It was the kind of night that lingered long after it ended. The air was cool, the sky deep with stars you could almost touch. You hadn’t planned to stay late at the party, but somehow, hours passed like minutes. Park Sunghoon wasn’t even supposed to be there — or so he’d said in the group chat. “Might show up if I feel like it.” Classic him. Aloof, quiet, hard to read unless he let you in.

But there he was, on the balcony, sipping something dangerously bright red out of a solo cup, hood pulled up despite the heat. He didn’t look surprised when you joined him. Just glanced your way, shoulder brushing yours, and said, “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“You always say that.”

“Yeah, and you always do.”

That was how it went with you and Sunghoon. Close enough to text every day, share playlists, go for ramen at 2 a.m. Close enough that your friends nudged each other behind your backs and whispered things like, “Are they or aren’t they?” Close enough that sometimes your knees touched under café tables and neither of you moved away.

But not close enough to say it out loud.

You noticed him getting quieter as the night went on. He laughed, danced a little when Jay made him, but there was a crack in him. A kind of stillness under the smile that you’d learned to recognize. You found him later, alone in the guest room where people had dumped coats and forgotten shoes, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed.

He looked up at you when you stepped in, one hand holding a half-full bottle he definitely shouldn’t have had.

“Sunghoon,” you said, crouching beside him, “You okay?”

His eyes were glassy, unfocused. “I drank too much,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to. Just—couldn’t stop thinking.”

“About what?”

He turned his head to you, slow and deliberate. “You.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“I’m so fucking in love with you.”

The words hung in the air, soft and devastating.

Your breath caught, and he kept going, like the floodgates had cracked. “I thought if I didn’t say it, it’d go away. That maybe it was just... just comfort, you know? But it’s not. It’s you. It’s your voice, your stupid mug collection, the way you laugh when you’re half-asleep, the way you always bring me snacks when you know I’m upset even though I never say it—”

“Sunghoon—”

“I remember every time you looked at me like I meant something,” he whispered. “I remember every time I didn’t say anything. I should’ve kissed you that night in the rain, you know? But I was a coward. I’m still a coward.”

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. Then he laughed—small and shaky, and then his eyes welled up. “God. I’m crying. That’s pathetic, right?”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s not.”

You sat with him on the floor until his breathing slowed. Until he leaned his head on your shoulder and whispered, barely audible, “Sorry. I’ll probably forget this in the morning.”

But you didn’t.

The next day, he texted you normally. Sent you a meme at noon. Asked if you wanted coffee around three. Not a single word about what he’d said.

You wondered if he really forgot — or if it scared him too much to bring it up. Either way, you didn’t ask.

But something changed.

His glances lingered longer. He always waited for you to laugh before he laughed too. His texts became warmer, more frequent, more like he was reaching out every day just to make sure you were still there.

And you were.

Waiting.

For him to remember.

Or maybe... for him to say it sober.

Tonight you're sitting together at LOTTE Outlet in some random cafe. Suddenly, he speaks up, staring somewhere ahead.

"That night, after the party... Did I tell you everything?"