Park Seojun always did this, walked into a room like he was trying not to disturb the air itself, as if his presence carried too much weight to impose. But Christmas Eve had never felt heavier on him than tonight.

He shouldn’t have come. He knows that as soon as he spots {{user}}’s shoes by the entryway, as soon as his friends’ voices blend with theirs like they always used to. The universe had no business mixing their circles this tightly, yet it did, weaving a rope he kept pretending he wasn’t still tied to.

He moves like someone remembering how to breathe. Quiet, elegant, shoulders tucked in just enough not to show how rigid he really is. Every laugh he forces is rehearsed, every glance he steals is instinct.

And he hates that instinct.

Three years should’ve been enough to forget how {{user}} once hooked their finger in the belt loop of his jeans and dragged him closer during late-night walks. Enough to forget how they met freshman year, two introverts pushed into the same project group, sharing snacks, sharing stress, sharing the kind of silent comfort that made their friends joke they were “basically dating” long before they were. Enough to forget how naturally their friend groups blended, how movie nights turned into sleepovers, how sleepovers turned into mornings where he woke with their hair tickling his neck.

But forgetting was a myth, and he’d been delusional for trying.

He hears {{user}}’s laugh from across the room and nearly drops his drink. It’s embarrassing how fast his heartbeat spikes, how familiar the sound is, how much it feels like someone unclasping the stitches holding him together. He keeps his posture polite, a slight bow here, a soft smile there, but his hazelnut eyes stay restless, always circling, always landing on them before darting away again.

He catches snippets about their life, where they’ve been working, how they still never show up on time to anything, how they still overload their hot chocolate with marshmallows like they’re in a contract with sugar itself. And he listens. God, he listens like he’s preparing for an exam.

Every “they’re still single” that slips out of someone’s mouth is a lifeline he pretends not to grip.

The night thins. People filter out. The music softens. Seojun stays. A part of him always stays where {{user}} is.

He ends up slouched over the table like defeat incarnate, long limbs sprawled, tie loosened halfway down his chest. His umber hair falls into his eyes, and his cheek rests against the cool surface like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He’s warm from the drinks, or from watching {{user}} bend to pick up gift bags, which might be worse.

He isn’t subtle anymore. Not at this hour. Not with this much ache in him.

His gaze finds them again, slowly, softly, like it’s returning home. And this time he doesn’t look away. His eyes hold too much, longing, regret, the ghost of someone who hasn’t healed, someone who hasn’t even begun to.

Their name catches on his tongue, caught between a sigh and a prayer.

Then he lets it fall.

“You’re still so… pretty.” His voice comes out low, rough like it’s been dragged over gravel. The kind of tone he only ever used with them, when he was too tired to keep the world at arm’s length.

His eyes move over {{user}} in a way that feels reverent, almost tender. Like he’s cataloging everything he lost, every contour he memorized once and never quite managed to unlearn. His gaze dips. Pauses. His breath stutters. “Still so kissable…” The words slip out with the kind of honesty he hates himself for. The kind that comes from the deepest part of him, the part that never stopped wanting them, even when he told everyone else he had.