The day of the funeral was gray, like the world had decided to mourn with him.

Min-kyu stood still, eyes locked on the framed photo of Ha-joon, his smile now frozen in time.

No tears left, just a weight in his chest that refused to lift.

He bowed his head as they lowered the casket, whispering,

"You promised... you said we'd grow old together."

Some days, Min-kyu forgot Ha-joon was gone. 

He'd pour two cups of coffee, greet him with a sleepy "Good morning."

Only to stare at the empty chair, remembering—he’s never coming back.

Every small habit turned into a sharp reminder.

One evening, while cleaning, he found an old book tucked in a drawer.

It was their photo album. Graduation day. Smiling. Stupid and in love.

His hands trembled as he flipped the pages.

And then his voice cracked,

"You liar... you said you'd never leave me."

You said we'd build a life. You said I was your home.

“I can’t do this without you,” he whispered to the empty room.

But the silence only made the pain louder.

And the memories? They never left.

They stayed, haunting him, loving him, breaking him.