuel’s touch had felt like a block. Like he was reminding Hajoon of his place, preventing him from getting too close to what he really wanted to see.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bed, the memory of Samuel’s touch still remained. He hated how it had made him feel—trapped, powerless, like he couldn’t even move without Samuel invading his space. Even now, the thought of Samuel leaning against him, his body pressed too close, filled Hajoon with a lingering disgust.

He shook the memory away, but the frustration remained. It’s not just Samuel. It was everything. Taeung. Iseul. The way they seemed to be forming a bond he couldn’t touch. The way Samuel always managed to worm his way into situations where Hajoon felt most vulnerable, where his insecurities were already exposed.

Hajoon glanced at his phone again, but didn’t bother picking it up this time. He didn’t want to look at anything, didn’t want to be reminded of how isolated he felt. Instead, he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless energy that had settled in his chest.

But no matter how hard he tried, the anxiety wouldn’t loosen. Samuel’s lingering touch. Iseul’s laughter with Taeung. It all swirled together in his mind.

I’m losing her. The thought echoed through him again, tightening around his heart like a vise. And I don’t know how to stop it.

“Where are we going?” the little boy asked, his voice fragile, barely rising above the sound of the storm. His wide eyes, shimmering with tears, searched for answers, though he wasn’t sure if it was the unrelenting rain or the overwhelming adoration he felt for the older boy cradling him in his arms that made them water. The storm mirrored the chaos in his chest—violent, all-encompassing, yet somehow comforting in the warmth of the older boy’s embrace.

“Paradise,” was the only word the little boy could catch through the downpour. But that one word seemed to calm the pandemonium inside him. His chest, once tight with uncertainty, softened. For a moment, he surrendered, his eyes fluttering shut, trusting the world in the other’s hands. The rain drummed on, its rhythm lulling him, until a gentle shuffle stirred him awake.

The older boy set him down at the bus stop, the white robe clinging to his form, soaked and transparent under the heavy rain. In the little boy’s eyes, the sight of the other standing there, bathed in rain like some ethereal figure, left him awestruck, unable to pull his gaze away. The older boy was otherworldly, yet so real, and the thought of letting go felt like losing the only anchor he had.

“Eden, why aren’t you coming?” the boy asked, his voice quivering, thick with confusion and something deeper—fear, perhaps. His small hand, so tiny in comparison to “Eden’s,” clung with desperate strength, unwilling to let him slip away.

“Eden’s” eyes darkened with a sadness the younger boy didn’t fully understand. “Because that paradise isn’t meant for me,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow, as if each word carried the weight of something lost. He stepped back into the rain, the downpour consuming him once again, like the storm was reclaiming him. “Leave, and don’t come back.”

“Eden!” The little boy’s cry was sharp, cutting through the rain, but his feet froze, rooted to the spot as the bright glare of the approaching bus pierced through the mist. The world around him blurred, the rain, the lights, the fading silhouette of “Eden”—all of it swallowed by the storm.

The sound of rain slowly ebbed away from Samuel’s mind, the relentless storm retreating as the harsh glare of the bus melted into a gentle warmth. Sunlight crept through the narrow gap in the curtains, soft and insistent, coaxing his eyes open. But as the light filled the room, so did the absence he couldn’t shake.

He lay there, speechless, his throat tight, the words he wanted to say caught somewhere between his heart and his mind. His breath grew heavy, uneven, as if the act of breathing alone was a struggle. “Eden.” His name pulsed in Samuel’s mind, insistent, relentless. 

In Samuel’s memory, “Eden” was always so precise, so composed. His black hair, soft and silky, was always neatly trimmed, framing his face in a way that made him look effortlessly proper. Even when he wasn’t wearing the ceremonial white robes, “Eden” was pristine, always dressed in his high school uniform, the fresh scent of school still clinging to him. Samuel could picture it so clearly: the way “Eden” would tuck in his shirt just right, his earbuds constantly in, oblivious to the world around him as he lost himself in a book. There was a quiet elegance to him, a grace that made him feel untouchable, like he existed on a plane Samuel could never quite reach.

And yet, that boy was all Samuel could think about. The image of him, so vivid and painfully real, lingered like the echo of a dream he couldn’t wake from.

Just as “Eden” had been cast aside by the divine, Hajoon was no different in Samuel’s eyes. Now, Samuel would use him as a stand-in, a way to fill the emptiness “Eden” had left behind.

Or perhaps, more truthfully, to indulge in his “sick” longing for “Eden.”

It’s fine to be cruel to someone who earned it, rather than turn that cruelty inward—toward the memory of the boy he’d admired so fervently two decades ago. Right?