Almost blind | Haobin

8| Having kids is hard |8

Hao sat in the back seat of the car, the seatbelt snug across his chest, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. His scarf was pulled high enough to cover half his face, shielding him not just from the cold but from the vulnerability that hovered in the air. The hum of the engine filled the silence, but Hao's thoughts were louder-an intricate maze of memories and emotions he couldn't quite sort through.

In the front, Ricky sat beside the driver, Gyuvin, who wore a soft, easy smile as he maneuvered the car onto the road. "Did you two enjoy yourselves?" Gyuvin asked warmly, his tone light as the passing streetlights flickered across his face.

Hao hesitated, unsure how to respond. After all, this man-Gyuvin-was a stranger to him, or so he thought. Words hovered on the edge of his tongue but refused to spill out. Meanwhile, Ricky, his earlier grumpiness over his broken car dissipating, turned to Gyuvin with an unexpected gentleness.

"The gallery was beautiful," Ricky said, his voice softer than usual. "Hao and I really enjoyed it."

Hao, seated behind them, nodded silently in agreement. The gallery had been stunning-its art pieces, vivid and raw, still replayed in his mind like an unending slideshow... but more than the paintings, Hao kept circling back to the boy he'd met there. Yujin. Something about the boy lingered-a calmness in his gaze, a steadiness in his voice-that anchored Hao in ways he hadn't anticipated.

"You should take Hanbin sometime," Ricky suggested, pulling Hao from his thoughts. Hao's attention shifted to the front seats. Hanbin. The name rang faintly familiar, like a distant melody he couldn't place. Nostalgia bloomed unbidden in his chest, a bittersweet ache of memories just out of reach. He didn't know why the name felt so femiliar, but it stirred something deep inside him-a locked door he didn't have the key to.

Gyuvin chuckled, his laughter light and melodic, filling the small space of the car. "Hanbin? He'd laugh in my face. That boy's always out with his friends, coming home at unholy hours. I can't imagine dragging him to a gallery." He shook his head, his smile tinged with exasperation.

Ricky, clearly grateful for Hao's quieter temperament, chuckled as a response. "I'm lucky Hao isn't like that," he said with a touch of pride. Gyuvin nodded, his glance flickering briefly to the rearview mirror to meet Hao's gaze.

"You should be," Gyuvin replied with a laugh. Then, with a curious look, he added, "It's hard to imagine you two hanging out again."

The words stopped Hao in his tracks. He looked up at Gyuvin, obviously confused. "What?" he asked, his voice uncertain, his gaze darting between the two men, who obviously knew more than him.

Gyuvin raised an eyebrow, as though the answer should've been obvious. "You don't remember? You and my son used to be close when you were kids," he said casually, as if he weren't detonating a bomb in Hao's mind.

Hao's breath hitched. His thoughts unraveled, plunging him into the foggy recesses of his childhood. Faces, laughter, and fragments of sunlight filtering through tree branches blurred together. He could recall a boy-vaguely, like the echo of a dream-someone he'd once spent endless days with. But it had been so long ago, and the memories felt brittle, almost unreal.

The treehouse. The fall. It all came rushing back in pieces, like shards of glass, cutting into the calm he'd tried to maintain. That boy -Hanbin- was a tether to a time Hao had buried deep. Joy and pain intertwined in those memories, so much so that Hao had chosen to forget. It was easier not to remember.

But now, sitting in the back of Gyuvin's car, with Hanbin's father just a seat away, Hao felt his carefully constructed barriers crack. The world felt suddenly too small, the air too tight. He couldnt remember that face of the boy who once made his days better.