The kiss in the library hadn't been planned. It hadn't been thought through. It had been an impulsive act born from months—years—of silence, longing, and fear. One moment they were alone between the shelves, the quiet broken only by turning pages. The next, Min-woo had leaned in, heart pounding, hands shaking, and kissed him.
For Min-woo, it felt like both a confession and a surrender.
For Tae-won, it must have been a shock.
He had every right to pull away. Every right to be startled, confused, even hurt. And when Min-woo confessed—stammering, raw, exposed—Tae-won's rejection, though gentle, was still a rejection.
Tae-won had been kind. Careful. He had told him he cared, but not in the way Min-woo wanted. That he didn't want to hurt him. That they should forget it ever happened.
And Min-woo had nodded.
He had smiled.
He had said he understood.
But inside, something broke.
What followed was worse.
On the day of the high school farewell, with graduation looming and emotions running high, Min-woo wrote a final letter to Tae-won. He hadn't meant for anyone else to see it. It was never meant to be dramatic or public. It was simply his way of saying goodbye—to his feelings, to the boy he loved, to a chapter of his life he didn't know how to close.
But the letter was found.
His classmates—who already disliked him for his cold demeanor, his sharp tongue, his good looks, his refusal to fit neatly into their expectations—finally found his weakness. The coolest boy in class. The one no one could touch.
And they tore into it mercilessly.
The bullying escalated quickly. Words turned cruel. Rumors spread like wildfire. Whispers followed him down hallways. Laughter echoed behind his back. Then came the video—leaked, shared, mocked—reducing his pain to entertainment.
It became unbearable.
So unbearable that Min-woo had no choice but to leave the school.
While all this happened, Tae-won tried.
He called. He messaged. He asked around. He showed up at places Min-woo used to be. He tried every possible way to reach him—to protect him, to explain, to stay by his side at least as a friend, as a senior who cared deeply.
But Min-woo shut everything down.
He blocked the calls. Ignored the messages. Avoided every path that might lead back to Tae-won.
Because Tae-won was there—in every memory. In every humiliation. In every night Min-woo lay awake replaying what had happened.
And the worst part wasn't the rejection.
It was knowing that Tae-won hadn't abandoned him.
Min-woo had run away.
He knew, deep in his heart, that Tae-won had tried to hold onto him—as a friend, as a hoobae he cared for, as someone who didn't deserve to face that pain alone. Tae-won had never turned cruel. Never turned his back.
Min-woo had been the one who disappeared.
To forget the past, Min-woo believed he had to forget Tae-won.
That was the only way he knew how to survive.
And yet—now, years later—Tae-won's words echoed relentlessly in his mind.
Don't spoil anything in your life because of someone or something which does not even matter.
They rang in his ears, over and over, refusing to fade.
Because what if Tae-won was right?
What if running away had only trapped him in the very pain he was trying to escape?
Min-woo sat alone, the contract spread out before him, his hands trembling slightly as he stared at the signature line. His chest ached—not with fear this time, but with resolve.
He was tired.
Tired of running.
Tired of hiding.
Tired of letting the past dictate his future.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Min-woo picked up the pen.
And this time, he didn't hesitate.
He signed the contract.
Not because of Tae-won.
Not to prove anything to him. Not to run toward him. Not to run away either.
He signed it because, for the first time in years, Min-woo chose himself.
The pen had felt heavier than it should have when Mrs. Han placed the final draft in front of him. The pages were neatly arranged, every clause clearly printed, every condition explained. It was everything he had once dreamed of—his name, his work, his future bound to the very publishing company he used to admire from afar.
His fingers had hovered for a second.
And in that second, Tae-won's face flashed in his mind.
But this time, the memory didn't paralyze him.
He inhaled slowly, steadied his thoughts, and signed.
Because this opportunity was his. His effort. His sleepless nights. His talent. His struggle.
Not Tae-won's shadow.
Not the past.
Just him.
Still, that past wasn't so easily silenced.
Tae-won had been two years his senior. Back then, that difference felt enormous. Two years meant maturity. Authority. A wider world. Tae-won moved through high school like someone who already understood how life worked. He wasn't loud, but people listened when he spoke. He wasn't aggressive, but no one dared to push him too far.
And to Min-woo, who always felt slightly out of place in every room he entered, Tae-won had been steady ground.
Tae-won treated him like a younger brother.
He ruffled his hair when Min-woo pretended to act tough. He scolded him when he skipped class. He shared food without asking if Min-woo wanted it—because he already knew he hadn't eaten. He would casually sling an arm around his shoulders in crowded hallways, guiding him through the noise.
It was innocent.
Comforting.
Safe.
And that was the problem.
Because Min-woo didn't know when it changed.
He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when the warmth he felt stopped being simple gratitude. Maybe it was when Tae-won waited for him in the rain without complaining. Maybe it was when Tae-won smiled at him—really smiled, eyes soft, proud—after seeing one of his early sketches. Maybe it was when Tae-won's hand lingered just a second longer on his shoulder, and Min-woo's heart reacted in a way it never had before.
The closeness only made it worse.
The more Tae-won treated him gently, the deeper Min-woo fell.
He began noticing everything—the way Tae-won's voice dropped when he was serious, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated, the warmth of his palm, the clean scent of his uniform. He memorized these details without meaning to. They embedded themselves into him.