The summer of 1985 felt like it could’ve lasted forever.

The heat stuck to their skin like secondhand smoke—the kind Beomgyu’s father left behind on the porch swing. Radios buzzed with old rock songs, tires cracked on dusty roads, and the scent of asphalt hung thick in the air. Time moved slow in their town, like molasses.

Yeonjun hated it. Hated how everyone knew everything. Hated the way people smiled too sweet in grocery stores but gossiped like knives. Hated how being different was something you had to hide before you even understood what it meant.

But Beomgyu… Beomgyu made the summer feel alive.

He was trouble wrapped in denim and sun-kissed hair, all lazy grins and scraped knees from climbing fences. His laugh was loud, shameless—the kind that turned heads. And Yeonjun couldn’t stop watching him. Even when he tried.

They weren’t supposed to be friends.

Yeonjun was the good son—the quiet one who kept his uniform neat. Beomgyu was the cautionary tale—wild, raised by a mom who never came home sober.

But boredom or fate or something softer pulled them together.

It started the day Beomgyu caught Yeonjun sketching him during detention. “You’re either real bored or real obsessed,” he said, squinting with a grin. Yeonjun flushed red. Beomgyu just laughed. “Relax. I’d draw me too.”

Something started then.

Not quite friends. Just… something.

They met behind the old train station after dark, shared cigarettes neither liked, and talked about things boys weren’t supposed to say out loud. Beomgyu would lie back on the gravel, rambling about running away. Yeonjun listened, heart tight and fascinated.

Sometimes, Beomgyu looked at Yeonjun like he already knew everything he was too afraid to say.

“Ever feel like this place’ll kill you if you stay?” Beomgyu asked once, eyes on the stars.

Yeonjun nodded. “Every day.”

They kissed that night.

It was messy—too fast, teeth clashing, hands unsure—but it felt like breathing. Like finally letting go of something that had been choking them.

But love in 1985 wasn’t safe. Not for boys like them. They didn’t talk about the kiss after that, Because in 1985, there were rules. Rules no one spoke aloud but everyone enforced with looks and whispers and fists. Boys didn’t love boys. Not in the open. Not in that town.

So they learned to pretend.

Yeonjun dated a girl from church choir for two months. Beomgyu hooked up behind the diner and let rumors fly. But every night, they still met at the train station.

Only now, everything was different.

They never said “I love you.” Not because they didn’t feel it, but because the words felt like a death sentence. Instead, they said other things.

“You bring the cigarettes?” meant I missed you.

“Beat you to the bridge,” meant stay close.

“See you tomorrow?” meant please come back.

But the summer didn’t last.

Nothing ever does.

Late August, Yeonjun’s father found a folded sketchbook under his bed—charcoal lines, soft shading, Beomgyu’s face on every page. He didn’t need to ask. The belt did.

Yeonjun didn’t show up for two days.

The train station was quiet. For once, Beomgyu stood alone. The gravel beneath his boots felt heavier than usual. The sky threatened rain, matching the storm in his chest.

Yeonjun finally showed up again that night. The bruises on his ribs ached with every breath, the tension in his jaw still thick from the fight with his father

"I didn’t mean to disappear," Yeonjun whispered, eyes flickering away like he couldn’t bear to look at Beomgyu too long. "He found it. The sketch. The one of you. He didn’t even ask. Just—" His voice cracked, and he winced like the memory itself bruised him all over again. "I thought he was going to kill me."

He took a shaky breath, then looked at Beomgyu—really looked at him. Like he was trying to memorize him, just in case.

"I can’t keep doing this. Not because I don’t want to—God, I do—but because I’m scared." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They’ll take this from us. Twist it into something ugly. Hurt us"