Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You look... more free."

Sanghyeok says as he watches the man he loves sleeping before him. "Are you happier now?"

Jeong Jihoon, he watches how the man's chest rises and falls as he sleeps.

It's funny. He should know the answer—he knows the answer, he knows that Jihoon would be happy if he learns that Sanghyeok is dead. Still, he can't help but ask; his soul and heart still long for another answer, after all.

But even if he does everything to ask him that one question, he can't. Sanghyeok is dead, and Jihoon has no idea. He's now just a phantom, a specter, a spirit that still lingers.

Never would Sanghyeok think that he'd end up like this—they'd end up like this. Him, a spirit, observing Jihoon, a human, as he sleeps on their once-shared bed.

Their story was a peculiar one; what once bloomed out of love slowly wilted with loathing. But really, did Jihoon even love him in the first place?

How long had they been together? Five years? He can't pinpoint the exact year, but he knows that he's known Jihoon for 10 years and has been with him for 5. Those years weren’t always filled with hatred and fights; there was happiness and contentment. So, even if they part ways with misery clinging to him, he really doesn't have any regrets.

Or so he likes to think.

But he was the root of all their problems, wasn't he? So he doesn't have any right to regret anything.

He was just someone that Jihoon had no choice but to pick. He knew—deep down—that he never truly held Jihoon's heart; he was never able to cradle it with such gentleness because he wasn't worthy enough.

Because how could Jihoon ever truly love him? Jihoon was everything; he was the epitome of perfection, of the saying "God took His time on him." While Sanghyeok was nothing.

And when he was finally able to call Jihoon his lover, he knew that it wasn't love that pushed Jihoon to this relationship. Pity? Possibly. Fear that Sanghyeok might do something if he didn’t agree? Positive. He wasn't going to do anything—yes, he'd probably pester, but not something that could possibly ruin Jihoon. Still, he was grateful at that time.

He wishes he wasn't because they've now reached a point where what little positive feeling Jihoon had left for him has now turned into anything but positive.

Sanghyeok always knew that they'd never have enough time; something was always screaming inside his head that he'd lose Jihoon one way or another. He's always hoped that he gets to spend a lifetime with Jihoon, and he did. Because even in his end, he's still beside the man that held and broke his heart.

His main regrets would probably be the fact that he didn't get to spend his last moments with Jihoon, that he didn't get to be happy as he spent his last time with Jihoon.

He clearly remembers how their—his—love has turned into a suffocating one.

Maybe it always was suffocating for Jihoon.

He remembers how easily everything results in a fight, how every little argument would send Jihoon out of their house, how easy it was for Jihoon to shout at him.

He vividly remembers that one fight that got so heated. When Jihoon said that he was so fed up with Sanghyeok and accused him of having an obsession instead of love, when he learned that Jihoon had been staying in Hyeonjoon's apartment after going missing for two days. Hyeonjoon, who was Jihoon's ex, Hyeonjoon, who didn't know that Jihoon has someone who’s been with him for 5 years. Cruel. But he can't blame him.

And that fight made Sanghyeok realize that Jihoon already had one foot out the door, ready to leave when given the chance.

And in Jihoon's anger, he admitted that he and Hyeonjoon did have a relationship. This revelation hit Sanghyeok like thunder, shattering his dreams of creating the happy life that he'd always envisioned for them.

Still, he chose to fight for them, to give them another chance. He convinced himself that Jihoon was simply angry, that this was normal for a relationship. He convinced himself that Jihoon still loved him.

Until he opened his door to a baggage and Hyeonjoon standing in front of him. He learned that day how cruel Jihoon could be—telling him that Hyeonjoon would be staying with them, and then introducing him to Hyeonjoon as his roommate.

Sanghyeok simply smiled.

He'd always known they'd eventually come to an end. In that moment, he knew he had to let go—for them, for Jihoon.

He just didn't think he'd be here after a failed operation.

No, Sanghyeok didn't commit suicide; he died after some doctor messed up his operation. He was supposed to come back, to apologize, to let go, and to give them his blessings. Still, he came back, just not in the way he expected.

At first, he didn't understand what was happening—imagine seeing your own lifeless body. He thought he'd be like those chosen ones in novels. But he wasn't; it was just his wishful thinking.

He'd always wondered how Jihoon would react if he was also sick. After all, Jihoon had said that Hyeonjoon had to stay at their home because he needed someone to take care of him after his operation.

He didn't get why it had to be at their home, though. Didn't Hyeonjoon have his own apartment? Or was Jihoon that cruel?

But he understands now.

He saw how worried Jihoon was, how attentive he was with Hyeonjoon. And he likes to think that Jihoon would react and act the same way for him.

Pity he can't see it anymore because Jihoon would never know that Sanghyeok has met his demise on an operation table. And even if Jihoon knew, he thinks he'd be relieved rather than worried. After all, he'd be free of a burden called Sanghyeok, just as he'd wished every time they fought.

He did always say that he regrets meeting Sanghyeok, that he wishes he could stay away, that he wants to leave and be somewhere he can no longer see Sanghyeok's face.

Now, Jihoon got what he wished for. Sanghyeok is glad he got to grant Jihoon's wish; at least he finally did something right before leaving.

He used to think that the furthest distance between them was when they slept in different bedrooms. Now, the furthest distance between them is life and death.

Chapter Text

They said that a spirit lingers when it still has an unsolved obsession—and Sanghyeok always thought they were right. But what obsession could he possibly have left when he’s long accepted that he’s already been replaced in Jihoon’s life?

He was so sure there was nothing left to hold on to, no reason to stay tethered to this world even as a ghost. Because what’s the point of living when you’ve already been replaced?

All he can remember now is the sharpness of the blade pressing against his skin, the way it split open and painted everything in scarlet. He remembers the stillness, the quiet that followed. Then he remembers feeling relieved—relieved that he finally let go of everything. Of them. Of Jihoon. Relieved that there would be no more nights spent pretending they were still okay, no more mornings filled with silence sharp enough to draw blood.

I’m really letting go this time.

It’s ironic, really. Sanghyeok had always hated the thought of Jihoon leaving. He clung to him like a desperate prayer, leaving invisible bruises on the younger’s wrists just to keep him close. He was terrified of being left behind. But in the end, it was him who walked away first—someone else’s hands writing the ending he refused to say out loud.

Still, he’s glad Jihoon doesn’t know about his death. A part of him—selfish, aching, human—wants Jihoon to find out, to mourn, to whisper his name like a curse or a plea. To grieve. To remember.

But the rational part of him knows better. Jihoon won’t know. Jihoon will move on. And maybe that’s how it should be.

He genuinely thought everything ended in that moment—that he’d either find himself in heaven or hell, or maybe open his eyes to the face of the grim reaper. Instead, he woke up somewhere achingly familiar. A place he’d memorized down to its smallest cracks after years of living in it.

And somehow, he thinks this is worse than hell.

Was he here to say a final goodbye? Or was this… punishment?

Sanghyeok let out a quiet sigh. Might as well make the most of it. After all, this was something he could no longer control.

He walks—or rather, floats—towards Jihoon. The younger was always a heavy sleeper. He used to sneak up beside him before, tracing the lines of Jihoon’s face with his gaze, memorizing every imperfection like it was scripture. Now, staring at him again, Sanghyeok can’t help but think that their relationship must’ve felt like charity work for Jihoon.

His heart nearly stops when Jihoon suddenly stirs awake. For a brief moment, Sanghyeok feels like he’s been caught stealing again—like a ghost thief clinging to remnants of a love that no longer exists.

But Jihoon looks right past him. He just reaches for his phone.

He doesn’t see him.

It doesn’t matter.

Jihoon always acted like he didn’t exist, even when they could still look each other in the eye. So Sanghyeok just watches as he checks something on his phone and drifts back to sleep, the rise and fall of his chest cruelly steady.

Sanghyeok wonders—did he somehow miss the gates to the afterlife when they opened? Or was he simply not worthy of passing through?

He knows, deep down, beneath all his denial and bitterness, that there’s still a longing—raw and unspoken—for one last chance. Or at least for some proof that he meant something to Jihoon. Even the smallest bit.

But after two days of this half-existence, he realizes something worse. He can’t wander far from Jihoon. It’s like an invisible thread keeps him bound—pulled tight, no matter how far he tries to drift.

What the fuck.

If God wanted him to suffer for all his sins, wasn’t this too cruel? Did the beings above decide to make a  show out of his misery? To turn his life—and now, his death—into a sick performance?

Did they really decide to make him this man’s guardian angel?

But really, what could he do about it? It’s not like he was someone powerful enough to refuse, or brave enough to walk away.

The next time he opens his eyes, he finds himself sitting on Jihoon’s passenger seat—Jihoon driving, his expression heavy, like the world just collapsed on him.

Being a star really is hard, huh?

Jeong Jihoon. The name everyone knows. A legend in the esports scene—locals talk about him with pride, the internet adores him, sponsors line up for him. Not just because he’s good—no, because he’s brilliant. And because he’s beautiful enough to belong on magazine covers. Some even joke that if he ever quits being a pro player, he could debut as an idol the next day.

It’s something Sanghyeok used to be proud of. He couldn’t brag about it publicly, but he’d always show his pride in small ways—by showing up at Jihoon’s matches, by buying his team’s merch, by wearing that team jacket like a second skin.

Even if Jihoon refused to publicize their relationship.

Jihoon must’ve been embarrassed to have someone like him—plain, ordinary, invisible—by his side.

But he can’t blame him. After all, he was the one who forced himself into Jihoon’s life in the first place. He should’ve realized sooner that he was just wasting Jihoon’s time. That Jihoon deserved better than someone as broken and unworthy as him.

And Jihoon had been right all along: they should’ve never been together. Hyeonjoon deserved the place beside Jihoon more than he ever did.

A bitter smile tugs at his lips, self-pity eating him from the inside out as his hand passes through Jihoon’s armrest. He wishes—just once more—to touch Jihoon, to feel his warmth again. Everything in their relationship might’ve been half-built on guilt and desperation, but his love for Jihoon had always been painfully, ruinously real.

Now, Sanghyeok follows Jihoon back to a place he knows too well. Their home.

Nothing much has changed. The same gray curtains, the same furniture, the same faint scent of coffee in the air.
Except the photo on the bedside table isn’t his anymore.

It’s no longer Sanghyeok’s smile holding a sunflower—it’s Hyeonjoon, grinning wide, holding a trophy.

He remembers that day. He was there. He’d gone with Jihoon to watch Hyeonjoon’s final match, saw the way Jihoon ran toward him after they won. He remembers the way Jihoon smiled—bright and unrestrained—as he hugged Hyeonjoon. And how his own heart quietly fractured into smaller, quieter pieces watching it happen.

Jihoon had never smiled at him like that.

He’d had to beg for even a fraction of that tenderness.

He knew this would happen. He knew Jihoon would move on. But still—it hurt, watching how quickly he was replaced in a home that had once been his.

He wonders now where that old photo went. Did Jihoon hide it somewhere? Or did he… burn it?

He remembers coming home after one of their fights, seeing ashes by the front door. Couldn’t have been from cigarettes—Jihoon never smoked. Maybe those ashes were all that remained of the photo.

And when he stepped inside, they just kept fighting.
Yelling.
Jihoon hurling insult after insult, while all Sanghyeok could do was ask—beg—if he even meant anything.
In the end, Jihoon lost his temper, grabbed the nearest thing, and smashed it on the floor. Then he left—door slamming, the sound echoing in the hollow space he left behind.

Sanghyeok cried. Not because Jihoon walked away again, but because his head hurt so much. Because it felt like it was splitting open—like something inside him finally gave up.

Now, in the present, Jihoon covers himself with a blanket, checks his phone one last time, and lets sleep pull him under.

And Sanghyeok? Ghosts don’t sleep. So he watches.

He watches until the first light of dawn seeps through the curtains. He only realizes it’s morning when Jihoon’s alarm goes off—an oddly painful sound. He used to be the one who woke Jihoon up. That was the only time Jihoon didn’t look at him coldly. When he was still too drowsy to be cruel.

Jihoon rises, washes up, and heads to the kitchen. Someone’s already there. Sanghyeok doesn’t need to guess who.

He watches Jihoon sit down at the dining table, and seconds later, Hyeonjoon comes out of the kitchen holding two plates of breakfast.

Sanghyeok has gotten used to it after a few days. He knew this would come—the day he’d have to watch Jihoon live the life he couldn’t give him. The day he’d see the proof that Jihoon’s heart had always belonged to someone else.

Someone who was everything he wasn’t.
Gentle. Patient. Easy to love.

Someone he used to envy, but now can only admire from afar.

Sanghyeok saw it—the way warmth bloomed in Jihoon’s eyes the moment he looked at Hyeonjoon.

It really was a losing battle, wasn’t it? Or maybe it was never even a battle to begin with. Maybe he was just fooling himself into thinking he ever had a chance to fight for Jihoon’s heart.

Because if it was one-sided from the start… was it even love?

“Busy day today?” he hears Hyeonjoon ask softly.

“Mn,” Jihoon responds, not even looking up, too focused on eating what Hyeonjoon cooked.

“Hm. Where is he?”

Sanghyeok freezes. He?

‘He? Does he mean me?’ he mumbles to himself, stepping closer. Jihoon only shrugs, chewing lazily, clearly unbothered—clearly not caring at all about whoever this “he” is.

Heartless little shit.

“You didn’t call him?” Hyeonjoon asks again, tone careful.

“Nope. Why should I?” Jihoon replies flatly.

“Don’t you miss him?”

Sanghyeok’s chest tightens.
What.

“He doesn’t miss me. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

What the fuck, Jihoon.
Why would you say that?

“How… can you say that?” Hyeonjoon’s voice drops, gentle but firm, like he’s scolding Jihoon—and for a second, it almost feels like he can hear Sanghyeok’s thoughts.

“Well, he left. Just like that. Didn’t even tell anyone.” Jihoon’s words are quiet, but Sanghyeok can hear the faint tremor beneath them—the kind of anger that’s just grief wearing a different face.

“Maybe he just needed to go somewhere?” Hyeonjoon says carefully.

‘Hyeonjoon, please. Don’t push him,’ Sanghyeok mutters to no one. ‘He’d never treat you the way he did with me, but he looks like he’s close to exploding’

“I don’t know.” Jihoon stands, grabbing his jacket. “I’m going to work.”

That’s all he says before walking out the door.

Sanghyeok watches as the door shuts behind him, the echo of his footsteps fading. Hyeonjoon exhales—a deep, weary sigh—and for a moment, Sanghyeok feels himself being pulled toward Jihoon again, like gravity, like punishment.

He blinks, and suddenly he’s beside Jihoon once more, watching him walk to his car with his head low, hands stuffed in his pockets.

What was that about?

He wants to ask. He wants Jihoon to answer. He wants to scream that he’s still here, still watching, still in love, still lost.

But all he can do is follow.

Because that’s all ghosts ever do.

Chapter Text

Sanghyeok gets off the car along with Jihoon. He can’t help but feel unsettled.

He’s been here countless times before—not as Jihoon’s lover, but as his assistant. Just like how he memorized every corner of their home, he’s also memorized this building by heart. Every hallway, every elevator sound, every room Jihoon used to frequent. The practice room. The streaming room.

But back then, he only ever watched from afar. Maybe because Jihoon didn’t want others to suspect that he had something with a man like him.

And yet now, he could stand so close.

“Jihoon, could you remove the ring for a moment?” one of the staff calls out.

Sanghyeok’s eyes immediately go to Jihoon’s hand. Oh. He was still wearing it—the ring Sanghyeok gifted him during one of their anniversaries.

‘Why the fuck would they have him remove it? It’s not even bothering him.’

And Jihoon, being the heartless little shit that he is, takes it off without hesitation.

“Throw it away.”

For a second, Sanghyeok swears the world stops.

If he could strangle Jihoon right now, he would’ve done it—would’ve wrapped his hands around that perfect, undeserving neck.

“Huh? Throw it away?” the manager asks, startled. “You can just put it back on once we’re done taking pictures.”

“I have no more use for it.”

No hesitation. No pause. Just that.

Really, if Sanghyeok thought the gods were cruel, Jihoon goes beyond anything divine.

That ring wasn’t just metal. It was the ring—one in a million, literally. Sanghyeok had it specially commissioned from a famous ring maker. He spent months saving up, scraping everything he had just to afford it.

‘Jihoon could’ve just sold it,’ he thinks bitterly as he watches the manager toss it into the river beside the building. ‘He’d earn a lot.’

This was probably the first time Sanghyeok saw Jihoon remove that ring—the one he used to force him to wear, to prove something, to hold onto something.

Now, Jihoon had no reason to.

Sanghyeok stays quiet the whole day. He means, when was he ever not? Especially now that he’s a ghost. But this quiet… it’s different.

This silence doesn’t just sting—it burns. Because he didn’t realize he’d still have to witness Jihoon’s cruelty, even in death. He thought death would free him from all this pain. But watching Jihoon throw away the last piece of him?

That must be the hell they’ve always talked about.

And for the first time, Sanghyeok thinks—he’d rather burn in hell fire.

After Jihoon was done with work, he picked Hyeonjoon up and brought him home.

Under the silver wash of moonlight, Sanghyeok watched him—the way Jihoon opened the car door for Hyeonjoon, the way he cooked dinner, the way he pulled out a chair and gestured for Hyeonjoon to sit.

Is this how Jihoon apologizes now? A quiet dinner, a soft look, a small act of care.

Pity settles in Sanghyeok’s chest like dust. If it were him, Jihoon would’ve just ignored him. Pretended he wasn’t there. Maybe snapped a word or two.

It’s almost refreshing—seeing Jihoon treat someone like this. Not with anger. Not with resentment. Not with that cold, distant loathing Sanghyeok had grown so used to.

He once doubted Jihoon was capable of gentleness at all. Turns out, he was—just not with him.

Still, watching them together, Sanghyeok realizes just how little he ever meant. The two of them—Jihoon and Hyeonjoon—look like everything he used to wish for: affectionate, loving, happy. The kind of domestic peace he and Jihoon never managed to reach, no matter how hard he tried to hold it together.

After their little quiet bonding, they decide to head to bed. Jihoon walks Hyeonjoon down the hall, stopping by his room. They exchange soft goodnights before parting ways.

Why are they even sleeping separately? The thought barely leaves Sanghyeok before something strange happens—

Jihoon stops.

Right in front of his door.

Sanghyeok goes still. The air feels heavier, colder.

Jihoon just stands there for a moment, fingers brushing against the doorknob as if caught in hesitation. The silence between them stretches, like time itself is holding its breath.

Sanghyeok doesn’t dare move.

Because maybe—just maybe—Jihoon still remembers whose room this used to be.

Jihoon pushes open the door and stands before the empty room. For a moment, Sanghyeok almost lets himself believe—almost. But the rational part of his mind quickly cuts in. Maybe he’s just thinking of what to do with it. Maybe it’s nothing.

Jihoon lingers there longer than expected, the silence stretching thin, before he suddenly turns on his heel and rushes to the living room. Sanghyeok follows, watching as Jihoon starts rummaging through the cabinets with an urgency that borders on desperation.

Then, Jihoon pulls out a photo album.

He flips through it fast—too fast—pages trembling beneath his hands. His brows furrow deeper with every turn, as if searching for something that keeps slipping away.

Sanghyeok doesn’t understand. What the hell are you looking for, Jihoon?

A few seconds later, Jihoon exhales sharply and throws the album to the floor. The sound echoes, hollow. Then, without another glance, he walks out of the room.

Sanghyeok stays frozen where he is.

Did this man lose his mind after I left?

Or maybe he was looking for their pictures—so he could burn them. Like how he burned that photo on their bedside table. Too bad for him, Sanghyeok took them all before he died. Kept every last one.

As if it would matter now. Because what use does a dead man have for memories?

He’s once again pulled to Jihoon—and when the world steadies, they’re back inside the bedroom. Jihoon is rummaging through the cabinets again, digging through the most hidden parts as if chasing ghosts. Sanghyeok watches silently, confusion simmering in his chest—until Jihoon pulls something out.

A photo.

That photo.

The one of Sanghyeok smiling while holding a sunflower, sunlight glinting off his hair. The photo he thought Jihoon had burned.

For a moment, Sanghyeok forgets to breathe—not that he needs to.

That picture was taken during one of the few days Jihoon had asked him out. A rare moment. Jihoon had told him to get dressed and then drove him to a field of sunflowers. Sanghyeok remembered how shocked he was—Jihoon never made the first move, never even hinted at wanting to spend time outside work or practice. So, he made sure to treasure that day. He convinced Jihoon to take a photo of him, laughing as he posed with one of the flowers.

Afterward, Jihoon would often stare blankly at that photo. At first, Sanghyeok thought it meant Jihoon liked the sunflowers.

So, the next time, he asked Jihoon out—to the same place.

How he wishes he hadn’t.

Because that was the day Jihoon met Hyeonjoon again.

That was the day Sanghyeok learned that Hyeonjoon wasn’t just anyone—he was Jihoon’s ex.

He brushed it off back then, told himself not to overthink. He started saving up to buy Jihoon a ring. A ring meant for the proposal he’d been rehearsing in his head for weeks. He had been so ready—so sure—that a happy ending was waiting for them just around the corner. How stupidly hopeful he had been.

Because days before the proposal, Jihoon called him—his voice urgent, trembling. He’d asked Sanghyeok to come to the hospital right away. Panic had gnawed at his chest as he rushed out, his thoughts spiraling. Did Jihoon get into an accident? Was he hurt? But when he arrived, it wasn’t Jihoon who was lying on the hospital bed.

It was Hyeonjoon.

The doctor said he’d collapsed from exhaustion. Pushed himself too hard. But that wasn’t all—he also had an untreated stomach condition that had worsened from neglect.

And Jihoon… Jihoon called him not because he wanted comfort.

But because he needed money.

Money to pay for Hyeonjoon’s hospital bills.

The Jihoon who never asked for help—who always acted like the world could crumble and he’d still stand tall—was asking him for money. For his ex.

Sanghyeok could’ve refused. He could’ve walked away, gone straight to the jewelry store, and bought that stupid ring he’d been saving for. But how could he say no when it was Jihoon asking?

So he agreed, handing over the money without hesitation, even managing a laugh to ease the tension.

“Okay,” he’d said, trying to make light of it, “you don’t have to repay me—but you have to stay with me for five years.”

He thought it was just a joke back then. Something to make Jihoon smile. But now, looking back, maybe that was the start of it all—the resentment, the bitterness, the slow unraveling of whatever they had. Because of that joke, Jihoon stayed with him out of obligation.

But he did buy a ring.

Despite everything, he went through with the plan. Not the ring he’d been eyeing for weeks, but something simpler—cheaper. Because if he bought the other one, his bank account would probably sue him for emotional damage.

Did he still prepare a romantic dinner for the proposal? For Jihoon’s birthday?

Of course, he did.

He spent hours making sure everything was perfect—the candles, the food, the playlist that Jihoon once said he liked. It was supposed to be their night.

But Jihoon never showed up.

He didn’t come home. Not even a call—just a text at 3 a.m. saying he stayed at the hospital to take care of Hyeonjoon.

And Sanghyeok just sat there. Didn’t reply. Didn’t complain about the cold food or the untouched cake or the ring box sitting quietly on the table.

He just stared at the message until his eyes blurred, then at the ring that was supposed to mean something.

And that’s when it hit him—Jihoon deserved better.

A better ring.
A better night.
A better man.

Sanghyeok is pulled back to the present when he notices Jihoon sitting on the edge of the bed, the picture trembling slightly in his hands.

‘Why is he taking it out now?’ Sanghyeok wonders bitterly. ‘Is he gonna curse me?’

He doesn’t know the answer. He doesn’t want to know.

The next few days pass with him doing what he’s always done—watching. He used to think he knew every version of Jihoon, but this one is different.

This Jihoon loses focus in the middle of important things. This Jihoon stares into nothing for minutes at a time, thoughts wandering far beyond the present. This Jihoon looks like living itself has become a burden.

Jihoon should be happy now that he’s gone. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? For him to leave so Jihoon could finally breathe. But when Sanghyeok looks closer, there’s no joy, no peace—just emptiness. Like Jihoon’s a blank canvas someone forgot to finish painting.

Meanwhile, Hyeonjoon starts to move in for real. His things begin filling the hollow corners of the house, the empty room slowly turning warm again with signs of life—clothes on the chair, books on the desk, laughter that actually sounds alive.

Still, Sanghyeok can’t help but wonder why Hyeonjoon stays in the guest bedroom. The spot beside Jihoon is empty now.

He should take it.

There’s no reason to keep pretending.

Back then, Sanghyeok had been selfish. He told himself he only wanted to see Jihoon happy, but whenever he saw him smile at Hyeonjoon, something inside him twisted until he found a way to step between them.

But now, he’s nothing but a ghost—a lingering echo of what once was—forced to watch the man he loved move on from him, slowly, naturally, beautifully.

Maybe this is God’s punishment. To make him witness what real love looks like. To make him see that when two people are meant for each other, they don’t need to be bound by desperation or guilt. Because the red thread of fate doesn’t need to be forced. And no matter how tightly he’d tied it before… it was never his to keep.