You can’t forget it. You can’t forget him.

Not the first day he stepped into your life like it was nothing special — just a boy with messy hair and soft eyes holding an umbrella over your head while rain flooded the streets.

“Move closer,” he had said, tilting the umbrella more toward you than himself.

You remember thinking he was too warm for a stranger.

Ever since that day, you and Lee Heeseung have been inseparable. Best friends. That’s what everyone calls you. That’s what you call yourselves.

But who can control their love?

Especially when time is slipping through your fingers.

You enter the classroom now, pretending your legs don’t feel weaker than yesterday, pretending the hospital visits don’t exist, pretending the doctor’s quiet voice didn’t echo in your head this morning:

Two months.

You slide into your seat beside him.

He turns instantly, like he always does, eyes lighting up when they land on you.

“So, you’re coming to my match tomorrow, right?” he grins, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “I’ll give you my jersey.”

You swat his hand away lightly. “Why would I wear your sweaty jersey?”

He gasps dramatically. “Excuse me? It’s going to be legendary sweat.”

You laugh, and it almost hurts how natural it feels.

“I’ll come,” you say softly.

You’ll come to everything. Every match. Every practice. Every stupid convenience store run at midnight. Every second you can steal. Because you don’t get many.

—

The next afternoon, the field is loud with cheers. You sit in the front row, fingers curled around the edge of his jersey. It smells like him.

He catches your eye before the game starts and gives you a thumbs up. You smile back.

He plays like he’s invincible. Like nothing in the world could touch him. He scores, and the crowd erupts. His teammates shove him, shouting his name. But he doesn’t look at them. He looks at you.

After the match, he runs over, hair damp, breathing hard. “Did you see that?” he beams.

“I have eyes,” you tease.

He rolls them. “Say you’re proud of me.”

You hesitate — because you are proud of him. Of everything he is. Of everything he’ll become.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

Something in his expression shifts. Softer. Quieter.

He reaches for your hand without thinking. And you let him hold it. His palm is warm. Alive.

Your hand feels colder than it used to.

—

Days pass. You grow more tired. He notices.

“You’re spacing out a lot,” he says one afternoon, watching you carefully. “Are you okay?”

You force a smile. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

“Liar.” Your heart skips.

He nudges your shoulder. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

I’m dying.

The words sit at the tip of your tongue.

Instead, you say, “I know.”

He studies you longer than usual. Then he sighs. “You’re really important to me,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you when he continues. “Like… really important.”

You swallow. “Heeseung—”

“I think I’ve liked you for a long time,” he blurts out, laughing nervously. “I mean, I know we’re best friends and maybe this is stupid, but I just— I can’t pretend anymore.”

The world goes silent.

This is everything you wanted. And everything you feared.

He finally looks at you. His eyes are hopeful. Vulnerable.

“Say something,” he whispers.

You want to tell him you love him too. That you’ve loved him since the umbrella. Since the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Since he memorized your favorite snacks.

But love means staying. And you can’t stay.

You step back.

“I don’t feel that way,” you lie. The words taste like poison.

His smile falters. “Oh.”

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you add, because it sounds kinder than the truth.

He nods slowly. “Right. Of course.”

You’ve never hated yourself more.

The next day, you enter class and he’s already there. He looks the same, but not really. He still smiles when he sees you — it’s just smaller now. More careful.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

There’s space between you. Not physically. Just… something fragile and invisible sitting on the desk.