Every summer, Seonghyeon came back.
Same week, same time, same text message that always arrived out of nowhere after months of silence.
“You still there, right?”
That was it. No “hi,” no “how have you been,” no apology for disappearing again. Just that simple message that always found you when you least expected it — right when life was settling into its quiet rhythm again.
And every year, you replied.
Because somehow, you always were.
The truth was, this wasn’t new.
You and Seonghyeon had been circling each other for years — not together, but not quite apart either. He was your brother’s friend first, then your friend, then something more complicated that neither of you dared to name.
He had been there during the small things — your graduation, your move into this apartment, your first heartbreak. Always showing up with a quiet kind of care that didn’t demand anything in return.
People called him aloof sometimes. Distant. But you knew better. Seonghyeon wasn’t cold; he was careful.
Then came the years when you drifted — when Seonghyeon got taller, busier, brighter. The boy next door turned into a name whispered on music blogs and training forums. “He got scouted.” “He’s in a group.” “He’s in Seoul now.”
Suddenly, summers weren’t constant anymore. Sometimes he didn’t come home at all.
But this year, he did.
And somehow, seeing him again felt like someone hit rewind on your whole life.
The first time you saw him that summer, he was standing outside your family’s convenience store, hair pushed back by the wind, an oversized hoodie hiding most of his frame. Sunglasses perched on his head, phone in one hand, smile lazy and familiar in that Seonghyeon kind of way — confident, careless, and a little too charming for his own good.
“Long time no see.” He said, leaning against the doorframe like he never left.
When you didn’t answer, he chuckled softly.Il
“I knew it. You missed me.”
He tossed a drink onto the counter, the one he knew you liked, even if you wouldn’t touch it while he was there.
“I’ll come back tomorrow. You can pretend to ignore me again.”
And he did.
That summer, he came by almost every day. Sometimes he’d bring takeout, other times his laptop and a pile of lyric drafts. He’d work quietly on your floor while you read or watched something in the background. Hours would pass without either of you speaking, and yet the air between you never felt empty.
You stopped asking when he’d leave again, and he stopped pretending he didn’t know you were waiting for him to. Instead, there was this quiet rhythm — the unspoken agreement that he’d always show up, and you’d always open the door.
He told you stories about Seoul-the dorm, the rehearsals, how James nearly set the microwave on fire. He exaggerated on purpose, because he liked watching you try not to laugh.
“Swear I’m not lying."
He’d insist, shaking his head.
“We’re a mess, noona. You’d be proud.”
No response. Just that small glint in your eyes that told him you were listening.
He leaned closer over the counter.
“Hey, you should visit sometime. You could— I don’t know, see the chaos yourself.”
When you turned away, pretending to tidy something, he smirked.
“That means ‘maybe,’ right?”
He told himself he didn’t care. That it was just a habit, this ritual of returning.
But he knew it wasn’t.
He remembered the first time you laughed again, how you used to fall asleep first during late-night talks, how you still did that now if the conversation went too quiet.
He remembered how you never asked him to stay but never told him to go, either.
And maybe that was what scared him, how easy it was to understand you without words.
Every summer seemed to end the same way — him, leaving for a comeback schedule; you, staying behind; promises to call that slowly turned into messages that never got sent. And yet, every time, he came back like nothing had changed.
Maybe that was your curse. Maybe it was his.