When You Feel It Too

Crossing Paths

It's funny how life can change in the blink of an eye. 

One minute, you're just a regular guy with your routine and your struggles, and the next?

 You're tangled up in something that doesn't make any sense. 

And that's exactly what this was. 

San and I—two strangers—caught in a mess of shared pain, strange connections, and a bond I didn't know how to handle.

The days after meeting him were a blur. 

My foot healed quickly, but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something had shifted inside me. 

There was a pressure in my chest whenever I thought about him, like a weight I couldn't explain.

 It wasn't just the fact that our pain was connected—it was him. 

There was something about him that I couldn't ignore.

I hadn't seen him since that hospital visit. 

But every now and then, when I was alone, I could still feel the faint echo of his pain in my foot. 

It wasn't enough to hurt, but it lingered, like a reminder that he was still out there, somewhere, sharing this bizarre experience with me.

That is, until I saw him again.

It happened at a small café near my apartment, the kind of place I went to when I needed to clear my head. 

I'd been nursing a coffee and scrolling through my phone, trying to focus on a new routine I was working on, when I felt that pull again. 

That strange sense of discomfort, like someone had just walked into my personal space without warning.

I looked up from my phone, and there he was. 

San. 

Standing at the counter, scanning the menu, his hair still messy in that effortlessly cool way. 

But this time, something was different.

 His expression was tense, like he was already on edge, and I could feel it in my chest before I even knew why.

I stood up before I could stop myself, my feet moving instinctively toward him. 

He hadn't noticed me yet, but as I got closer, the pain started. 

That same sharp ache in my foot, the one I couldn't explain, flared up like it had a life of its own.

San turned just as I reached him, his eyes widening in surprise. "You," he said, voice low but full of disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

I winced, pressing my hand to my foot instinctively. 

The pain was stronger now, almost like it was feeding off his presence. 

It was a strange sensation—like my body was reacting to him before my mind could catch up. "I could ask you the same thing," I replied, trying to mask my discomfort with a half-smile.

He shook his head, stepping closer. "You don't get it, do you?" He didn't sound angry. More like frustrated, confused. "Every time I'm near you... it happens."

I frowned, feeling the weight of his words settle in. "What do you mean, 'it happens'?"

He glanced around the café, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The pain. I feel it every time we're near each other."

I froze, a chill running down my spine. 

This time, it wasn't just his presence that triggered the pain. 

It was his words. 

The acknowledgment that he, too, felt what I was feeling. "It's not just in my head?"

He shook his head. "No, it's real. I've been dealing with it for so long, trying to understand why I feel it... but I've never met anyone who felt the same way. Until now."

I took a step back, my mind racing. 

This was getting realer by the second. 

I had no answers. I had no idea how this was even possible. 

But I couldn't deny what I felt, what he felt. 

Our pain was connected.

"So what do we do now?" I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "I mean, we can't just keep running into each other like this."

San looked at me for a long time, his eyes scanning my face, as if trying to figure out whether I was joking or if I truly understood what was happening between us. 

Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. But we have to figure it out. Together."

I wanted to argue.

 I wanted to tell him I wasn't ready for this, that it didn't make sense. 

But something in me—the part that had been feeling his pain, his presence, like a shadow over my life—knew that we didn't have a choice.

"Okay," I said, barely above a whisper. "Together."

Over the next few weeks, our lives intertwined in ways I couldn't have predicted. 

We started meeting regularly—sometimes by chance, sometimes on purpose—and each time we did, the connection between us grew stronger. 

It wasn't just the pain anymore. 

It was something deeper, something I couldn't describe with words.

We were learning how to live with this bond, figuring out how to handle the waves of pain that washed over us when we were close, but also feeling the moments when the pain faded, replaced with something softer, something warm. 

It was like we were slowly starting to understand each other, even without speaking.

But it wasn't all smooth sailing.

One evening, after a particularly grueling rehearsal, I found myself in the same café again, nursing a cup of tea, trying to ease the tension in my body. 

I wasn't expecting to see San. I hadn't heard from him in a couple of days, and part of me had wondered if he'd gotten tired of this strange connection. 

But when I heard the door swing open, I knew it was him before I even saw him.

My chest tightened. 

I looked up, and sure enough, there he was.

But this time, he didn't look like himself. 

His expression was tense, his body language tight, like he was holding something in. 

The familiar ache in my foot flared as soon as he entered the room, and I could tell he was feeling it too.

I stood up, stepping toward him. "San?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Are you okay?"

He didn't meet my eyes right away. 

When he did, I saw it—the fear, the frustration, the confusion. 

And something else. 

Something raw, something that made my heart skip a beat.

"I'm not okay, Wooyoung," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to handle this anymore."

And just like that, I realized that this wasn't just about pain anymore. 

It was about us, about what was happening between us, and whether we were strong enough to face it together.