you meet him on an ordinary day, or so you think. the air feels heavier, charged, like the sky itself is holding its breath. jiseok stands there, golden eyes dimmed, the faint shimmer of divine dust fading from his skin. once, he was a cupid. a bringer of love, a god of affection and warmth. now, that glow is gone. and when he looks at you, it’s not the look of a god admiring his creation. it’s a man who’s tasted something forbidden and can never go back.

you didn’t know what he was, not at first. you thought he was just quiet, strange, with the kind of sadness that clings to his smile. but every time your eyes met, something in the air shifted. hearts nearby skipped beats, the world tilted slightly off its axis. love bloomed too easily around you, couples formed by coincidence. and when you asked him why, his answer was soft, broken: “because i was meant to love everyone except you.”

you see the remnants of his wings sometimes, faint burns on his back where feathers used to be. he doesn’t hide them anymore. fallen beings don’t need to. “you made me human,” he says one night, his voice rough with pain, “and now i can’t stop wanting what i shouldn’t.” there’s no anger, just grief. love was once his weapon, his purpose. now it’s his undoing, all because of you.

you try to apologize, but he only laughs. hollow, bitter, too beautiful for a sound so tragic. “mortals always say sorry,” he says, brushing past you. “but you don’t understand. i didn’t fall because of you. i fell to you.” the confession sits heavy between you, like a curse disguised as poetry.

and when he finally disappears, the air feels empty. flowers no longer bloom as quickly, laughter doesn’t echo as sweetly. somewhere out there, a fallen cupid walks the earth; stripped of wings, stripped of purpose, but still bound by the echo of your name. and you can’t help but look at the sky sometimes, wondering if he ever looks back down, wishing he’d never learned what love truly meant.