Later that night, after Ahmad had drifted off to sleep, Hyunwoo remained awake in the dim light of their shared room. The letter sat on the table, its folded edges catching the faint glow from the lamp.
He reached for it gently, almost reverently, as if it were something fragile and sacred. His eyes traced over Ahmad's neat handwriting again, memorizing every curve of each letter, every smudge where the ink had bled.
There was a truth inside these lines — a part of Ahmad that even love couldn't fully heal yet. And Hyunwoo didn't want it to be forgotten, buried under days of laughter and ordinary life. He wanted to protect it, to remember it, to keep it safe for the day Ahmad might be ready to send it.
Quietly, Hyunwoo took out his phone and snapped a picture of the letter. Then, with the soft rustle of paper, he made a copy by hand — each word carefully rewritten in his own neat Korean script. When he was done, he folded the copy and tucked it inside a book on the shelf, knowing Ahmad wouldn't find it there.
It wasn't dishonesty in his mind; it was preservation. This was a part of Ahmad's soul, and Hyunwoo was determined never to let it fade.
---
The next morning, Ahmad woke to the smell of coffee and warm paratha. Hyunwoo stood by the small kitchen stove, hair messy, humming a tune in Korean.
Ahmad walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. "You're getting good at this," he murmured into Hyunwoo's shoulder.
"Good teacher," Hyunwoo said with a grin, flipping the paratha. "Also, I may or may not have burned two before this one."
Ahmad laughed softly, the sound warm. But in that laughter, Hyunwoo could still hear an echo of last night's heaviness. He decided not to mention the letter — not yet. Instead, he leaned back into the simple comfort of the moment, letting it wash over them both.
They spent the day together quietly, wandering the streets, sharing small jokes, and taking photos at places they loved. Yet every so often, Hyunwoo would glance at Ahmad, catching him lost in thought, eyes distant.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in shades of gold and rose, Ahmad stood by the window with a cup of tea. Hyunwoo joined him, leaning on the frame.
"Hyunwoo," Ahmad said suddenly, "if I'm ever gone… would you keep my words?"
Hyunwoo's heart squeezed. He looked at him for a long moment, searching for the right response. "I'd keep every word. Every breath. Everything."
Ahmad smiled faintly. "Good. Because… sometimes I think that's all we leave behind."
They didn't speak for a while after that. The light faded, and the room grew quiet except for the faint city noises below.
---
Weeks later, Ahmad stumbled upon the copy.
It happened by accident — he had been looking for a bookmark and pulled a thin, folded paper from one of Hyunwoo's books. His hands froze as he opened it, eyes scanning the familiar sentences. His own words stared back at him, but written in Hyunwoo's handwriting.
For a long moment, Ahmad simply stood there, the paper trembling slightly in his fingers. Then, slowly, he walked to where Hyunwoo was sitting on the couch, scrolling on his phone.
"You kept it," Ahmad said softly.
Hyunwoo's head jerked up, eyes widening. "Ah—" He set his phone aside quickly, standing. "I didn't mean to— I just—"
But Ahmad's expression wasn't angry. It was something deeper, gentler. "You copied it. Word for word."
Hyunwoo swallowed hard. "I couldn't let it disappear. Even if you never send it, I wanted it to live somewhere. Because it's… it's you. And every part of you matters to me — even the parts that hurt."
Ahmad's lips trembled. He blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway, blurring his vision. "Hyunwoo… you're…" His voice cracked. "…you're too much for me sometimes."
Hyunwoo stepped forward, pulling him into a fierce embrace. "Good. Because I'm never leaving."
They held each other for a long time, the world beyond their small apartment forgotten.
The letter — both the original and the copy — remained. Quiet witnesses to a love that had room for both joy and grief.
And though Ahmad still hadn't sent it, he knew now that it wasn't lost. It was kept safe, guarded by the person who had chosen him in every way.
That night, as they fell asleep side by side, Hyunwoo's hand found Ahmad's under the blanket. And in the stillness, Ahmad realized something: forgiveness from his family might never come. But Hyunwoo's kind of love — steady, relentless, and impossibly patient — was something even more enduring.
Something that would outlast every wound.