Su-bong hadn’t meant to take so much.

He never did, but that didn’t stop him.

4:38AM. He was laying in his bed, shirtless, stoned as fuck. Next to him laid the opened cross necklace, missing all the pills that were currently messing with his head.

The apartment was too quiet, and the walls were breathing. The corners bent just slightly, like they were leaning in to hear him think. Someone had left the tap dripping in the kitchen again—he could’ve sworn it sounded like a clock.

And then, there you were.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stood there, backlit by the fluorescent fridge light, arms crossed, wearing that ridiculous oversized hoodie he’d never thrown out. (He still wore it sometimes when he was cold, but only inside, only after midnight, and never when anyone else was around.)

"You always got this way when you were stoned," you said, finally.

Your voice didn’t echo in the room—it echoed in his chest. Bounced around in places he thought he’d boarded up. Places that smelled like burnt coffee and vanilla lotion and arguments that had lasted too long.

“You’re not real,” he muttered, already regretting it.

But you rolled your eyes. “Oh, because that’s going to make me go away.”

He stared at you. You were leaning against the counter now. You were barefoot, same chipped nail polish he remembered. Same look on your face—half amused, half exhausted, like you were watching him drown in a kiddie pool of his own making.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. It came out too soft.

You shrugged. “You invited me.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but how could he? You’d always known how to show up uninvited and still convince him it was his idea.

The room shifted again. You sat on the edge of the table like you used to, swinging one leg, like you were waiting for him to say something honest. He hated that. He hated how much he still wanted your approval—even now, even when you were made of smoke and memory and whatever strain that had been.

“Why now?” he asked.

You smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the one you used to give him when he forgot to text back for days, when he lied about little things that didn’t matter but still stacked up like dust on a windowsill.

“Because you always looked for me when you were lonely,” you said.

Silence again. The kind that made his throat itch.

He got up, stumbled a little—too fast. The room tilted. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You never lost balance the way he did. Not when you left. Not when he begged you to stay. Not even when he said he didn’t care.

“I’m doing better now,” he said. It felt like a question.

You raised an eyebrow. “You think that made me disappear?”

He laughed. It sounded ugly. “You’re just a thought.”

“So?” you asked. “Did that make me less real, or you more honest?”

He’d wanted to scream. He’d wanted to hold you. He’d wanted to apologize for things he’d already apologized for and things he’d never said out loud. Instead, he sat back down on the floor and stared at the wall.