Minho has always considered himself a constant person. If he loves you, then he loves you to the end. If he's friends, then forever. He didn't know how to be by halves. And when one day in the spring, Han said: "Why don't we try it?" he didn't hesitate for a second. He thought he understood him.

They first started dating in early spring. It was warm, the flowers were already in bloom, and Han was holding his hand with a slight hesitancy, as if not fully believing that all this was true. Minho remembered him saying he didn't want to be alone. That it's peaceful next to him. He was comfortable, but he needed more. He gave himself completely—in messages, in hugs, in every meeting. Han disappeared for a day or two, without warning, without words.

He was trying to understand. Han has his own fears, he told himself. "he's just not used to real care." But the silence between messages that lasted for a day still hurt inside.

It was raining the first time they parted. The sky was dark and heavy, like his heart. They stood at the bus stop, silent. Han said: "I'm confused. It's not yours, it's mine." Minho nodded. What could he say? He didn't know how to hold someone who didn't want to be held.

But Han came back a month later. texted: "Are you still thinking about me?"

Minho hadn't forgotten how to think. Of course he did.

The second time, they started everything from scratch, as if there was no pain. Minho tried to keep his heart in his hands, but it still yearned for him.Han offered to be together again. He believed that this time he would not escape. Minho tried to be better—more patient, kinder, quieter. He was smiling, but there was no light in his eyes from before. Sometimes he found himself talking into the void.

And it's raining again. Summery, cold, penetrating. They weren't holding hands. Han said: "I'm sorry." Minho nodded again. Because if you say a single word, it will tear you apart from the inside.

The relationship hadn't lasted even three months. Twice.

Time has passed. They remained friends. At least that's what Han decided. Minho didn't know how to remain a friend when his heart was still hurting. He tried to smile, reply to his messages, laugh at the memes. He was thinking: "Maybe it's easier than letting go completely."

But the hardest part was watching Han talk about his new boyfriend. "We have such a great relationship, there's nothing like it," he said. And he was laughing. And he posted photos where he shone like he had never shone next to him.

Minho listened. Sometimes he answered. And sometimes he turned off his phone and just lay there, staring at the ceiling. You can't hide resentment — it lives somewhere between the heart and the throat, and comes out in silence. He didn't want to get angry. But the feeling of being used was sticky and intrusive. He gave him everything he could. And he just took it. He left when it was no longer convenient.

One evening, he went outside. Summer was coming to an end, the air was cool, and it smelled damp. And, as in the past, it started to rain.

Minho wasn't hiding. He just walked forward as the drops ran down his face, hiding everything he no longer wanted to hide. He couldn't just be a convenient friend anymore. I could no longer listen to someone else's happiness from someone who had once promised to be a part of it.

That night, he texted him a short message.:

"I'm not mad. But I can't be around you the way you want me to anymore. I deserve more than to be a foil in someone else's story."

There was no response. And it was even easier than getting "understood" or "sorry."