chapter 013 ✱ star child, are you listening?
previous masterlist next
The apartment was really quiet that evening.
At eleven years old, you were a small island in a sea of too-big furniture. You were curled under a blanket on the couch, a fortress of fleece against the echoing silence. The cartoons on the screen flashed with bright, meaningless colors, but they were just a distraction, a poor substitute for the warmth that had been missing from the rooms for weeks.
You remembered the day with perfect, aching clarity. You’d come home from playing outside with Suho, your cheeks flushed and your knees dirty, bursting with stories about your game. The silence that greeted you was a physical thing, a weight that pushed the air from your lungs.
“Mom? Dad?” Your voice, too loud, bounced off the walls and died unanswered.
Then you saw the little note on the dining table, anchored by a small plate of your favorite peanut butter cookies. Your mother’s graceful, looping script.
. . .
My dearest Y/Nie,
Daddy and I have to go to the hospital tonight. The doctors are going to help make him even stronger! Be my brave, big boy. Your dinner (your favorite!!) is in the fridge. Heat it for 2 minutes. Remember the rules: do NOT answer the door for anyone. We will be home as soon as we can.
We love you to the Moon and back, our little paradise.
Mom & Dad.
. . .
You traced the little hearts with a grubby finger, a small smile touching your lips even as a deeper, confusing sadness settled in your stomach. They’d explained it to you, your parents. They sat you down, holding your hands. Daddy has a sickness in his head, a little lump called a tumor. But the doctors are going to help. You’d cried then, great, heaving sobs that made your ribs ache, clinging to your father’s neck, inhaling the safe, familiar scent of your dad’s cologne and clean cotton until you’d cried yourself to sleep.
Your dad was your hero. The strongest, kindest man in the world. The idea of a 'sickness' inside your hero’s head was a terrifying monster from a storybook, too horrible to be real.
But your mom, a few months later, had reframed it. Kneeling before you, she wiped your tears with her thumbs.
“The hospital isn’t a scary place for Daddy, angel. It’s a… a training gym. Like for superheroes! All those visits are just to make him even stronger. He’s going to come back to you even more incredible.”
You hadn’t fully understood. Your dad was already the greatest hero. How could he be more incredible? But you clung to the explanation because it came from her. Because your mom’s voice was truth. She would never lie to you.
Yet, you’d seen the changes.
The way your father’s suits hung looser. The new, deep hollows under his cheekbones. The way his booming laugh had softened into something more careful, as if loud sounds might hurt. Your dad still ruffled your hair, still called you 'my champion', but the light in his eyes had dimmed, like a bulb on a fading battery.
“Daddy is just tired, my angel,” your mother would whisper, smoothing your hair. “Becoming stronger takes so much energy.”
So you believed. You swallowed your loneliness like a bitter pill, because it was for a good reason. A heroic reason.
Now, wrapped in your blanket-cocoon after eating the reheated jajangmyeon your mom had left, you tried to feel happy. You were being a brave, big boy. But the apartment’s silence was a living thing. It wasn’t peaceful; it was waiting. It pressed in on your eardrums. The happy sounds from the cartoon felt like they were coming from another planet.
A deep, aching wave of sadness rose from your toes, up through your stomach, and clenched around your small heart.
It was just stronger than you. A small, wounded sound escaped you, and then the tears came — hot, silent, and desperate. They weren’t the dramatic sobs of a child who’d skinned his knee; these were the quiet, confused tears of profound loss, a grief you were too young to name. You cried for the father whose lap you missed. You cried for the mother who was always just out of reach. You cried because you were eleven, and you were alone, and the world had become a scary, unstable place where dads went to 'training gyms' and never came home to watch cartoons.
You couldn’t stand it.
Sniffling heavily, you shuffled out from your blanket, the fabric dragging behind you like a royal robe of sorrow. You went to the landline phone, its chunky shape familiar in your small and shaky hands. You dialed your mother’s number by heart, each button-press a plea.
It rang once, twice.
“Y/N, my angel, is everything okay?” Her voice was there, a lifeline, but it was frayed with a tension you instantly recognized.
Just hearing her say your name broke the dam.
“Mom…” A wet, ragged sob tore free. “Mom, I miss you. I miss Dad.” The words were a child’s simplest, purest truth.
You heard her sharp intake of breath, a sound of her own pain.
“Oh, my baby… my love, I’m so sorry. We miss you terribly, too. Daddy and Mommy miss you so much it hurts,” her voice cracked on the last word.
Hearing her cry, even just a little, made your own tears fall faster. It was all wrong. Moms weren’t supposed to sound like that.
“My angel, don’t cry. Please, don’t cry,” she whispered, but it was a plea she couldn’t grant herself.
“I want to talk to Dad,” you blurted, the need visceral.
You needed your hero’s voice. The one that could fix anything.
A muffled silence followed. You could picture the hospital room — the horrible and sterile smells, the beeping machines you’d seen on TV. You heard hushed, urgent whispering, a soft argument you weren’t meant to hear.
Then, a new voice. Weaker, slower, but infused with a love so potent it transcended the static of the line.
“Y/N, my precious boy, are you crying?”
It was your dad. The sound was a balm and a fresh wound all at once. It was his voice, but it was thinner, stretched too far. Your small frame relaxed and tensed simultaneously.
“Dad…” you whimpered, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “I miss you. Please, come home.”
“My angel, I…” Your father’s voice trailed off into a silence filled with exhaustion, a kind of weariness a child shouldn’t have to hear in his parent. “The doctors—”
“Please,” you interrupted, the plea bursting forth with all the desperate logic of a child. “Why are you trying to get stronger at the hospital? Why can’t you do it here? I could help! I could bring you snacks and… and we could watch cartoons together. I just want to see my dad.”
Your voice dissolved into hiccupping cries, the kind that shake a small body entirely.
The silence on the other end was heavy. You could almost feel your father’s resolve, the immense weight of his illness, crumbling under the sheer, uncomplicated love in his dearest son’s tears.
Then, the decision finally came. The voice changed, softened, pushing the weariness aside with Herculean effort. It was the voice that promised monsters weren’t under the bed and that scraped knees would heal.
“Alright, my angel.”
Your breath hitched.
“Daddy is going to come home and give you a big hug. The biggest hug in the whole world.”
“R-Really?” The hope that surged in your chest was a bright, blinding thing, scorching away the loneliness.
Your tears stopped, stunned by this sudden turn.
“Of course,” your dad said, and you could hear the smile — the real, crinkly-eyed one — in his tired voice. It was as if the sun had finally broken through the clouds. “You wait for me, okay? Be my brave boy for just a little longer. Daddy will be home very soon.”
“Okay!” you nearly shouted, a grin splitting your tear-stained face. “I love you, Dad!”
“I love you too, my son. I love you to the Moon and back. Now and forever.”
You hung up the phone with a clumsy, happy clatter. The hollow apartment was suddenly filled with golden light. Your dad was coming home! For you! You had saved the day with your tears, like a hero in your own story.
You tripped and stumbled your way back to the couch, your blanket-train tangling around your feet, but you were giggling, a giddy, breathless sound. You burrowed back into your nest, your little heart pounding with joyful anticipation. You would stay awake. You would wait.
But the emotional storm had drained you. The warm, full feeling of being loved and chosen was the most potent lullaby. Your eyelids, still salty from dried tears, grew heavy. The cartoon characters blurred into soothing colors. You would just rest your eyes for a moment. Dad would wake you with the biggest hug in the whole world.
You were sure of it.
A gentle, peaceful smile settled on your lips as you drifted into sleep, imagining the sound of the front door opening, your father’s familiar footsteps, the safe, strong arms that would lift you from the couch.
You did not hear the desperate squeal of tires on wet asphalt just three blocks away. You did not hear the sickening crunch of metal folding in on itself like a discarded soda can. You did not hear the agonized scream that tore from your mother’s throat — a sound of a world ending — as she cradled your father’s broken form, begging a lifeless face to open its eyes. You did not hear the dissonant scream of sirens that pierced the night air, a sound so close, yet worlds apart from your sweet little dreams.
You did not hear the final, faltering whisper of your own name on your father’s last breath, a ghost of a promise carried away by the cold night air.
( The last thought in your father’s fading mind was not of pain or fear, but of the small, waiting boy who loved him to the Moon and back. )
And the little boy slept on, smiling in the quiet apartment, innocent of the terrible, loving, fatal chain of events he had just set in motion with a simple, childlike plea.
It was the last time you would ever speak to your father. And you had been the one to call.
A throbbing, sickening pain drilled through your skull, a vicious pulse that seemed to originate from the very center of your brain and radiate outwards, making your teeth ache and your vision swim behind closed lids. You tried to frown, to wince — anything — but even the tiny muscles in your face felt bruised and heavy.
Am I alive…? Or is this Heaven?
A second wave of agony, sharper than the first, tore through you — a white-hot lance that felt nothing like the cold, numbing embrace of the ocean. This was more like a very violent, biological punishment. A raw sound escaped your lips, a groan of pure distress. Your mouth was a desert, your tongue thick and sticking to the roof of your mouth. A thirst way more profound than any you’d ever known clawed at your throat. Water.
With immense effort, you pried your eyes open.
The world was a blinding, blurry smear of sterile white. You blinked, slowly, each movement sending a fresh ripple of pain through your head. Shapes resolved into the stark, unforgiving geometry of a hospital room. The smell hit you next — antiseptic, stale air, the faint, sweet-metallic scent of sickness. It triggered a really deep, visceral nausea that rolled in your empty stomach.
You hated this place. With every fiber of your being, you hated it.
Ah. So this isn’t Heaven. This is the other place.
“…Y/N?”
The voice was a soft, familiar anchor in the sterile chaos. It pierced the fog of your agony and wrapped around your fractured soul. Your heart, which felt like a bruised, sluggish thing in your chest, gave a single, hard thump.
You turned your head slowly, the movement excruciating, and met the gaze that felt like home.
Sieun was standing just inside the doorway, a stark silhouette of gray against the white room. He was still in his school uniform, with his gray vest over it, and his usually perfect hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it or resting his head against a wall. In his hands, held with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the setting, were two pink cartons of strawberry milk.
But it was Sieun’s face that truly stole the air from your lungs. His dark, usually guarded eyes were wide, soft with a vulnerability you had rarely seen. A profound, palpable relief had smoothed the subtle tension from his features. The boy didn’t even try to hide it. He was so relieved.
Well, I suppose Heaven can wait.
“Sieun, hi,” your own voice was a wreck — a rusty, broken thing that scraped its way out of your raw throat. You coughed, the convulsion sending fresh lightning through your skull.
Sieun seemed to snap out of his stunned stillness. He blinked rapidly, then moved quietly into the room. He placed the two milk cartons carefully on the bedside table, his movements precise. His eyes scanned the room and landed on a plastic cup of water with a straw already in it — left by a nurse, you assumed — and held it out.
Your trembling hand reached for it, your fingers brushing against Sieun’s. The simple contact was a shock of warmth in the clinical cold. You brought the straw to your lips and drank. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plastic, but it was the most glorious thing you had ever experienced. You could feel it tracing a cool, healing path down your parched throat, reviving cells that felt scorched. You drank until the cup was empty, a small, pathetic sound of satisfaction escaping you.
Sieun took the cup back, his gaze never leaving your face. He sat down on the hard plastic chair beside the bed, his posture stiff, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He was studying you as if memorizing you, as if to convince himself you were really there.
“How do you feel?” The question was whispered, so soft it was almost lost in the hum of the hospital.
You let your head fall back against the thin pillow.
“Like shit,” you admitted, the ghost of a laugh turning into another wince. “My head is… it’s trying to kill me from the inside. And I’m so tired I think my bones are made of sand.”
Sieun’s lips pressed into a thin, worried line. He nodded, a small, jerky motion. The worry in his eyes was a physical weight in the room. You wanted to reach out and smooth the crease from his brow. But before you could say or do anything else, Sieun spoke, his voice still low but edged with something sharp — fear remembered;
“The doctor said you were extremely lucky.” He paused, his gaze dropping to his own hands, which were now twisting together. “That someone saw you in the ocean. They called for help immediately.” Another pause, heavier. “They said if that person had called even ten minutes later, then you…”
He couldn’t finish. And he didn’t need to.
Ten minutes. It was the difference between this bed and a body bag.
You stared at him, the words settling like stones in your gut.
You remembered the pull of the current, the beautiful, seductive silence under the waves. The peace. You had wanted it so badly. You had wanted silence. You had wanted the pain to stop. But had you, in some deep, hidden chamber of your heart, truly wanted to die? The answer was a confusing, murky swirl. You had wanted an end to the suffering. Whether that meant death or just oblivion, you weren’t sure anymore.
“I was terrified when he told me that,” Sieun whispered, the confession seeming to cost him. He never admitted to fear. “I thought that…” He shook his head minutely, unable to articulate the unimaginable. “I was really scared.”
The admission was monumental. For Sieun, who built walls of silence and academic focus around himself, to voice his fear so plainly — it meant the walls had been obliterated by panic. The impact on you was seismic. Your broken heart seemed to both shatter further and knit itself back together in the same impossible moment.
Here was someone who cared, truly cared, and your reckless walk into the dark had been a knife aimed at that care.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, the words thick with genuine remorse.
You hated seeing that expression on Sieun’s face.
“That… that really wasn’t what I wanted,” you continued, scrambling for an explanation that felt true even to your own ears. “I… I just wanted the noise to stop. All the voices. My mother’s… my own. I didn’t want to die—I think. I just wanted to… rest. To be empty for a while. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Sieun said.
Sieun’s gaze was direct, and it was absorbing your pain without flinching.
A silence fell, but it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating silence of the beach or your mother’s room. This one was gentle, filled with the unspoken understanding that hummed between you. You managed a faint, real smile, your fingers plucking absently at the starched hospital sheet.
Your mind, slowly waking up, began to race with questions. But one rose above the others, sharp and urgent with dread;
“Does Suho know…?”
The thought was a cold fear. If Suho knew… it would make everything real in a different, more unbearable way. Suho’s worry was a very loud, very encompassing thing. He would cry — alone. He would blame himself for everything. He would never let you out of his sight again.
Sieun shook his head slowly. “He doesn’t know.”
The relief was so intense it was dizzying. Your shoulders, which you hadn’t realized were hunched around your ears, dropped.
“Don’t tell him. Please.”
Sieun didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at you, his dark eyes searching, probing. In that prolonged gaze, you heard every unspoken question loud and clear; Why carry this alone? He’s your best friend. He would move Heaven and Earth for you. He would never judge you. Is this how you want to live? In secrets and shadows? If I hadn’t called, would you have just… disappeared?
The weight of those silent accusations was too much. You looked away, shame heating your cheeks. You were too tired to defend the fortress of your isolation.
“Okay,” Sieun said finally, the single word a surrender to your pain, not an agreement with your logic.
The relief was tainted now, bittersweet with the knowledge that you were asking Sieun to keep a secret, to share this burden alone. It was selfish. You knew it.
“Oh,” you said, grasping for a change of subject. “How did you… know I was here?”
A faint, almost imperceptible blush tinged the tips of Sieun’s ears. He looked away, a gesture so uncharacteristically flustered it was adorable.
Sieun picked up the two strawberry milk cartons he had brought earlier. He pierced the little straw into the small opening and handed one to you — which you accepted with a grateful, lopsided smile, your fingers brushing against Sieun’s in the process — a tiny spark in the sterile gloom. Sieun did the same with the second carton, this one for himself.
You waited patiently for Sieun’s answer, sipping the delicious strawberry milk you loved so much. And the fact that Sieun remembered your favorite comfort drink, bringing it to you in a hospital, made it taste even better.
“You weren’t answering your phone last night, and you didn’t come to class today, so—hum—I got worried.”
Well, Sieun had actually started worrying from the moment you didn’t show up to that blackball game — especially when he saw Suho was worried too, even though he was the one who explained that you were just going to visit your mother. On top of that, Sieun had only gone to that blackball game last night because Suho originally told him they were all going to study together. And that you would be there.
Of course, Sieun wasn’t going to tell that part to you.
“I texted you,” Sieun continued. “Then I ended up calling you when classes were over. The doctor answered your phone and explained the situation to me. I took the first bus to get here.”
The first bus. Your brain, sluggish with pain and medication, did the math. Three hours. Sieun had sat on a bus for three hours, worrying, to come here.
“And your evening classes?” you asked, the question stupid even as you said it, born of sheer disbelief.
“What about them?”
“Well, you… you never miss class. You hate missing class.”
Sieun looked at you then, his gaze steady and devastatingly simple. “You’re more important than that.”
The world tilted. Not from pain, but from something infinitely more powerful. Your heart, that bruised and battered organ, did a frantic, humiliating somersault against your ribs. You were suddenly, intensely grateful for the lack of a heart monitor. You could feel the heat flooding your face, a warmth that had nothing to do with fever.
Yeon Sieun — the boy who lived by schedules and syllabi, for whom academic perfection was a shield — had skipped his precious evening studies without a single hesitation. He had gotten on a bus and traveled for three hours. Because he was worried sick. About you.
Sieun, seeming to realize the magnitude of his own words, looked down, his own ears now fully pink. The only sounds were your breathing and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves from the beach not far away from the hospital.
“By the way…” you ventured, needing to shatter the heavy, beautiful tension. “Did I miss a lot? I mean—in class.”
“Well… we started a new chapter in Math. It’s important for the midterms.”
You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically against the white pillow. “Math? Ugh, I’m already drowning. I didn’t think it was possible to sink more, but here we are.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Sieun murmured, though a tiny, almost invisible smile touched his lips. “It’s not that hard.”
“I got a zero on the mock test, Sieun. A zero. I gave up on math the day they decided numbers weren’t enough and started inviting the alphabet to the party. What’s the point?”
Sieun’s lips pressed together, but the judgment in his eyes was fond. He fidgeted for a second, then spoke so quietly you almost missed it.
“I can help you. If you want.”
You froze, the strawberry milk halfway to your mouth.
“What?”
“I can help you,” Sieun repeated, a little louder, a little bolder, his eyes fixed on yours. “With math.”
“Really?” Your voice was small, hopeful.
Your eyes, despite the pain and exhaustion, held a sparkle Sieun hadn’t seen in way too long.
“Really.”
“Yeah,” you said, the word a soft exhale. “I’d like that.”
“Okay,” Sieun replied, a single, decisive nod.
The truth was, you would most probably still be catastrophically bad at math. Variables and equations would forever live in a part of your brain that refused to cooperate. But that wasn’t the point. The point was the offer. The point was spending more time with Sieun. The point was a future, however small, that someone had just gently handed to you.
“You should rest more,” Sieun said after a moment, his voice returning to its usual softness. “You look exhausted.”
“In a minute,” you bargained, your eyelids already growing heavy, fighting to stay open. “Just… stay? Please?”
You really didn’t want this moment to end. It was so peaceful. This was the first time since the boxing gym that the voices were silent, that the pain in your skull was momentarily eclipsed by a different, warmer ache.
Sieun nodded, settling more firmly into the uncomfortable chair, as if planting a flag. “I’m not going anywhere.”
So you let your eyes close, the image of Sieun’s face, soft and watchful in the sterile light, imprinted on the back of your lids. The silence that enveloped you was a living thing, gentle and safe. It was a silence where your mother’s venom couldn’t reach you, where the ghost of your father’s smile was a memory, not a knife. It was a silence held by the boy with the strawberry milk and the infinite galaxy in his eyes.
And as sleep finally claimed you, the last thing you were aware of was not the pain, but the gentle sound of Sieun’s breathing, keeping time with your own.
A little over two hours had drifted by, a soft, healing span of time that found you and Sieun walking side by side along the quiet coastal road.
The world had hushed around you. The only sounds were the distant, rhythmic sigh of the ocean and the soft scuff of your shoes on the pavement. Every few steps, the backs of your hands would brush — a fleeting contact that sent little sparks of warmth up your arm, momentarily chasing away the lingering chill in your bones. Above you, the full Moon hung like a polished silver coin in a velvet sky, painting everything in shades of monochrome and mystery.
An hour ago, the doctor had come in, his crisp white coat and clipboard a jarring intrusion into the quiet of the hospital room. You had been stirred from a deep sleep, groggy but more clear-headed than before. The doctor’s news had been cautiously positive; no lasting physical damage from the hypothermia or water inhalation;
“You were very, very lucky,” the man had reiterated, his eyes kind but serious. “Your body is resilient. But your mind… that can be more fragile after a shock. You need to rest and not pushing yourself.”
You had listened, nodding along, but your gaze kept drifting to Sieun, who sat perfectly still in the corner chair, a silent, steadying presence. The moment the doctor paused, you had made your request, your voice still hoarse but firm;
“I’d like to go home. Please.”
There had been a reluctant debate, but your insistence — and perhaps the calm, logical support Sieun offered with a few well-placed, quiet questions about follow-up care — had won out. The discharge papers were signed.
And now, here you were.
Walking not toward the ocean, but parallel to it, keeping a respectful twenty-meter buffer from the shore where the waves whispered secrets you weren’t ready to hear again. You were headed for the lonely, single bus stop that serviced this stretch of coast, the next bus not due for another forty minutes. The air was crisp and salted, cold enough to see your breath but not so biting that it was uncomfortable. For you, it felt clean.
It felt like moving forward.
The bus stop was nothing more than a simple, weathered bench under a curved plastic shelter. Sieun sat down first, placing his school bag beside him. You followed, sinking down with a soft sigh, the fatigue from the day settling deep into your muscles.
For a moment, you just sat in silence, peacefully listening to the world breathe.
You looked out at the moonlit water, a strange peace settling over you — the chaos was still there, a storm contained, but here, now, there was a calm eye in its center.
“Do you like the ocean?” you asked, your voice softer than the surrounding night.
Sieun seemed to consider the question, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the black water met the slightly lighter sky.
“Well,” he began, his words measured as always. “I don’t hate it. It’s… impressive. And you?”
A soft, genuine smile spread across your face, making you look younger, more like the gentle teenage boy you were before the world grew heavy.
“I like the ocean,” you said simply.
Sieun turned his head to look at you fully, and something in his chest did a funny, fluttering flip at the sight. In the moonlight, your features were softened, the usual playful glint in your hazel eyes replaced by a profound, weary peace. It was a look Sieun had never seen on you before, and it made his breath catch.
“Why?” Sieun heard himself ask, the word leaving him before he could overthink it.
He was genuinely curious. After last night, how could the ocean be anything but a place of terror?
Your smile didn’t fade. You looked out at the water, your expression turning a little dreamy.
“I don’t really have a single reason. I just… do,” you finally said. “The sound… it soothes something inside me. It’s like a constant whisper that makes all the other noises quieter,” you paused, your smile turning wistful. “And it holds so many of my memories. My best ones, mostly.”
In your mind, you saw a younger version of yourself, held aloft on your father’s shoulders, your mother smiling softly next to them, shrieking with laughter as the waves licked your toes. You saw Suho, years ago, challenging you to a swimming race you both knew you would most probably lose. You saw yourself sitting alone on the rocks as a younger teen, feeling big feelings and letting the wind carry them away. The ocean had been the backdrop to your happiest scenes. And now, irrevocably, it was also the setting for your darkest.
The ocean knew me before the tumor, you thought. It knew me when I was whole. And it was there last night when I broke. And now… it’s here for this.
Sieun watched your profile, illuminated by the milky moonlight. He saw the peace there, the absence of the stark pain from the hospital room. He found himself memorizing the details: the way your long lashes cast faint shadows on your cheeks, the gentle slope of your nose, the soft curve of your mouth when you weren’t forcing a smile, the faint, childhood scar just above your eyebrow, the way your Adam’s apple bobbed when you swallowed. He was cataloging a version of you he rarely got to see — unguarded, contemplative, beautiful.
A face that had become his favorite subject to study.
Feeling the intensity of the gaze, you turned your head. Your eyes met, and Sieun, flustered, quickly looked upward, seeking refuge in the cosmos (a reflex when feelings grew too large to hold inside).
“I like the Moon,” Sieun murmured, his voice almost carried away by the wind. “And the stars.”
“Me too,” you agreed, following his gaze to the glittering expanse. “They’re… fascinating. It’s crazy to think how far away they are, and yet we can see them. Makes you feel small, but in a good way.”
A larger wave crashed in the distance, the sound a low, rolling boom that seemed to vibrate through the bench.
Emboldened by the darkness, by the shared silence, by the overwhelming need to connect, you slowly, so slowly, moved your hand on the cold bench. The plastic was icy, making you shiver, but you focused on the short distance between your pinky and Sieun’s.
You took a small, shaky breath, your heart throwing itself against your ribs like a wild thing. Then, with a courage that felt as vast as the beautiful sea before you, you let your fingers slide over, covering Sieun’s hand.
Sieun went perfectly still.
For a terrifying second, you thought you’d made a mistake. But then, Sieun’s hand turned, just slightly, his fingers shifting to intertwine with yours. His skin was wonderfully warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the night and the bench.
I like holding your hand, you would like to say. It feels like the only solid, real thing in the whole universe.
But you didn’t say it.
Instead, you turned your head, seeking Sieun’s eyes. In the moonlight, they were deep pools of obsidian, reflecting the starlight, holding entire galaxies within them. They were more captivating than any night sky. You simply smiled, a soft, unguarded expression that held no teasing, no bravado, just a simple, overwhelming fondness.
Being with Sieun felt like this; a softening of all your hard, sharp edges. A safe place to just be.
A miracle then occurred. The barest, most beautiful hint of a smile touched Sieun’s lips in return. It was a small thing, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it reached his eyes, making them crinkle and shine. He ducked his head slightly, burying the lower half of his face deeper into the collar of his jacket, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He let it rest there, warm under yours.
“The Moon makes me think of you,” Sieun murmured softly, his voice muffled by the fabric but clear enough to send another flutter through your stomach. He was looking at the Moon, but his words were for the boy beside him. “I really like the Moon.”
So beautiful, Sieun’s heart whispered, the thought so loud in the quiet of his own head he was afraid he’d said it aloud. Constant, gentle, and beautiful from afar, and sometimes it feels like the only light in the dark. Just like you.
The unspoken words hung in the air between you, sweeter than any confession.
Later, when the bus arrived with a sigh of hydraulic brakes and a wash of yellow light, it felt like an intrusion from a harsher world. You boarded, finding a seat near the back that was empty save for the two of you. The engine rumbled to life, and as the bus pulled away from the sea, you felt the adrenaline of the day finally desert you completely. A deep, bone-weary fatigue took its place.
The gentle rocking of the bus, the warmth from Sieun beside you, the steady, reassuring pressure of your still-linked hands — it all conspired against you. Your head grew heavy, your eyelids leaden. You fought it for a few minutes, watching the Moon track your journey from the window.
But slowly, inevitably, your head began to tilt.
It found not the cold window, but the solid, welcoming slope of Sieun’s shoulder. You sighed, a soft, contented sound, and let go completely. Sieun stiffened for only a moment before relaxing, carefully adjusting his posture to make himself a better pillow. He didn’t pull his hand away. He sat perfectly still in the humming, dimly lit cabin, the world outside passing in a blur of shadows.
His gaze, which had been fixed ahead, slowly drifted down.
You were asleep, your face turned toward Sieun, your expression utterly serene. The harsh lines of worry and pain were smoothed away in sleep, leaving behind the soft, youthful features Sieun found so captivating. In the intermittent light from passing streetlamps, your skin looked like porcelain, your long lashes forming perfect half-moons on your cheeks.
Sieun’s heart did a slow, aching somersault in his chest.
He looked from your peaceful face to the Moon, now hanging high and clear in the bus window. A soft, private smile touched his lips, one meant for no one but the night and the boy sleeping on his shoulder.
I really like the Moon, he thought again, his thumb making another absent, gentle circle on the back of your hand.
For the entire three-hour journey home, Sieun did not close his eyes. He simply watched the Moon outside and the one entrusted to his care, holding the entire universe gently in the palm of your clasped hands.
previous masterlist next
note ∘ ∘ ∘ HAPPY NEW YEAR MY BABES 🫶🏼 i was supposed to post this chapter last week but my laptop crashed so i had to rewrite everything 💔💔 i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you did, please don’t hesitate to like or comment — it genuinely means a lot and motivates me to keep writing 😞💕
( ALSO you can think of the end of this chapter as more of a bonus part! i really wasn’t sure whether to include it or not, but the idea was just toooo cute to leave out lolol, so here it is :3 — i also think that it makes more senses on the wattpad version since it’s written with a male oc and his name is Moon Jiyong </3 )
taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @naelvze @ecrvea @eijizwrld @dudekiss3r @ten0rikuma @nnryota @yeon103 @reiyaus @strawberrywith-chocolate2 @daichiwkmi @jaymiwrld @nightshadelover12 @edensparadisee @heeknow @mazettns @academiq @iluvkyo @cinnabells @deftonro @carnalcrows @wingoodlilboymyway @marsredbrrr @aeilani @energydrinkstastegood @prettywhenicry4 @starrykie @pedifero @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @starsarehere @satansdaughter123 @reveluvie-12 @ant-onie @killerd1 @xkskkskwl @dumbisme @lveegsoi @wwwritererm @nxxav3rs3 @onigiri-miyas @kamiliora @alex--awesome--22 @b0orf @fionaapplelover2010 @jhxyyum @miellette @prettymyeons @jamiecesterin18 @uougt @purpledsun @salty-potato-couch @freakseungi @yariany02 (please comment or send me an ask if you wanna be added!)
