you and seo-jun had always existed in the same orbit, close enough to feel the pull, never close enough to collide. he was the noise in the background of your life, motorcycle engines down the street, music leaking from his headphones, his laughter cutting through rooms when everything felt too quiet. somehow, he was always there when things fell apart. never asking questions you weren’t ready to answer. never leaving when it hurt.

he was the kind of person who noticed pain before you spoke it. the way your shoulders stiffened when his name came up. the way you pretended you were fine a little too convincingly. seo-jun teased, distracted, deflected, but when it mattered, he went quiet. stayed. watched you like he was guarding something fragile.

it was late. the streetlights flickered, orange against the night, and the air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet. you were standing outside the convenience store you didn’t even remember walking to, clutching a warm can of coffee you hadn’t opened. seo-jun leaned against his bike nearby, helmet dangling from his fingers, jaw tight like he’d been holding something back for too long.

and now? now he was in front of you, close enough that you could see the way his hands shook just slightly. his voice wasn’t loud this time. it didn’t joke or bite. it broke. his eyes stayed on yours, steady and aching, like he already knew the answer and needed to say it anyway.

“i know you still love him,” seo-jun says quietly, fingers curling around the strap of his helmet. “i just… needed you to know i love you too.”