Almost blind | Haobin

52| Raindrops |52

The flight felt like an endless loop of silence and second-guessing. Hours dragged on as Hao sat by the window, his eyes fixed on the blur of clouds beyond the glass, watching the sky bleed into deeper shades of gray. He would occasionally shift positions—curling into the seat to sleep, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, or just pretending to be preoccupied—anything to avoid the tension pressing down on his chest.

They had exchanged a few words, scattered like crumbs on a cold table. But none of them felt real. Just stiff, empty syllables echoing between two people who used to be more than this—whatever this was now. Hao didn’t know what to say to Hanbin. And Hanbin didn’t know how to begin either.

Hao was happy, though. Underneath the exhaustion, the tight knot in his stomach, the lingering cough from his illness—he was happy. There was an undeniable relief blooming in his chest every time he glanced to the side and saw Hanbin really there beside him. Not in Canada. Not chasing basketball dreams on another continent. But next to him. On a plane. Going home.

Yet with that joy came guilt. A deep, gnawing guilt that coiled around his ribs like a snake.

Did Hanbin come just because he asked him to?
Or did he actually want to?

The uncertainty tore at him. He felt like a child, pathetic and small, unsure of anything anymore—not even his own feelings. He couldn’t find the right words to break the silence, to soften the awkwardness between them. And truthfully, he wasn’t ready to throw his arms around Hanbin in thanks, either. As much as he wanted to—this wasn’t about gratitude. It had been Hanbin’s choice in the end.

Hadn’t it?

Meanwhile, Hanbin sat with his hands in his lap, head resting back against the seat, eyes half-lidded but far from asleep. He could practically hear his own heartbeat drumming against his ribs. The silence between them was driving him mad.

He thought Hao was angry. And honestly, maybe he should be. Hanbin had acted like the worst version of himself—careless, distant, selfish. Looking back now, it all felt like a terrible misunderstanding gone too far.

He had made it seem like he didn’t care. Like Hao was just another boy he’d tossed aside after a night. But that wasn’t the truth. Hao was more than that. So much more than nothing. Hanbin just didn’t know how to say it—not here, not now, with turbulence outside and strangers all around.

No, they’d have to talk. Really talk. But not on a plane with plastic cups and awkward knees and flight attendants passing by.

Eventually, after what felt like both a blink and a lifetime, the wheels touched down on Korean soil.

The moment they stepped off the plane, Hanbin could feel it in the air. Korea smelled different—familiar and warm, like late-night street food and something sharp in the wind. And unlike cold, distant Canada, here the breeze didn’t bite at his skin.

“Finally,” Hanbin muttered under his breath, rolling his neck back and letting out a sigh. His shoulders were bare, his skin still clammy with the remnants of the rushed training session he'd abandoned when he ran like a madman to catch the flight. He hadn't even changed—still in the same worn tank top, the same shoes scuffed with gym dust.

Hao glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. Then, wordlessly, he slid his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it. From inside, he pulled out a light blue hoodie. “It’s cold,” Hao said softly as he handed it to him, his voice a little hoarse, his throat still aching from the remnants of the fever he hadn’t fully recovered from.

There was no dramatic gesture. No look of affection. Just a simple offering. Quiet care, folded in cotton.

Hanbin stared at the hoodie for a moment, like it was something sacred. Then, hesitantly, he slipped it on. It smelled faintly like laundry soap and paint—Hao's scent, delicate and nostalgic. A small smile played at the corner of his lips as the sleeves swallowed his wrists.