The front door clicked shut softly behind him. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hum of traffic outside. He didn't bother turning on the lights as he climbed the stairs to his room — his feet moved out of habit, like a routine he didn't want to be conscious of.
The moment his door closed behind him, Beomgyu sank to the floor, back pressed against it. He stared blankly into the dark room, only the streetlamp glow slipping through his curtains casting pale lines across his bed.
His chest felt heavy.
The conversation with Yeonjun replayed in his head on loop. The broken way Yeonjun had looked at him. The quiet pain in his voice. The guilt, the apology. The desperate longing.
Beomgyu didn't want to feel anything about it — not anymore.
"You don't deserve to feel sorry now," he whispered bitterly to himself, dragging his knees up to his chest. But the words felt hollow. As if he were trying to convince himself.
Because part of him… had felt it — the sincerity in Yeonjun's voice, the years of torment etched into every word.
And that hurt the most.
It would've been easier if Yeonjun was cold, if he was still cruel, selfish — easier to hate, to leave in the past.
But he wasn't. He was… ruined. Just like Beomgyu had been.
Beomgyu stood up slowly and moved to his bed, crawling under the covers like he used to as a kid when the world outside felt too loud.
He laid on his side, staring at the wall, a lump building in his throat. Every memory came flooding back — the way Yeonjun used to smile at him, hold his hand, and whisper things just to make him laugh. How Yeonjun used to drive him home even when it meant being late for his own errands. How he said "I'm yours," and how Beomgyu once believed it with everything in him.
How quickly it all fell apart.
His grip on the blanket tightened.
All those years. All that pain. Being forced to leave. The disappointment in his parents' eyes. The shame. The loneliness in a foreign country. Nights spent crying himself to sleep in silence because no one cared enough to listen.
And now Yeonjun came back — asking for forgiveness like time had softened the edges.
Beomgyu buried his face into the pillow as hot tears finally spilled down his cheeks.
He didn't sob. He didn't scream.
He just cried — quietly. Deeply. The kind of crying that came from the marrow of grief, where even breathing hurt.
Because no matter how much he wanted to be okay, no matter how much he had grown, the wounds hadn't closed. Not yet.
Not when everything he buried was now staring him in the face again.
And all he could do was let himself fall apart — just this once — in the safety of his room, away from the world.
+×+
The wind howled against the edges of the rocky cliff, salt-kissed and cold. Waves crashed below, hidden in the blackness of night but loud — relentless — like the storm swirling inside him.
Yeonjun stumbled forward, nearly tripping over a loose stone as he reached the edge. His coat flared with the gusts, and in one hand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey swung carelessly, his grip loose but trembling.
His cheeks were flushed — not from the drink, but from the overwhelming tide of everything he could no longer hold back.
"Why!?" he screamed into the darkness.
His voice was swallowed by the wind. There was no echo, just silence chasing his grief.
He took another swig, coughing at the burn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The alcohol didn't numb it. Nothing could.
"You idiot," he spat at himself. "You ruined everything."
He squeezed his eyes shut, tears slipping through as his chest heaved.
Six years. Six long years of running from guilt, convincing himself he did what he had to do. That success meant something. That he could live with the price of betrayal.
But when he looked into Beomgyu's eyes earlier… he saw it.
The pain. The mistrust. The broken pieces of the boy he once loved.
And it shattered him.
"I should've chosen you!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I should've fought for you. For us!"
He dropped to his knees in the gravel, bottle rolling out of his hand.
"If I could go back…"
His fists pounded against the ground. Again. Again. Like the pain might dull if he just hit hard enough.
But it didn't. All it did was scrape his skin, make his knuckles bleed.
His breath was ragged now. His cries turned to choked sobs.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Beomgyu…"
He buried his face in his hands.
The moon above cast a pale light on him — a broken man kneeling at the edge of the world, drowning in a regret so deep it hollowed him from the inside out.
And in that moment, Yeonjun didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel like the man who earned a promotion or clawed his way to the top.
He felt like a boy — lost, furious at himself, praying to whatever was listening that he could just see Beomgyu smile at him the way he used to. Just once more.
But he knew.
He may have been six years too late.