Our Story | HaJeongwoo

Our End | Chapter 7

Chapter 7: His Lover's Gifts

The shrill ringtone of his phone sliced through the quiet of Haruto's apartment. He glanced at the screen, the familiar faces of Mashiho and Junkyu flashing on it.

A knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach. He hadn't spoken to them in weeks, not since the news of Jeongwoo's overdose had reached him. He knew this call wouldn't be filled with lighthearted banter.

With a trembling hand, Haruto answered the call. The frantic worry in Mashiho's voice confirmed his premonition.

"Haruto, it's Jeongwoo... he overdosed."

The words slammed into Haruto, the air suddenly sucked out of the room.

The rest of the conversation blurred into a panicked rush. Jeongwoo was alive, in the hospital, but the overdose had caused severe memory loss. Haruto could barely process the information.

One moment, he was picturing Jeongwoo's shy smile, the next, it was replaced with the chilling image of him lifeless in a hospital bed.

A primal urge to rush to Jeongwoo's side warred with the suffocating fear that gripped him.

Seeing Jeongwoo in that state, a shell of his former self, would shatter whatever fragile peace Haruto had built within himself.

Their unspoken love, the constant ache in his chest - seeing Jeongwoo like that might rip the wound wide open, leaving them both exposed and raw.

Haruto clutched the phone tighter, his knuckles turning white. Maybe, this was the sign he'd been looking for. Maybe, it was time to truly let go.

He forced himself to speak, his voice hoarse, "Tell the others I'll handle the bills. Keep me updated."

He didn't wait for a reply before hanging up.

The phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the coffee table. He sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. Memories flooded his mind, vivid and painful. Stolen glances across the room, whispered jokes shared only between them, the warmth of Jeongwoo's hand brushing against his accidentally.

This, he thought bitterly, was his punishment. The universe, in its twisted sense of humor, had granted him his wish - a clean break from the past. Perhaps, it was a sign.

Maybe letting go was truly the only way Jeongwoo could heal, could move on without the burden of their unresolved past clinging to him.

But letting go didn't mean forgetting. The decision gnawed at Haruto, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't bear the thought of Jeongwoo facing this ordeal alone. He yearned to be there, to offer comfort and support, even if it meant remaining unseen.

•••

The next morning, fueled by a restless determination, Haruto made a call. It wasn't to the hospital, not directly. He contacted a florist he knew, one who catered discreet deliveries.

He ordered a bouquet of lilies, Jeongwoo's favorite, with a simple card that read, "Get Well Soon."

He knew Jeongwoo wouldn't remember the sender, but the gesture, he hoped, would offer a sliver of warmth in the face of his amnesia.

This became his routine. Every few days, a new delivery would arrive at the hospital - a bouquet of flowers, a basket of fruits, a collection of their favorite childhood snacks.

Each item was a carefully chosen piece of their shared history, a silent plea for recognition, a fragile thread he hoped would eventually lead Jeongwoo back to him.

Jihoon, ever observant, noticed the anonymous deliveries. He didn't need to be a detective to connect the dots. One afternoon, as they sat by Jeongwoo's bedside, Jihoon cleared his throat.

"Haruto knows," he said, his voice gentle.

Jeongwoo, still struggling to piece together his fragmented memories, simply blinked in confusion.

Jihoon sighed. "The flowers, the snacks," he elaborated, "it's him. He wants to help, but..." he trailed off, his gaze filled with a mix of understanding and frustration.

Jeongwoo frowned, trying to grasp the situation. "Who's Haruto?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jihoon hesitated, torn between wanting to shield his brother and offering a glimpse into his past. Finally, he opted for a partial truth.

"Someone who... cared about you a lot."

Jeongwoo hummed thoughtfully, a flicker of something akin to recognition crossing his features. But it was fleeting, lost in the vast ocean of his forgotten past.

Haruto, on the other hand, felt a pang of guilt at Jihoon's words. Cared about you a lot. Past tense. It was a stark reminder of the distance he'd created, the bridge he'd burned. He knew Jihoon was right. Seeing him now would only dredge up painful memories, a disservice to Jeongwoo's fragile recovery.

Still, he couldn't shake the need to be closer, even if it was from afar. He started visiting the hospital, not Jeongwoo's room, but the rooftop. From there, he could steal glimpses of the window, a desperate attempt to feel connected to the person who once occupied a central space in his life.

•••

One morning, a delivery arrived at the hospital while Haruto was visiting the rooftop. As a nurse carried a large box wrapped in brightly colored paper, his breath caught in his throat. A children's telescope. It was the one they had saved up for months to buy as teenagers, the one they used to spend hours gazing at the stars, imagining their own constellations.

A surge of emotions swept over him - hope, fear, a desperate wish to be there to witness Jeongwoo's reaction. He remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the window as the nurse entered the room.

Inside, Jihoon carefully unwrapped the package. Jeongwoo, who had been sketching in a notebook, looked up with curiosity. He picked up the telescope, turning it over in his hands, a faint furrow in his brow.

"This is..." he began, his voice trailing off. He stared at the telescope, its familiar curves seemingly triggering a distant memory.

The silence was deafening. Jihoon watched Jeongwoo with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest.

Then, a slow smile spread across Jeongwoo's face. It wasn't a full-blown laugh, but a hint of recognition, a flicker of warmth in his previously vacant eyes.

"Stars," he whispered, the word barely audible but filled with a newfound understanding.

Haruto, watching from afar, felt tears welling in his eyes. It was the smallest of victories, a single word sparked by a forgotten memory. But in that moment, it was enough.

It was a bridge, a fragile one, but a bridge nonetheless, leading from the forgotten past to a future that might, just might, include both of them.

He stepped away from the window, a newfound determination coursing through him.

He wouldn't disappear entirely.

He would find a way to be a part of Jeongwoo's life, not as a ghost of the past, but as a silent guardian, offering support and encouragement even from the shadows.

The path to reconciliation would be long and arduous, but with each anonymous delivery, with every stolen glance from the rooftop, Haruto nurtured a flicker of hope that one day, when Jeongwoo fully recovered, he would be able to face him, not with regret, but with open arms and a heart full of love.