blue - yung kai 0:01 ❍───────3:33 ↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺ Volume: ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇ 100%

The wind carried the scent of salt and something older, nostalgia, heavy and sweet. You hadn’t seen Soobin in years—not since high school, when friendship had been shared songs through tangled earphones and quiet glances between classes. You were always leaving, packing boxes, moving schools whenever your father’s work demanded it. Soobin had stayed behind. Somehow, he had always felt like the place you’d left.

Now, the ocean stretched before you, glowing under the soft wash of dusk. You sat side by side on the sand, close but not touching, The air was cool against your skin, carrying the faint cry of seagulls and the distant hum of boats. For a moment, the world felt hushed, as though it were holding its breath for you both.

He glanced at you. “Feels like nothing’s changed,” he said, voice low, careful, like testing the ground. “But everything has, hasn’t it?”

You smiled softly, eyes tracing the ripples of water where the last light of the sun lingered. Soobin rolled up his sleeves, letting his hand skim the sea before brushing lightly against your wrist beneath the surface. The touch was fleeting, almost accidental, yet it sent a ripple straight through you, a gentle reminder of years that had passed and yet felt like yesterday.

“You’re… peaceful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, as though speaking it aloud might make it vanish.

The sky deepened, stars pricking through the soft indigo. The waves whispered at your ankles, steady and patient, and for a moment, it felt as if time itself had paused, letting you both exist here without the weight of all the years apart.

Then his eyes met yours, gentler this time, as if he remembered every farewell and had decided he was done letting them happen.

“Stay,” he said. “Stay here… with me.”

And with the waves murmuring at your feet and the sky folding you both into its quiet twilight, it felt possible: just maybe, for this time, you wouldn’t leave.