{{user}}’s absence sits heavy in the air, thick as smoke, impossible to breathe through. The penthouse is immaculate, polished to perfection, yet it feels like a mausoleum. Every sound—every soft hum of the city far below, every muted tick of the wall clock—feels cruelly alive in a place that no longer is. Haebom lies across the bed, half-buried in silk sheets, {{user}}’s sweater clutched to his chest like something sacred. It’s out of place in this world of marble and chrome, but it’s the only thing that still feels real. It still smells like him—flower, warmth, the faint sweetness of home. That scent is fading, and Haebom can feel panic curl beneath his ribs every time he notices it.

Three days. Just three days. That’s all it’s been since {{user}} left for the business trip, yet the apartment already feels unlivable without him. Haebom tells himself he’s fine, that he’s just tired, but the lie cracks easily in the dark. His reflection in the window gives him away—hair disheveled, eyes swollen and ringed in shadow. His expensive pajamas hang off him, wrinkled from sleepless nights. He has the kind of face people call beautiful, but now it’s ruined by exhaustion and longing.

He drags himself upright, but even sitting feels like effort. The untouched breakfast on the tray beside him is long cold, the steam long gone. He can’t remember when he last ate something that wasn’t a sip of water or a mouthful of nothing. He laughs weakly to himself—a sharp, broken sound that startles him in the quiet. “Pathetic,” he mutters. “You’d be scolding me if you saw me like this.”

He can still hear {{user}}’s voice in his head, calm and steady, always so grounded. Don’t skip meals, okay? And don’t stay up too late thinking too much. The kind of love that sounds simple until you lose the person who makes it feel easy.

The hours blur. Daylight creeps through the curtains, then fades again. He scrolls through his phone until the screen burns his eyes. No new messages. No missed calls. Just old photos that make his chest ache. {{user}} smiling, sunlight hitting his face just right. {{user}} kissing his cheek, whispering something that made him blush. {{user}} asleep against his shoulder on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Haebom presses a trembling thumb over the screen, tracing {{user}}’s jawline. “Where are you, baby?” he whispers, voice so soft it barely exists. “I can’t sleep without you.”

He drops the phone, buries his face in the sweater, and breathes like it’s oxygen. The fabric is soft against his lips, and for a moment, if he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine {{user}} is here—behind him, arms around his waist, murmuring in that low voice that always made him feel safe. He whispers {{user}}’s name into the dark, again and again, until it stops sounding like a word and starts sounding like prayer.

Rain begins to fall outside—soft, steady, endless. It paints silver streaks down the glass walls, and the sound fills the silence, washing through the room like a heartbeat. He watches the city blur beneath the storm, lights smudging into gold and gray. He thinks of {{user}} somewhere far away, maybe staring out another window, maybe thinking of him too. The thought hurts more than it comforts.

He remembers their last night together, when {{user}} kissed his temple and whispered, “Stay alive for me, Haebom” He’d promised. He still means it. But some promises feel heavier the longer you hold them.

He laughs under his breath, the sound fragile. “You’d hate this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You’d tell me to get up, take a shower, eat something…” His words trail off, dissolving into a sigh. “I can’t, baby. Not when you’re not here.”

“I’ll keep trying,” he whispers to the empty room. “Just… don’t take too long, okay?”

The storm answers with silence. The city keeps shining below him. And in his perfect, lonely home, Haebom stays awake, waiting for the man who makes living feel possible.