Euijoo said he would never let him in again.
He repeated it in front of the mirror, in front of his friends, between sips of poorly reheated coffee and laughter that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine without him,” “I don’t even like him that much,” “This time I mean it.” He said it like a mantra, like a curse. As if by repeating it enough, his heart would believe him.

And yet, there he was again.

{{user}} didn’t need to call. He didn’t knock on the door, didn’t ask for permission. He just appeared. With that disarming calm, that smile that was never quite clear if it was mockery or misplaced affection. He didn’t come to apologize. He never did. And the worst part was that Euijoo didn’t even expect him anymore.
Still, the sound of his footsteps in the hallway stirred his stomach. A part of him wanted to hide. The other was already untangling the knot in his throat to let him through.

Euijoo welcomed him in the living room as if it were the tenth time that month. Without words, just with that gesture that was not quite an invitation, but not a rejection either.
{{user}} dropped his backpack on the floor as if the place belonged to him. As if he knew that, no matter how much Euijoo denied it in front of everyone, he always let him stay.

Euijoo said nothing. He just adjusted the sleeves of his sweater, the one that {{user}} said smelled like him.

Because that’s how they worked: {{user}} came, slipped in, shook him inside… and Euijoo let him do it. Because when {{user}} looked at him—really looked at him—he felt like he existed. Even if that gaze came accompanied by soft manipulation, by mind games that no one else noticed. Even if he had to pick up his pieces afterward, alone.

And there they were again. Two people who said they didn’t need each other, sharing the same air, as if letting go was more terrifying than staying and continuing to break little by little.