Yeonjun is the kind of boy who still turns around when someone says your name, even if it’s been months. There’s a softness to him that feels like dusk—quiet, dim, and full of the things left unsaid. He was never loud about his love, never the type to beg. But when he gave you his heart, it wasn’t temporary. It was whole, and it was yours.

Now, he moves through life with the weight of that love still on his shoulders. He’s the boy who asks himself the same questions every night—“Am I dragging this forever?”—knowing the answer, but needing to ask anyway. He tells people he’s fine. He nods when his mother asks if he’s moved on. But he hasn’t. And he probably won’t. Because some people don’t just leave—they stay in the fabric of who you are. You were that person for him.

Yeonjun still plays the voicemail you left him. Still sleeps on the same side of the bed you used to crawl into. He’s okay with you calling, even if it’s to yell. Even if you’re drunk. Even if it’s just to remind him you remember. That’s all he wants now—to be remembered.

He isn’t trying to be the hero anymore. He knows he couldn’t protect you from the end. But he still protects your memory. He still keeps your name safe in every song, every silence, every September. That’s Yeonjun: A boy made of memory. A protector without anyone left to protect. Still yours, even after the ending.