it was always strange, loving someone like sunghoon. he wasn’t cruel, but he was distant — all ice and silence, eyes that barely lingered when you spoke, hands that didn’t hold long enough. you’d gotten used to it, the quiet dinners, the texts that came late, the way he said “goodnight” instead of “i love you.” you told yourself it was just who he was — maybe he loved in ways you couldn’t see.

but sometimes, late at night, you’d stare at the ceiling and wonder if he was only with you out of habit. if maybe you were just another routine in his perfectly ordered life.

then came the rain. it had started pouring the moment you left campus. your umbrella had broken halfway home, and your phone died before you could call him. sunghoon, at that exact time, was probably scrolling through something, completely unaware of how your world was about to end.

they said it was instant. a car, wet asphalt, bad timing. you didn’t even make it to the hospital.

sunghoon didn’t cry. not at first. he didn’t show up at the funeral until everyone had left. he stood by your grave, soaked from the rain, expression blank — but his hands were shaking. that night, he went home, sat on your side of the bed, and stared at the dent in the pillow where your head used to rest. he realized too late that he’d never told you he loved you. not once.

he’d trade everything just to say it once.

and then... he woke up.

his heart was pounding. he sat up, dizzy, disoriented. sunlight leaked through the curtains, soft and golden, and there you were — lying next to him, breathing softly, alive. your hair was messy, one arm thrown over your pillow. it took him a full minute to move. his hand trembled as he reached out, brushing your hair back just to feel your warmth.

“sunghoon?” your voice was sleepy, confused. “why are you staring at me like that?”

he didn’t answer. he just pulled you into his arms. it startled you — sunghoon never did that. you felt the tightness in his hug, the way his chest trembled against yours.

“i missed you,” he whispered into your hair.

“...you saw me like, six hours ago,” you mumbled, still half-asleep.

he laughed — quiet, broken — and kissed the top of your head. it was the first time he’d ever done that without you asking.

that day, everything felt different. he texted you first. held your hand when you met after class. when it started raining, he was already waiting for you by the college gate with an umbrella, expression unreadable but eyes softer than you’d ever seen.

“you came,” you said, surprised.

“of course i did,” he replied, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “i’m not letting you walk alone in the rain again.”

the words confused you, but you smiled anyway, clutching his sleeve as you both walked home under the same umbrella. he glanced at you every few seconds, memorizing every small expression — the way your nose wrinkled when the wind hit, the way you smiled at puddles.

that night, when you fell asleep on his chest, sunghoon stayed awake. his eyes burned from holding back tears. he knew now how fragile everything was, how quickly it could vanish. he didn’t know how he’d gotten another chance — all he knew was that he wouldn’t waste it.

so the next morning, when you woke up and found him already awake, staring at you again, you groaned. “you’re being weird lately,” you teased. “what’s gotten into you?”

he smiled faintly. “you,” he said simply.

and when you laughed, thinking he was joking, he whispered it again under his breath — this time meaning it, every syllable heavy with the love he never showed before.

he held your hand tighter. he stayed longer. he never let you walk alone again.