Almost blind | Haobin

17| perfect illusion |17

Hanbin didn't find out anything from Hao that day.

Hao had stayed silent, his lips sealed, offering no answers, no explanations, nothing. And then, just like that, he left-as if none of it mattered. As if Hanbin didn't matter.

The frustration that had been simmering inside Hanbin for days now boiled over, threatening to consume him. It wasn't just Hao's silence that ate at him; it was everything. The years of unanswered questions. The lingering hurt of their abrupt separation. The way Hao had vanished from his life without a word, leaving behind only memories that felt like shards of glass-beautiful but painful to hold.

Hanbin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. No one seemed to understand how much this meant to him, how serious it was. Not even Gunwook. Even his closest friend had dismissed his feelings, brushing them off like they were just another passing annoyance. But this wasn't something Hanbin could shrug off.

He couldn't even focus during basketball practice after class. Every dribble of the ball echoed hollowly in his ears, every movement felt sluggish and forced. His frustration spilled into his actions, and he could see it in the way his teammates glared at him when he missed passes or snapped at them for no reason. He was dragging everyone down, and he hated himself for it.

But he couldn't stop. He couldn't let go.

Was he angry at Hao? Maybe. But more than anything, he was disappointed-disappointed that Hao, the boy he had once shared everything with, had kept him in the dark.

For years, Hanbin had thought about him. Wondered where he had gone. Missed him, even when he didn't want to admit it. And now, after all that time, after fate had brought them back together, Hao still wouldn't open up.

Hanbin sat on the bemch in front ot school that evening, staring at his hands. His thoughts raced, tumbling over one another in a chaotic mess. He felt like he was drowning, like he was suffocating under the weight of everything left unsaid.

It was all so strange now. The way Hao looked at him-distant, guarded-like he was a stranger. The boy who had once been his closest friend now felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, and Hanbin didn't know how to put him back together. Maybe Hao had changed. Maybe they both had. Maybe they were too far apart now, their lives split by the years and the silence between them.

But it hurt. God, it hurt.

Hanbin pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block out the ache in his chest. He couldn't stop the memories from flooding back-memories of Hao's laughter, his bright eyes, the way they used to run through the park together, their voices ringing out like bells. Back then, the world had felt simple, and Hao had been his anchor.

Now, that anchor was gone, and Hanbin felt like he was drifting aimlessly, unable to find his footing.

Why hadn't Hao said goodbye?

The question burned in his mind, a cruel refrain that refused to leave him alone. Hanbin had replayed that day over and over again in his head, searching for answers that never came. One moment, Hao had been there, and the next, he was gone-like a phantom, leaving behind nothing but a hollow emptiness that Hanbin couldn't fill.

He wanted to scream, to shake Hao and demand to know why. Why he had left. Why he had come back. Why he wouldn't just talk.

But deep down, Hanbin was afraid. Afraid that the answers he so desperately sought might not be the ones he wanted to hear.

He hated how much he still cared. He hated how much he still missed the boy Hao used to be.

Maybe that was the worst part of it all-knowing that he still held onto those memories, that he still clung to the hope that somewhere beneath the silence and the distance, the Hao he once knew was still there.