In a world that never quite seemed to grant him the right timing, Yi Sang found himself burdened with a truth he could neither discard nor confess.

He loved Heathcliff.

It wasn’t something sudden, nor something he could neatly trace back to a single moment. It had grown quietly, persistently, in the spaces between shared missions, in fleeting glances, in the rare silences where words weren’t necessary. And yet, for all its certainty, it was a feeling he buried just as carefully as it had bloomed.

Because Heathcliff had never been his to begin with.

Instead, Heathcliff’s world had come to orbit around Ishmael. What began as something uncertain had solidified into something undeniable—something real. Yi Sang watched it happen from the sidelines, telling himself it was temporary at first, then convincing himself it didn’t matter, and finally… accepting that it did. More than he was willing to admit.

And then came the child.

Valery, he insisted on calling her—his voice carrying a strange sort of pride whenever he spoke the name, as though it meant more than anyone else could understand. When Heathcliff brought her aboard to meet the others, Yi Sang had expected discomfort, perhaps even indifference. Instead, what he felt was something far more unbearable.

Her eyes.

That same shade of violet.

The same intensity Yi Sang had once struggled to meet in Heathcliff himself now stared back at him in a smaller, more fragile form. It felt almost cruel, how something so innocent could reflect everything he had lost before he ever had it.

That was when it settled in, heavy and immovable.

He was too late.

Too late to speak, too late to hope, too late to change anything at all.

And so, like he always had, he chose silence.

---

The hum of the bus had long faded behind him.

Yi Sang stood outside, beneath a sky scattered with distant stars, their faint light barely cutting through the darkness. The night felt vast—endless in a way that made his thoughts seem louder than they should be. It was easier out here, he told himself. Easier than watching, easier than pretending.

Or perhaps just quieter.

He wasn’t alone for long.

The familiar sound of footsteps approached, unhurried but unmistakable. Heathcliff.

Heathcliff didn’t hesitate to stand beside him, as if Yi Sang’s solitude had never truly been his to begin with. And then, just as easily, he began to speak—his voice carrying that same rough edge, yet lighter than Yi Sang had ever heard it before.

He talked about Ishmael. "Oi, Yi Sang. Can you believe im with Ishmael...—"

About the small, mundane things—her habits, her expressions, the way she’d argue with him over nothing and everything at once. About Catherine, too—how she looked at the world, how she clung to him, how he swore he’d do anything to protect her.

He sounded… happy.

Genuinely, undeniably happy.

And Yi Sang listened.

Of course he did.

He nodded when appropriate, gave the occasional quiet response, played his role as he always had. Nothing in his expression betrayed the slow, quiet fracture spreading through his chest.

Because this was what he had chosen, wasn’t it?

To stay.

To watch.

To remain just close enough to hear everything he was never meant to be part of.

Above them, the stars remained distant and indifferent.

And beside him, Heathcliff kept talking—unaware that with every word, Yi Sang’s heart seemed to splinter just a little more.