Almost blind | Haobin

50| Goodbye |50

There was something oddly comforting about the simple taste of freshly boiled eggs paired with juicy slices of tomato—like a quiet hug for the soul. Hao had always loved it. And alongside it, a glass of apple juice—perhaps a bit too sweet, but undeniably gentle on the tongue, like a soft-spoken lullaby.

He ate slowly, peacefully, surrounded by the warmth of Matthew, Hanbin, and Hanbin’s grandparents. It was their final morning in Canada. Tomorrow, they would fly back to Korea, and... well, Hao had to admit—he hadn’t expected to enjoy this trip that much. But it hadn’t been so bad after all. In fact, a small, unexpected part of him wished they could stay just a little longer.

Matthew’s parents were the kindest people he had ever met—genuine, warm, and endlessly welcoming. But Matthew himself... he was something else. Sweet to the bone, without ever trying too hard. Over the past week, they had spent nearly every waking moment together, and that time had carved a soft space in Hao’s chest, something warm and unfamiliar. Now, sitting at the kitchen table beside Hanbin, who was animatedly chatting about something Hao wasn’t really listening to, that warmth fluttered again.

The only unpleasant thing was the sore throb in his throat—still tender, though slowly easing thanks to Hanbin’s grandmother and her tender care. But then, there was also the ache in his lower body—pain that was all too familiar, usually a trigger for panic, for darkness. Yet somehow, this time, it made him giggle quietly to himself.

The memory of last night flitted through his mind like a mischievous breeze. It was the kind of pain that stung, yes, but also made him want to laugh at the absurdity of it. Hanbin had laughed about it too—giggling uncontrollably when they woke up—until the laughter choked off the second he realized he had to carry Hao, legs wobbling and all, down to the kitchen.

"How are you feeling, honey?" asked grandmother, her voice a soft wind rustling the quiet morning. She took a delicate sip of her tea and looked at Hao with an odd mix of curiosity and affection that warmed him further.

He chewed a bite of egg, swallowed, and let out a low hum. "It’s better," he said simply, stealing a glance at Hanbin—just as he suspected, the boy was already staring at him with that sly, teasing grin that spoke volumes.

The room buzzed with a gentle kind of peace, the kind that made you want to bottle it up and save it for rainy days. That is, until Hanbin’s phone—abandoned on the table—started buzzing insistently, slicing through the morning calm like a needle through silk.

Everyone glanced toward it.

“Popular boy,” Matthew joked, nudging Hanbin with his elbow.

Hanbin gave a groan and reached for the phone. “If it’s my dad again, I swear I’m throwing it into the cereal.”

And with that, Hanbin suddenly stood up, snatching his phone from the table in one swift motion. Both Hao and Matthew paused mid-bite, their eyes trailing him as he glanced at the screen. His brow furrowed—just a flicker—but enough for Hao to notice...as if whatever he saw there surprised him. Maybe even thrilled him.

Without a word, he swiped to answer and, phone pressed to his ear, began walking briskly out of the kitchen toward the hallway. He didn’t excuse himself. Didn’t offer a smile. Just disappeared behind the corner, his voice low and quick, barely audible.

Hao’s eyes lingered on Matthew, unspoken questions pooling in their depths like storm clouds gathering over still water. Matthew only shrugged, but the way his fork paused mid-air betrayed more than his casual tone allowed.

“Probably Gyuvin again,” he said, waving his hand as if to swat the tension away like a fly. But the gesture was flimsy, transparent—and Hao wasn’t convinced in the slightest.