"I'm not in love with anyone right now." (I'm in love with you.)
Beomgyu, later on, realized that he was in love with his best friend.
(...)
Part two of (I love you.)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction unless otherwise indicated. All the names, c...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Chapter 1: (Yeonjun.)
What was love supposed to look like for you to fall in love at first sight?
That was the silliest question Beomgyu has ever asked in his entire existence. Why would a 17-year-old boy want to know such unexplainable things? Why would he question something that required the actual feeling of love to know the answer? Why would Beomgyu want to know that in the first place?
Perhaps the query popped into his mind when...
Beomgyu tossed around the sheets of his bed, hair spread all over his pillow. Beomgyu thought about it, mulling over the memory as if it was the thought he was most fond of. It was a vivid image from two years ago; at the bust stop. It was probably past six in the evening, Beomgyu wasn't sure, Yeonjun didn't wear his wristwatch that day. The lines in his mind were a bit blurry, murky, like it was a memory from a drunken Beomgyu. But then again, he was 15 when it happened. They were sober thoughts, but the memory contained flamboyant lights and lampposts that illuminated Beomgyu's vision. It was as if the lights were dancing in front of him, twirling and waltzing their way toward Beomgyu's consciousness. It made him feel dizzy.
"Ah..." Beomgyu finally understood the memory. A memory from two years ago. Hazy, spinning, like it was a memory from a sick Beomgyu. And it was.
It was a moment of remembering filled with unclear voices and unfamiliar faces. Beomgyu rubbed his head and laid on his side. He relaxed, then the memory came falling upon the floors of his mind, and the images, and sounds, and feelings became explicit again. It was two years ago, at the bus stop, past six in the evening, he was 15, and he was with his best friend.
"Beomgyu?"
Gentle has always been a vague word to Beomgyu. What does genuine gentleness feel like? Is it like feathers brushing your blushing fingertips? Is it a palm pressed against your own while you're standing in front of your fears? How little is it in a world abundant with violence? Is it so little in amount that Beomgyu would never get to know what it is?
"Hey, Beomgyu," it was a tender voice at first, it called out to him. It came out as a whisper, almost humming, like it wanted to sing Beomgyu to sleep. Then there was coldness on Beomgyu's right cheek. "The bus is almost here, do you want to take a nap first?"
Gentleness was so little in amount that Beomgyu accepted he'd never be familiar with it. Until he developed a fever amidst summer, he fell asleep while finishing club activities, and when he fluttered his eyes open, the first thing he saw was a dangling light hanging on the edges of his vision—no, they were a pair of lights, they were gleaming, glistening like the stars on the sky that Beomgyu couldn't seem to see clearly. The pair were hazel in color, but darker in this ambiance, yet they were round and prominent. They danced, and they were warm, and they had multiple reflections in them—Beomgyu squinted, and he saw streets, and streetlights, and a face.
