Chapter Text
Han Seojun can never know that I’m in love with him.
There was once a time where I thought that it might be possible. Me and him. Back when he could actually stand to look at me. Gradually, as we got closer in our friendship, I started working up the mental courage to tell him how I felt. When he and Seyeon debuted, I told myself I would do it.
The day grew closer. Seyeon was getting some hate online, but so did all celebrities right? Everything would be fine. My two best friends were going to debut and I was going to confess and nothing was going to go wrong.
And then Seyeon killed himself.
I should have seen the signs. I should have known what was going on when he was withdrawing into himself. I should have known what to do to cheer him up instead of leaving him all alone with his thoughts and all those fucking comments-
But, most importantly I should have picked up the damn phone.
I didn’t. And now he’s dead.
It was hard not to feel betrayed by Seojun’s reaction. But, then again how could I expect him not to blame me, when I knew I could never forgive myself.
Needless to say, Seojun will never love me back. I know that. I don’t want him to. I’m not worthy of him.
I thought that I was finally starting to get over him, years later. It’s not that I’m… okay. At all. I don’t think I’ll ever be. And I don’t deserve to be. But, I thought the wounds were beginning to scab over and scar.
Of course the fucking bastard had to start his shit up again the moment he came back to school.
I knew that he was coming back today beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me for the sudden shooting pain in my chest when we lock eyes.
He’s taller now, with broader shoulders. He appears to have grown into himself, his long frame no longer lanky and juvenile, but model-like and elegant. He looks good in the uniform, I can’t help but notice. Really good.
He’s walking casually, talking to a few students scattered at either side of him. He looks at ease and there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his sharp, full mouth. For a split second, it’s three years ago and we’re friends and he’s happy, we’re happy, all three of us. He turns his head and locks eyes with me, that pleasant expression frozen in place.
He takes a few steps forward. He gives me a once-over. Everything about him is tense, the natural fluidity with which he moves is paused and it looks wrong. The manic energy that constantly vibrates throughout him is stifled. He looks stiff and wrong. It doesn’t look right on him. He may look like a model, but he’s anything but statuesque, everything about him lives and breathes and flows and moves constantly. Seeing him so still is like being in a wide-open field with no wind blowing. It’s wrong and unnatural.
“Ah…” He gives me a once-over. “So annoying.” Is all he says. Has his voice gotten deeper? He’s only been gone a month, right?
He stalks off, his buddies tailing him like a pack of golden retrievers. That’s it? I think. I don’t know why I’m disappointed he didn’t throw me onto the ground and start a fight with me the second we locked eyes. Until I realize that that would be an excuse to touch me.
I shiver. Why did I think anything was ever going to change between us?