Almost blind | Haobin

23| teenage kiss |23

"I can carry it myself, Dad," Hanbin huffed, yanking the box from Gyuvin's grip. His fingers, stiff with irritation, dug into the worn cardboard as if punishing it for existing. The weight pressed into his arms, a dull ache creeping into his muscles, but he refused to falter.

Gyuvin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he picked up another box. "You shouldn't be using your shoulder for heavy things like this," he said, his voice laced with fatherly exasperation.

Hanbin barely spared him a glance, his lips curling into a smirk laced with venom. "I'm using my shoulder more than you use your brain," he shot back.

The words hung in the air like a slap.

Ricky, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. The tension in the air thickened, curling between them like smoke. He exchanged a look with Gyuvin, who shook his head before turning away. No argument, no scolding-just silence. Hanbin almost wished for a fight. It would've been better than the emptiness swallowing the space between them.

Without another word, Gyuvin climbed the stairs, his steps slow and deliberate. Hanbin followed, his grip tightening around the box until his knuckles burned.

He had been angry all day. No, not just today. It had been a constant hum beneath his skin ever since his father had dragged him into this decision. Every part of this gnawed at him like a parasite, whispering that none of this was real-that any second now, he would wake up in his old bed, the one that smelled like home, not this foreign prison wrapped in gray walls.

But he didn't wake up.

When he reached the door to his new room, he shoved it open with more force than necessary. The hinges groaned in protest.

His stomach twisted.

The room was suffocating. A dull, lifeless gray swallowed everything-the walls, the curtains, even the furniture, as if color itself had been drained from the space. The black carpet stretched beneath his feet like a void, eating whatever light tried to exist. It wasn't a room; it was a mausoleum. Or maybe he was just dramatic.

But what truly made him stop were the canvases.

Dozens of them, scattered haphazardly like forgotten memories. Some stood upright on easels, others leaned against the walls, half-finished strokes frozen in time. And on the desk in the center, a single painting lay exposed, as if waiting for him.

"What the hell is this?" Hanbin snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut.

Gyuvin peeked over his shoulder, following his gaze. A small chuckle escaped his lips. "Oh, those are Hao's. He didn't want them in his room, so we left them here. I'll tell him to come pick them up." His words were casual, dismissive, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of Hanbin's spiraling day.

Hanbin exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes as he dropped his box onto the bed. Of course it had to be Hao's.

Gyuvin left soon after, disappearing down the hall, leaving Hanbin alone in the eerie silence.

His breath came out slow, steady, but his pulse betrayed him, hammering against his ribs as he took a hesitant step forward. His fingers twitched at his sides. The paintings loomed around him, whispering their unfinished stories, frozen in the hands of an artist who had long since abandoned them.

He was shocked to realize that Hao had never stopped painting, and even as he grew older, his passion for it never faded.

Some canvas were blank, untouched. Some were merely sketches, their lines trembling, uncertain. But a few were complete, bursting with emotion in every stroke.