The first time felix kissed hyunjin, it was raining.
They had been nineteen then, huddled under the same thin umbrella after a cram school session. The city had been loud, neon-soaked, alive with ambition — but all felix could hear was hyunjin’s laughter, boyish and bright, like a promise he hadn’t known he needed.
They loved each other in a way that felt like fire — warm, consuming, urgent. hyunjin had always been a dreamer, chasing stars even when he didn’t know how far they were. felix had been the anchor, the steady hand, the one who mapped constellations on paper with ink and sweat and long hours in textbooks.
“Someday, I’ll stand on stage,” hyunjin whispered one night, curled up in felix's lap, eyes hazy with exhaustion. “And you’ll be a doctor. Saving lives. That’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”
felix had laughed softly, threading his fingers through hyunjin’s hair. “Only if you don’t forget to come home to me.”
hyunjin had promised. And for a while, it had been enough.
---
They were twenty-one when the cracks began to show.
felix’s days grew longer — lectures, clinical rotations, nights pouring over cadaver notes and case studies until dawn. hyunjin was dancing more, training more. Auditions turned into callbacks, and callbacks turned into contracts.
Sometimes, felix would come home and find the apartment quiet, dark. A cold plate of food on the counter. hyunjin’s note in his messy scrawl
"practice ran late. i love you"
He’d eat alone, trying not to wonder what time hyunjin would come back. If hyunjin would come back.
Sometimes, hyunjin would come home and felix wouldn’t even be there — studying at the hospital library, crashed on a friend’s couch between rounds.
"Be safe. Don't skip meals. I love you"
They both meant it. That never changed.
But love, sometimes, isn’t loud enough to fight time.
---
By twenty-three, they were both halfway to their dreams — felix in residency, hands trembling the first time he held someone’s heart in his hands. hyunjin on tour, his face on billboards, his voice in every corner of Seoul and Tokyo.
They tried.
Late-night video calls where the signal cut out more than they spoke.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you more.”
Then silence, blinking screens, the ache of saying goodbye without really saying it.
Once, hyunjin came home between tour stops. felix had the night shift. They crossed paths at the door — one leaving, one arriving. hyunjin’s hand caught felix's, desperate, almost childish.
“Do we even see each other anymore?”
felix had swallowed hard. “I see you every day. In every empty room.”
That night, hyunjin slept in their bed. Alone.
---
The final unraveling wasn’t loud. No fight. No betrayal.
Just distance.
One day felix looked at his phone and realized he hadn’t messaged hyunjin in three days. One day hyunjin stepped off a stage, still catching his breath, and saw felix’s name under “Missed Calls” — from weeks ago.
They were still together. Technically.
But when people asked, they paused.
And the silence answered for them.
---
At twenty-five, they stopped calling it love out loud. But it lived — quietly, underneath their skin, in the way hyunjin’s voice always softened when he mentioned felix in interviews. In the way felix paused at the newsstand to look at hyunjin’s magazine covers.
In the way they never unfollowed each other.
The hardest part wasn’t losing each other.
The hardest part was knowing they still loved each other — deeply, wordlessly — and it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not when every version of who they wanted to be stood on opposite ends of the world.
---
Years passed.
felix became a surgeon. Calm hands. Steady voice. He smiled less, but he never forgot to bring his patients comfort.
hyunjin became a household name. A voice that filled arenas. A name whispered by millions. He smiled more, but something in his eyes stayed untouched, as if a piece of him had never stepped off that apartment doorstep.
They didn’t speak.
But sometimes, on sleepless nights, felix would play hyunjin’s debut song — the one he had heard in demo form on a scratchy laptop, curled in bed, when hyunjin was too nervous to sing it alone.
Sometimes, hyunjin would scroll through old photos — blurry selfies in hospital cafeterias, notes scrawled on post-its stuck to ramen cups, a photo of them under the umbrella, all teeth and rainwater and youth.
They never forgot.
---
And maybe one day — when the spotlight softens and the hospital lights dim — they’ll meet again.
Two men who loved, and lost, and lived.
Who didn’t choose love over dreams — but maybe, someday, won’t have to choose at all.
Until then, they carry each other like a scar that never hurts, but always remembers.
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A/n: writing this left me with heavy heart. Having to choose between love and someone you want to become is so cruel yet loving someone means letting go for the better good. ❤️
