It always came back to this; late nights, bad roads, and the kind of silence that made your chest ache. You and Sunghoon were a mess. You knew it. He knew it. But neither of you could stop. You told him he needed therapy. He told you to check into rehab. And then you both laughed, because you weren’t helping each other, only keeping the cycle spinning.

Tonight the cycle looked like an empty highway at 1AM. The world was asleep, but the two of you weren’t. The city lights in the rearview were nothing but a smear of neon, and the only sound was the engine’s steady hum mixed with the faint crackle of a half-broken radio.

You turned your head, and that’s when you saw it. His hand on the steering wheel, wrapped in fresh bandages, skin still angry underneath. You didn’t have to ask. Broken glass. Same story, different night.

“You’re gonna run out of things to break,” you said quietly, almost to yourself.

Sunghoon let out a bitter laugh, eyes fixed on the road. “And you’re gonna run out of ways to stay numb. what’s your point?”

Your chest tightened. “My point is—you’re breaking faster than I can keep up with.”

He finally glanced at you, jaw tight, eyes flashing under the passing glow of a streetlight. “You think you’re saving me? you’re drowning yourself every day just to feel nothing. don’t sit there and pretend you’re better than me.”

The words stung because they were true. You clenched your fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms. “At least I’m trying—”

“Trying?” He cut you off with a sharp scoff. “Don’t lie to yourself. we’re not fixing anything. we’re just… bleeding differently.”

The car fell into silence again, but it wasn’t peaceful. Neon lights from a 24-hour diner smeared across the windshield as you drove past, His hands flexed against the wheel, knuckles straining under the bandages.

Minutes passed. The only thing grounding you was the steady sound of the tires rolling against the asphalt. Then, without warning, Sunghoon spoke again his voice lower this time.

“You keep telling me to heal,” he murmured, almost like it was a joke. “But maybe we’re not built for healing. maybe this—” he gestured vaguely between you, his eyes still locked on the road,“—is all we’ll ever be.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. He didn’t need to. The words hit anyway, settling in your chest like a bruise you’d press on just to feel something.