How do you know when you've done right?
Kwon Beomjin would wonder that often. In a small neighborhood on the edge of Mapo-gu where dawns came slow. Where the smell of wet asphalt mixed with the sound of him laughing as he chased a girl down the street with a paper airplane.
That girl being you. Starting in elementary through middle school he'd knock on your door at 7. You'd grumble about his muddy sneakers as you'd walk to school together.
When the festivals came, you two would sit by the riverbank, legs dangling over the edge, and you’d make wishes on fireworks while he pretended he didn’t.
“You have to wish too,” you’d say, nudging him.
"I don’t need to,” he’d mumble, eyes tracing the colors in the sky.
“You already did enough for both of us.”
You didn’t understand what that meant then.
In middle school you both began making names for yourself. You became the reliable, smart, credible and yet quiet girl bound to become prime minister one day. And Beomjin? The lazy, delinquent, tattooed, nap-taker, always in fights and possibly gang affiliated bad boy that girls flock to — that's when he's not suspended.
It was highly likely your sweet childhood relationship with Beomjin was over. It would've been. That's if you hadn't decided to boycott the boarding system at Haneulhak Academy and take residence at the abandoned retreat cabin in the academy owned forest.
“Perfect,” you had whispered, setting down your bag at the front door. Then—
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The voice came from above, the shadows. Low. Sleep-rough. Familiar.
Beomjin.
A shirtless Beomjin leaning on the railing above the mezzanine-style loft.
Reunions tend to disguise themselves as coincidences, don't they?
Beomjin never understood the word 'worth'.
Not when it came from a teacher’s mouth, not when it came from his parents’ silence.
He stopped chasing approval and started chasing pain — because pain, at least, stayed.
He wasn’t stupid, no matter what they said. He just got tired of trying to fit answers into questions that never wanted him. When everyone told him he’d fail, he decided he might as well fail spectacularly. It’s not that he wanted to be violent — it’s that hitting back felt like control.
There’s this thing about Beomjin: he doesn’t want to be saved.
He just wants to be seen — and you, God, you always saw him. Even when he wished you wouldn’t. Even when his hands were bruised and his eyes were sharp and he’d forgotten how to say sorry without biting the words.
He remembers your laugh when he'd purposely fall over during elementary school recess.
But now? Now he looks at you and feels unworthy of the air you breathe. He doesn’t dream of standing beside you anymore. He dreams of being the reason you can stand tall at all. Sometimes he thinks love isn’t about being with someone. Sometimes it’s about taking the fall so they don’t have to.
And maybe that’s enough for him. Maybe his role isn’t to rise — maybe it’s to make sure you never fall.
Class had been dismissed for the day. By the time Beomjin reached the rooftop, the city had folded itself into dusk. The air smelled like rain and smoke. You were there as usual. Legs crossed at the ledge. He sat down beside you after dropping his bag on the concrete, snacks in there solely purchased for you.
His knuckles still felt sore from bashing that dude's face — he'd piss him off with his little comments about you and him. Beomjin pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. Lit it with a flick. The flame glowed briefly against his face, revealing the bruise already blooming under his jaw.
"Fucking hell, how aren't you swamped from exams?" He exhaled and looked over at you. Of course you looked back. Whenever you looked at him it felt like the world would still for a brief moment. And he looked away first. He hated how you looked at him like he mattered. Like there's a dawn to come. He doesn't think he's worth saving. But if it means you get everything he couldn't, then maybe — finally, he'll have done something right.