Jaewon lay slumped into the corner of Seo-young's worn couch, one arm draped loosely across his stomach, the other holding the remote that kept slipping in and out of his fingers. The television washed the dim living room in restless light. Colors shifted across his face in dull pulses, blue to white to shadow again, but his eyes never quite followed what was playing. Channels changed every few seconds. News. Drama. Sports. Static. Back again. Nothing held.
The room smelled faintly of detergent and boiled tea leaves. Somewhere in the apartment a tap dripped at slow, uneven intervals. Time had begun to move in the same rhythm. Drop. Silence. Drop.
Days had stopped separating from nights. Both stretched long and shapeless, threaded together by the same thoughts that returned no matter what he tried to do. Taesan's voice. Taesan's expression across the restaurant table. The way he had stood and left without looking back.
Jaewon pressed the heel of his palm against his chest, as if something there needed steadying.
Seo-young had tried, in her way. She had pushed chores into his hands, forced him outside for groceries, scolded him into eating bowls of rice he could barely swallow. He complied without argument. He washed dishes. Folded laundry. Walked aimlessly around the block while pretending to look at storefronts. None of it reached him. Everything felt like moving underwater.
The absence Taesan left had shape now. Weight. Edges. It followed him from room to room.
At first he had called it guilt. That had been easier to accept. He had hurt someone who trusted him. He deserved the emptiness that followed. That was clean. Logical. Punishment fitting the crime.
But guilt did not ache like this. Guilt did not make the air feel thinner. Guilt did not surface in memories of small, ordinary things.
Taesan's hand steady on his shoulder during exams.
The quiet "eat first" whenever Jaewon forgot meals.
The low, patient way he always said hyung without irony.
Jaewon swallowed hard.
It was not guilt. Not anymore.
It was longing.
His fingers curled slowly into the couch fabric. "Idiot," he murmured under his breath, the word rough with exhaustion. "You absolute idiot."
The television flickered brighter for a moment, then dimmed again. He stared at nothing, throat tight, thoughts finally aligning into something he had avoided naming.
He missed Taesan.
Not the convenience. Not the support. Not the loyalty he had taken without question.
Him.
The realization rose with brutal clarity, and when it reached his mouth it felt strange, almost forbidden.
"I love him," Jaewon whispered.
The words hovered in the room, fragile and irreversible.
He let out a shallow breath that shook halfway through. "I love him," he said again, softer, as if repetition might make it easier to bear. It did not. It only made the truth settle deeper.
He dragged both hands over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes. "I only figure it out after he's gone," he muttered hoarsely. "Of course I do."
From the kitchen, Seo-young's voice drifted in. "If you're talking to the TV again, at least argue about something interesting."
Jaewon did not answer. He kept staring ahead, unmoving.
The channel shifted without him noticing. The volume dipped slightly as Seo-young adjusted it from the other room. A bright studio set replaced whatever had been playing before. Polished desk. Composed anchor. Scrolling graphics.
Then a name reached him through the haze.
"…Jeon Taesan…"
The remote slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a soft crack.
He sat upright so abruptly the couch springs groaned beneath him.
On screen, Taesan's image filled the frame. Formal portrait. Dark suit cut perfectly to his shoulders. Expression calm, assured, distant in a way Jaewon had never seen in person. Power radiated from the stillness of it.
"…named the new CEO of Altrion Group," the anchor continued brightly. "At just twenty-six, he is set to become one of the youngest chief executives leading a major conglomerate. Analysts credit his strategic foresight and aggressive restructuring plans for the company's rapid expansion."
Jaewon's lungs forgot how to move.
CEO.
The word did not fit the Taesan he held in memory. And yet the man on screen was unmistakably him. Same eyes. Same quiet composure. Only sharpened now into something untouchable.
"…official transition next month, following a press conference later this week…"
The segment moved on. Markets. Exports. Other names. Other companies.
Jaewon did not hear any of it.
"Seo-young," he called, voice thin.
She entered a moment later carrying a mug, already frowning. "What happened now?"
He pointed silently at the screen.
She glanced, then sighed with recognition. "Oh. That."
Jaewon turned toward her slowly. "You knew?"
"A few days ago," she said, setting the mug down. "It's been everywhere."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The question came out sharper than he intended. It cut the air between them.
Seo-young's brows drew together. "Because you can barely get through breakfast without looking like you're about to collapse," she said evenly. "I didn't think adding corporate success stories about your ex-best friend was going to help."
"I needed to know," he said, jaw tight.
"You needed to survive the week," she shot back. "Priorities."
He looked away, throat working. "He's… CEO," he said quietly, as if saying it softer might make it less real. "Of Altrion."
"Yes," she said. "That's what the words meant."
Jaewon gave a hollow breath that almost resembled a laugh. "He actually did it."
Seo-young watched him carefully. "You sound surprised."
"I'm not," he said. "He always… he always had that kind of drive." His eyes stayed fixed on the blank TV now reflecting the room instead of Taesan. "I just didn't think I'd see it like this."
"From this side of the glass," she said.
He nodded once.
Silence stretched. Then his voice cracked unexpectedly. "He's completely out of reach now."
Seo-young crouched in front of him. "He was already out of reach emotionally," she said gently. "This just added a title."
Jaewon shook his head. "No. Before, there was still… something. History. Connection." He swallowed. "Now he's someone people read about. Someone who moves cities and companies. Someone who left everything behind." His hands tightened together. "Including me."
Seo-young's gaze softened. "You're grieving him like he died."
"Feels like it," he whispered.
She studied him a moment longer. "So what are you going to do?"
He looked at her, lost. "What can I do? He made it clear. He doesn't want me in his life." His voice thinned again. "And now I don't belong anywhere near it."
Seo-young leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly. "Jaewon. Listen carefully." She waited until his eyes met hers. "You can't change what you did. You can't undo how he felt. You can't force him back. Those things are gone."
He nodded faintly.
"But you can decide what kind of person you are after losing him," she continued. "Right now you're just… dissolving."
He flinched.
"If you love him," she said, softer now, "then let that mean something bigger than regret. Let it change you. Otherwise this is just self-pity wearing romance."
The words settled heavily.
Jaewon leaned back, staring at the ceiling. A tear slid into his hairline. He did not wipe it away.
"I miss him," he said at last. "Every day." His voice barely held. "I keep thinking I'll forget the sound of his voice. And then I don't. It's still there. Like he just walked into another room."
Seo-young reached out, resting a hand lightly on his knee. "You loved him wrong," she said quietly. "But that doesn't mean the love itself was wrong."
He closed his eyes. More tears slipped free. "He's out there building everything he wanted," he whispered. "And I'm here… realizing too late I wanted to be part of it."
She squeezed his knee once. "Then accept that truth. Don't erase it just because it hurts."
He nodded weakly.
Later, long after Seo-young had gone to bed, Jaewon remained by the window. City lights shimmered across the glass, blurring into streaks when his vision clouded again. Somewhere far off, traffic murmured like distant surf.
CEO.
Taesan's face on the screen returned to him, composed and unreachable.
"He's really gone," Jaewon murmured.
The words no longer felt like fear. They felt like fact.
He pressed his forehead to the cool pane. Memories moved through him slowly. Study sessions. Shared meals. Quiet laughter. Unspoken trust he had never questioned until it was gone.
"I love you," he whispered into the dark city beyond the glass.
No answer came. Only the low hum of distant streets.
Jaewon stayed there until the lights blurred completely, holding nothing but memory and the quiet, enduring ache of love understood too late.
——————— TO BE CONTINUED