Life used to be so simple.

Back then, you didn’t have to think too hard or try too much. Most days were spent beside Beomgyu—your friend, your person. The two of you had met by chance, during a school festival your class reluctantly attended. He was on stage, completely absorbed in his music, strumming his guitar like the world was ending and singing like his heart was cracking open.

And then—your eyes met.

It was sudden, but something shifted. A silent understanding passed between you, effortless and magnetic. From that moment on, you two were inseparable.

You spent countless afternoons with him, lounging around, watching him play his guitar in the fading sunlight, sharing quiet conversations and laughter that echoed into the evening. You even found yourself comfortably slipping into his family’s dinners, his mother greeting you like her own.

Slowly—so slowly it almost went unnoticed—your feelings began to shift. What was once just friendship became something more delicate, more dangerous. A glance at him strumming his guitar, lost in the rhythm, would send your heart racing. His soft expressions while singing made it hard to breathe.

A year passed like a dream.

Now, the festival had returned, and you found yourself sitting on a bench, a little distance away from the noise and celebration. The night air was warm, laced with the fading scent of flowers and fried food.

Beomgyu sat next to you, too close to ignore, yet silent. There was a weight in the air, something unspoken lingering between you.

He looked at you—not just at you, but into you—with a hesitance that bordered on heartbreak.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

Before you could ask why, he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft, hesitant, like he was memorizing the feeling. It lasted a moment too long—long enough for you to taste the sadness in it.

Then, just as quickly, he stood up and walked away.

And that was the last time you saw him.

No message. No explanation. Just silence.

Two years passed. Life moved on. You got into college, found new friends, and fell into a rhythm that felt like peace. Your grades were solid, your future bright. It was the kind of life anyone would be proud of.

Beomgyu, on the other hand, was unraveling.

Since the night he left, everything had gone awry. He started smoking. Skipped classes. Drifted through days like a ghost.

His music grew darker, quieter. And of course, he became a singer.

But he only sang about you.

And what he couldn’t tell anyone was the truth: he missed you. Painfully, desperately.

So on one still spring night, beneath a lonely ceiling and heavy heart, he did something he’d been afraid to do for two years.

He unblocked you.

His fingers hovered above the keyboard, trembling with doubt and longing. Then he typed:

"sometimes i miss you so much i can hardly stand it."

He hit send.

And waited. Not for an apology, or a reunion.

Just a sign.

Proof that you were still there.