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Keonho had learned, over time, how to look calm while drowning.
It was a skill he had now mastered, really. One he’d perfected sometime between his first accelerated placement test and the third teacher who’d smiled at him like he was a solved equation. You’ll be fine, they’d said. This should be easy for you.
Easy was a strange word. It suggested effortlessness, suggested that the weight sitting on his shoulders right now—deadlines stacked back to back, exams circled in red, essays with margins too narrow for any doubt—was something he should be able to carry without shaking.
He stared down at his planner, thumb worrying the corner of the page. Three tests next week. Two major assignments that were due within days of each other. All advanced. All accelerated. All chosen for him by adults who had decided that because he could do it, he should.
Everyone thought he was naturally smart. Keonho thought he was just very, very good at trying.
He knew how to stay up late and still smile the next morning. Knew how to underline key phrases, memorise quotes, and fake certainty when he raised his hand. He knew how to nod along when teachers compared him ever so casually to him.
Martin.
The name surfaced uninvited, like it always did. Top of the year. Untouchable. The standard everyone else was measured against, whether they liked it or not. Especially Keonho, who sat just beneath him in the rankings like a reminder that second place was still visible.
You’re doing great, people told him. You’re right up there.
Up there still meant below Martin.
Keonho exhaled slowly and closed his planner just as the bell rang. Literature next. Advanced discussion. He straightened, smoothed his expression into something light and easy, something that said ‘I’m fine’ rather than screamed ‘help me’, and slipped into his seat.
The classroom hummed with low chatter as their teacher, James, wrote the discussion prompt on the board. Keonho skimmed the passage they’d been assigned. It was something related to perspective, unreliable narration, and the weight of subtext. His favourite type of analysis. The kind he was good at.
His hand lifted before he could second-guess himself.
“I think the narrator’s exaggerations aren’t meant to deceive the audience,” Keonho said when called on. “They create a defence mechanism. If he turns events into something almost absurd, he doesn’t have to confront how powerless he actually feels.”
A beat of silence followed. Keonho felt that familiar flicker of relief, that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, just before a voice cut cleanly through it.
“That’s not wrong,” Martin said.
Keonho’s shoulders tensed. Martin didn’t look at him, eyes still on his own copy of the text, pen tapping once against the paper.
“It just happens to be shallow.”
A few students laughed. It wasn’t loud or mocking, but it was enough.
Heat rushed up Keonho’s neck, his ears burning as if they’d been touched directly by the Sun itself. He kept his smile in place, kept his posture loose, like the words hadn’t slipped under his skin and lodged there.
Shallow.
Martin finally looked up then, gaze sharp and assessing, already moving on. “You’re describing the effect, not the intent. There’s a difference.”
Their teacher nodded thoughtfully, picking up the thread. The discussion continued. Other voices filled the room. Keonho didn’t speak again.
He stared down at the page, the text blurring slightly as the words replayed in his head. That’s not wrong. It just happens to be shallow. Each repetition presses a little deeper.
From the corner of his eye, he could see his best friends sitting towards the back as they had come in late. First, he saw Seonghyeon glance back at him, brow creased. Then Juhoon, next to him, his glare unmistakably aimed across the room.
Keonho kept smiling.
Because that was what he was supposed to do. Because words only hurt if you let them. Because if Martin said it, then maybe, just maybe, it was true.
And if it was true, then all those people who thought he was naturally smart had made a mistake. A horrendous mistake that should never have happened because now it’s eating him alive.
Keonho swallowed and lifted his pen again, hands steady despite the quiet fear curling in his chest. He focused on taking notes on the intended purpose. He made sure not a single doodle was made in his margins.
He couldn’t afford to be shallow.
The bell rang too loudly. Keonho flinched despite himself, snapping his notebook shut a second too fast. Chairs scraped back against the floor, making horrible screeching noises.
The classroom dissolved into noise and movement, as students spilled into the hallway, as if the tension had never existed at all. He waited until Seonghyeon and Juhoon caught up to him before standing.
“You okay?” Seonghyeon asked quietly, already knowing the answer.
Keonho smiled. “Yeah.”
Juhoon didn’t look convinced. “Do you want me to trip him in the hall?”
Keonho huffed, the sound more breath than laughter. “That sounds very tempting, but no, it’s fine.”
They walked together, Keonho slotted between them like always, letting their presence buffer the sting that still clung to his ribs. By the time they reached their lockers, the word had dulled from sharp to sore. Manageable. He could live with soreness.
Or so he thought.
“Keonho.”
He froze.
James stood a few steps away, papers tucked under one arm, expression unreadable in that way teachers perfected when they were about to rearrange your life.
“Yes, sir?”
“I wanted to talk to you for a moment,” he said. Then, after a pause, “And Martin, it would be great if you would stay as well.”
Of course.
Martin turned from where he’d been packing his bag, brows lifting slightly. He didn’t look entirely surprised, but instead he seemed almost alert.
Juhoon’s eyes widened. Seonghyeon squeezed Keonho’s hand and gave him a look, wishing him good luck. They drifted away reluctantly, leaving Keonho standing there with his hands curled tight around his notebook.
James smiled. “I’ve been reviewing midterm projections.”
Keonho nodded, heart already picking up speed.
“You’re both performing at a very high level,” their teacher continued. “But Keonho, I think you have room to push further. You tend to play it safe.”
Keonho opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I’ve noticed,” James said, “that you respond well to direct feedback. So I’ve arranged something I think will be mutually beneficial.”
Martin straightened slightly as he could already imagine how this was going to pan out.
“Martin has agreed to tutor you after school once a week.”
Keonho’s breath caught.
“What—” He stopped himself. Tried again. “I don’t need a tutor.”
James waved the protest away gently. “Don’t worry, you’re not falling behind. I was thinking it would be more like refinement. Martin has a very honed way of thinking. I think exposure to that will help you enhance your arguments.”
Keonho glanced at Martin despite himself. Martin’s expression was unimpressed. Almost bored.
“If you’re aiming this high,” Martin said, voice flat. “You should be able to take criticism.”
The words hit immediately, his heart still tender from earlier.
Keonho’s jaw tightened. “There’s a difference between criticism and being cruel,” he said carefully.
Something flickered in Martin’s eyes. Keonho couldn’t pinpoint the emotion.
“I don’t sugarcoat,” Martin replied. “And if that’s a problem—”
“It’s not,” Keonho interrupted, surprising both of them. He inhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I can take feedback. I just don’t think tearing someone down makes the work better.”
James nodded, clearly pleased by the exchange. “Good. Then it’s settled. Thursdays, library study room three.”
He left them there, as if he hadn’t just dropped a lit match between two people already soaked in gasoline. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Martin was the first to break the silence. “You don’t have to pretend this doesn’t bother you.”
Keonho looked at him fully. He took in the sight of Martin’s sharp posture, guarded mouth, and the way his eyes never quite softened.
“I’m not pretending,” Keonho said. “I’m choosing not to make a scene.”
Martin scoffed quietly. “Figures.”
Keonho felt something twist in his chest, anger bubbling inside. “You know,” he said, voice steady despite it all, “you don’t have to fix me.”
That made Martin pause, hand still on his bag strap. “I’m not fixing you.”
“Then what are you doing?” Keonho asked.
Martin’s gaze locked onto him with a focus so piercing that it made Keonho uncomfortable. “Seeing how far you can go.”
The words lingered between them, heavy and unreadable.
Keonho swallowed. “Then don’t act surprised when I don’t thank you for it.”
Martin’s mouth curved, not quite into a smile, but there was something more than the void expression he always had on. “I don’t need thanks.”
They turned away from each other at the same time, walking in opposite directions down the hall. Keonho’s heart pounded as he moved, thoughts tangling over themselves. He hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t want this.
And yet, somewhere beneath the resentment, beneath the embarrassment, beneath the fear of being measured and falling short, Martin was looking at him. The difference was that this time, it wasn’t past him or over him. He was looking at him. Keonho didn’t know yet whether that made things worse.
☆☆☆
Juhoon’s apartment smelled like instant ramen and fabric softener. It was comforting in a way Keonho hadn’t realised he needed until he stepped inside, shoes kicked off at the door, tension loosening slightly from between his shoulders. The living room was already half overtaken by open textbooks, laptops, and abandoned highlighters.
Seonghyeon had claimed the middle space on the floor by the coffee table. Juhoon sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through notes he definitely hadn’t made himself. Keonho hovered for a second before choosing a spot at the far end of the table. Naturally, Martin sat at the opposite end.
They didn’t look at each other. For a few minutes, things were almost normal. Pages turned. Pens scratched. Someone’s phone buzzed and was promptly ignored. Keonho let himself sink into the rhythm of studying, the familiar comfort of structure easing his thoughts.
Then Martin spoke. “The thesis doesn’t match your evidence,” he said, not looking up.
Keonho blinked. “What?”
“Your notes are wrong,” Martin replied.
This study session had been a mistake. He hadn’t told Seonghyeon and Juhoon about the whole tutoring agenda yet, so they had thought it would be a genius idea for all four of them to prepare for their literature assignments together. Martin was chill with the other two, therefore, he was included by default since they all shared the same class.
Seonghyeon groaned loudly. “Oh my god, can you at least say hello to each other first?”
“I’m not here to socialise,” Martin said flatly.
Keonho exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around his pen. “Have you ever tried saying something nice? Just once?”
Martin finally glanced up, eyes focused on him. “I do.”
Keonho raised a brow. “Really?”
“To people who earn it.”
Seonghyeon let out a low, pained sound. “Martin, what the fuck. Why do you sound like a movie villain?”
Juhoon grinned, delighted, and whispered to Seonghyeon, “I think they should kiss already.”
“Absolutely not,” Seonghyeon muttered immediately.
Keonho laughed before he could stop himself. The sound felt strange in his chest, like he’d unearthed it from somewhere buried. Martin’s gaze flicked to him at the noise, lingered a second too long, then dropped back to his work.
The laughter faded. The silence returned. Keonho tried to focus again, but he could feel Martin’s attention like pressure. Every time he moved, every time he paused too long on a sentence, it was like being watched under a microscope.
“You’re wasting time,” Martin said after a moment.
Keonho stiffened. “I’m being careful with my choices.”
“Same thing,” Martin replied. “Pick a stance.”
“I did,” Keonho argued back.
“No,” Martin said calmly. “You haven’t settled on one yet.”
Juhoon whistled. “That’s a little harsh but accurate. He’s not wrong, Keonho.”
Keonho shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
Martin tapped the margin of Keonho’s notebook with his pen. “You’re capable of stronger claims. Why are you holding back?”
The question hit harder than the criticism.
Keonho shrugged, forcing lightness into his voice. “My bad. I didn’t realise this was an interrogation.”
Martin’s eyes flicked up again, something unreadable passing through them. “It’s not.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re disappointed in me?” Keonho asked, the words slipping out before he could register them.
The room went quiet. Seonghyeon stilled. Juhoon froze mid-snack.
Martin didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was even. Too even. “If I were disappointed, I wouldn’t bother.”
That shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.
Keonho looked down quickly, pretending to reread a sentence he’d already memorised. His chest felt tight, thoughts tripping over themselves. Keonho hated how hard it was to read Martin. I wouldn’t bother. As if attention, any attention, was some kind of currency Martin spent deliberately.
Juhoon cleared his throat loudly. “Okay then… Uh, new rule. No emotionally devastating commentary unless you also provide snacks.”
He pushed a bag of chips across the table toward Keonho, who accepted it gratefully.
“Thanks,” Keonho said softly, ignoring how he could see Martin watching the exchange from the corner of his eye.
For the rest of the session, the thorns softened into something almost manageable. Martin still corrected him. Still precise, still relentless, but the edge dulled, even if just slightly. Keonho found himself pushing back more, matching tone for tone.
“That’s subjective,” Keonho said at one point.
Martin tilted his head. “Not if you’re reading properly.”
Keonho met his gaze. “Not if you’re allergic to interpretation.”
Juhoon made an impressed noise. “Look at you two. Academic foreplay or whatever.”
Seonghyeon buried his face in his notes and groaned, cringing at Juhoon’s words.
Despite himself, Keonho felt a small spark of satisfaction. He wasn’t powerless here. He could argue. He could hold his ground. And Martin annoyingly seemed to enjoy that.
When the session finally wound down, backpacks slung over shoulders and the sun already sinking low outside the windows, Keonho realised something unsettling.
Martin had barely spoken to anyone else. It was as if Seonghyeon and Juhoon were invisible. Martin’s focus was on just him.
As they packed up, their fingers brushed briefly over the edge of the table. Martin pulled back immediately, like he’d been burned. Keonho pretended not to notice. Instead, he had rolled his eyes and told Martin to stop being so dramatic.
On the walk home later, Seonghyeon bumped his shoulder lightly. “You know he’s obsessed with you, right?”
Keonho scoffed. “He hates me.”
Seonghyeon snorted. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep.”
Keonho didn’t respond. Because as much as he wanted to believe that, wanted to label Martin’s attention as hatred, as cruelty, as something simple, it didn’t feel simple at all. It felt too heavy, too intentional. And worst of all, it felt like something that mattered. Keonho barely slept that night.
☆☆☆
By the time the bell rang for lunch, Keonho lingered by his locker longer than necessary, rereading a reminder on his phone for a club meeting he’d half-forgotten about. Student council and club coordination. Something administrative and exhausting that his teachers had signed him up for without his consent.
He sighed and shut his locker. The hallway outside the multipurpose room was louder than expected. He could hear chairs scraping and voices overlapping with frustration thick enough to taste. Keonho slowed as he approached, concerned, instinct prickling.
It was chaos inside.
Students clustered in uneven groups, some sitting, some standing, some very clearly not paying attention at all. A stack of printed guidelines for an assignment lay abandoned on a table near the front. Someone was arguing over whose job it was to submit reports. Someone else was scrolling through their phone like they weren’t already behind.
And at the centre of it all was Martin. He stood rigidly near the whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight. His pen snapped against the board as he underlined something with far more force than necessary.
“—which is why I sent the instructions three days ago,” Martin said sharply. “If you didn’t read them, that’s seriously not my problem.”
A few students bristled. Someone muttered under their breath.
Keonho hovered near the door, uncertain. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected Martin to look… frayed. More stretched thin than angry.
“Where are the progress reports?” Martin demanded. “We can’t move forward without them.”
Silence answered him. Keonho watched, shoulders tensed and eyes averted. The room seemed to recoil from Martin’s intensity, people shutting down rather than stepping up.
Something twisted in Keonho’s chest. He stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it.
“Hey,” Keonho said, voice calm but clear, just loud enough to cut through the chaos. “Maybe we can break it down?”
A few heads turned. Martin’s eyes snapped to him. Surprise flickered there. Quick. Sharp.
“If you guys split tasks,” Keonho continued, already moving toward the table. “It will be much faster. You don’t need everything at once.”
He picked up the abandoned guidelines, skimming them once before looking up again. “Okay. Reports first. Who was in charge of the data collection?”
A hand lifted hesitantly. Then another.
“Great,” Keonho said, smiling. “Can you two email Martin what you have by tonight? It doesn’t need to be perfect.”
The tension eased just a little. Keonho kept going. “Design team?” he asked, already jotting names down. “You don’t need to redo anything yet, just share the drafts with Martin.”
Behind him, Martin went silent. Keonho felt it. The shift. Like air pressure changing. He didn’t look back.
People responded. Voices grew steadier. Someone laughed quietly when Keonho made a small joke about procrastination being a shared student experience. Within minutes, the room was moving again. It wasn’t smooth enough to be considered perfect, but they were moving forward.
The meeting ended more quietly than it began. Students filed out in loose groups, conversation lighter now, frustration dissipated. When Keonho finally stepped aside, his heart beating faster than he realised, Martin wasn’t staring at the board or the updated plans, but at a sticky note.
Keonho stayed behind to straighten the table, stacking papers neatly. He didn’t notice Martin approach until he spoke. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Keonho paused, fingers resting on the edge of the desk. “Well, someone had to.”
Martin crossed his arms. “They should have listened the first time.”
Keonho glanced at him then, and this time, he really looked. The tension still hadn’t left Martin’s shoulders. His eyes were tired in a way Keonho hadn’t seen before.
“They weren’t ignoring you,” Keonho said gently. “They were overwhelmed.”
Martin frowned. “That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” Keonho agreed. “But it’s a reason.”
Silence stretched between them. They finished tidying, and Keonho passed the papers to Martin, careful not to make contact like last time. As he turned to leave, something on the desk caught his eye. The small sticky note Martin had been staring at. Pale yellow. Half-hidden beneath a folder.
He hesitated, then picked it up. The handwriting was unmistakably his.
Don’t forget, you’re not alone in this •ᴗ•
Keonho stared at it, pulse skipping. He had written it for himself before an important test over a week ago. The letters were messy because he had scribbled them quickly without thinking too much, just wanting to reassure himself. Keonho thought he had lost it or accidentally thrown it away without realising.
“What’s this?” Keonho asked, showing Martin the sticky note.
Martin snatched it out of his hands and stuffed it in his pocket. “Nothing.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Maybe Keonho had been mistaken, and Martin had written himself an identical note. Though Martin’s handwriting looked nothing like his. Whatever.
Then Martin said quietly, “They listen to you.”
Keonho shrugged, trying to keep it light. “You’re kind of intimidating.”
Martin scoffed. “I’m efficient.”
Keonho smiled, small, but it was real. “That’s basically the same thing.”
Martin didn’t argue. As Keonho stepped into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him, his chest felt strange. He wasn’t sure if it was lighter or heavier. Instead, he felt full. He didn’t know if Martin would ever say thank you or if this would change anything at all. But for once, Martin’s silence didn’t feel cruel. But honestly, that scared Keonho more than any criticism ever had.
☆☆☆
The thing about Martin’s praise was that it was rare enough to feel almost mythological. So when it happened, he almost missed it.
The room buzzed with the low, restless energy of people pretending they weren’t tired. They were crammed into a room in the humanities wing, chairs pulled into uneven clusters for a literature project meeting. Papers littered the table. The sun slanted in through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air, everyone half-done with the day but not quite free of it yet.
Keonho sat near the middle, notebook balanced on his knee, pen resting between his fingers more out of habit than necessity. He was half-listening while staring down at the points he made for the literature section he’d been assigned.
Martin stood at the front with two other students, reviewing their formative analyses. He looked composed. Back in his element. The whiteboard behind him was filled with neat, efficient writing. Bullet points, arrows, structure, control. Keonho watched him without meaning to. He told himself it was only awareness and proximity.
They’d been forced into each other’s orbit long enough that it was inevitable. Still, his attention snagged on small things: the way Martin pushed his sleeves up when he got focused, the slight furrow between his brows when someone misunderstood a point.
“…the framing here is solid,” Martin said.
Keonho froze.
“Not only did you summarise the section, but you also referred to the underlying assumptions,” Martin continued. “Your analysis was really impressive. You captured the idea perfectly.”
The room reacted instantly. The student, someone Keonho barely knew, lit up, surprise and pride flashing across his face. A few people murmured in approval. Another student nudged someone else, eyebrows raised in that way.
The pen slipped from Keonho’s hand. He looked up before he could stop himself. Martin’s expression was calm. Like what he’d just said hadn’t affected the atmosphere of the room at all. Like it hadn’t carved something open inside Keonho’s chest.
Really impressive. Captured the nuance perfectly.
He stared down at his notes, at the careful handwriting he’d trained himself into perfecting, at the margins that held only clean annotations. His fingers curled slowly around his pen, picking it up from where it lay on the floor.
Keonho swallowed. It wasn’t anger that hit him first. It was something colder. Something quieter. A tightening just beneath his ribs, like his lungs had forgotten how much space they were allowed to take up. He hadn’t known Martin could even say things like that out loud.
He’d never heard Martin say anything like that about him. Not once. Not when Keonho stayed up rewriting an essay until dawn. Not when he argued a point so cleanly the room went silent. Not when he stepped in and saved a meeting, that wasn’t even his responsibility, from falling apart.
“Huh,” Keonho muttered under his breath before he could stop himself. The sound barely made it past his lips. “Interesting.”
Juhoon, seated beside him, caught it anyway. He leaned over, eyes brimming with curiosity. “You look like you just saw a ghost,” he whispered.
Keonho forced a laugh. It came out thin. “What? No.”
Juhoon’s gaze flicked briefly toward the front of the room, toward Martin, then back to Keonho. His expression softened, teasing edged with something more knowing. “Sure,” he said gently. “We can pretend you’re not jealous.”
Keonho scoffed automatically. “I’m not—” He stopped. Tried again. “I just didn’t realise he was capable of that.”
A white lie. Because the denial didn’t feel true enough to finish. Jealousy was an ugly word. He didn’t want it near him. He didn’t want to admit to craving something so small, so selfish. It was just a bunch of words. It shouldn’t matter.
Except Keonho thought of every paper Martin had torn apart with surgical precision. Every time he’d been corrected, refined, sharpened. Every quiet moment, Martin had looked at his work as if it were something worth dismantling completely.
Keonho straightened in his seat, rolling his shoulders back. It was just a compliment. Martin was allowed to praise other people. He didn’t owe Keonho anything.
The meeting dragged on. Keonho nodded when spoken to, offered suggestions when prompted, but his attention kept drifting back to the sound of Martin’s voice. How it changed when he wasn’t speaking to Keonho. Martin responded to him like always. Precise, neutral, distant. No praise and definitely no softness. Obviously not that Keonho was keeping count or anything.
It wasn’t rational. But it hurt anyway.
When the session finally ended, chairs scraping back and people gathering their things, Keonho stood a second slower than usual. He felt off-balance, like the ground had tilted slightly without warning.
Martin passed by him on the way out. Keonho watched him go, the familiar frustration rising again, restless and unresolved. He hated that Martin’s words still had this power over him. Hated that praise he hadn’t even been meant to hear could lodge itself so deeply.
Juhoon slung an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the exit.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?
Keonho nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Juhoon hummed, unconvinced. “You know he doesn’t hand those out easily.”
“That’s the problem,” Keonho said quietly.
Juhoon stopped walking. “Keonho.”
He stopped too. “What?” Keonho asked.
Juhoon studied him for a moment, expression softening. “You don’t need his words to be good.”
Keonho smiled automatically, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know.”
As they stepped into the hallway, Keonho glanced at Martin, catching a brief glimpse of him laughing softly at something someone else said. Relaxed and unguarded. The sight twisted something in his chest. He told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself he didn’t care.
But the truth settled heavy and undeniable beneath his ribs. Martin knew how to use words to build people up. He just wasn’t using them on Keonho. Keonho wondered, not for the first time, what he would have to do to hear those words directed at him. He still wasn’t sure why it hurt so much to want them.
☆☆☆
The library after school hours felt like a held breath. Most of the lights were dimmed, rows of shelves sinking into the shadows, the hum of the air conditioner the only thing brave enough to make noise. Time seemed to stretch here, elastic and fragile.
Thursdays. He had started dreading them. Then, without meaning to, anticipating them.
Keonho sat across from Martin at a long wooden table in study room three. His essay lay between them, printed and already bleeding red ink. Comments crowded the margins. Lines were underlined, circled, and dissected. Martin’s handwriting was precise to the point of aggression.
Keonho stared at it, throat tight, an uncomfortable burning sensation building.
“You repeat yourself here,” Martin said, tapping the page. “And here. You’re circling the point instead of diving deeper into it.”
Keonho nodded slowly. “I wanted to show multiple angles.”
“You diluted it.” Martin flipped the page. “This paragraph doesn’t earn its place in your essay.”
Keonho flinched despite himself. Martin didn’t notice. Or maybe he did notice but didn’t care enough to comment on it.
“Your conclusion is competent,” Martin continued. “But your final call to action is lacking. You retreat right when it matters the most.”
Something painful flickered in Keonho’s chest. “Is that all?” he asked quietly.
Martin looked up. “Do you want me to edit it for you?”
Keonho’s fingers curled against his notebook. “No. I want you to tell me why it’s always like this with me.”
The words landed heavier than he’d intended. Martin stilled. An unbearable silence followed.
“What do you mean?” Martin finally asked.
“You don’t talk to anyone else the way you talk to me,” Keonho replied.
Martin leaned back slightly. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” Keonho argued. His voice stayed steady, even as his pulse climbed. “You’re blunt with others. You’re harsh sometimes. But with me, it’s like you’re—” He searched for the right words, frustration burning behind his eyes. “Trying to carve me out or something.”
Martin’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I treat you seriously.”
“I know,” Keonho said. “That’s the problem.”
Martin frowned. “You want to be coddled?”
“No,” Keonho snapped, then softened immediately, taking in a breath. “I just want to know why you never say anything good.”
The words echoed softly against the walls. Martin looked at him for a long moment. Longer than usual. Like he was weighing something internal, something he hadn’t planned to share.
Finally, he spoke. “Because you listen.”
Keonho blinked.
Martin continued before he could interrupt. “You don’t deflect. You don’t argue just to protect your ego. When I point something out, you adjust. You think about it.”
“That’s not—” Keonho stuttered. “That’s not a reason to be cruel.”
Martin’s brows furrowed. “I’m not being cruel.”
Keonho laughed quietly, without humour. “Then what do you call this?”
Martin hesitated. “I call it honesty,” he said at last. “And I don’t waste honesty on people who won’t use it.”
The words settled slowly, sinking into Keonho’s chest like a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying. Keonho looked down at the paper again. At the mess of corrections. At the attention so meticulous it bordered on a fixation.
I wouldn’t bother. The phrase from before resurfaced, sharp at the edges as if it had grown thorns.
“So,” he started carefully. “You tear me apart because you think I can handle it.”
“Yes.”
“And you never build me back up.”
Martin’s mouth opened. Then closed again. The silence stretched. Keonho felt something inside him shift, uneasy and unsteady.
“Do you ever think that maybe I don’t want to survive your words?” Keonho asked quietly.
Martin stiffened.
“I don’t want to be sharpened all the time,” Keonho continued, voice softer now. “Sometimes I just want to know I’m not failing.”
Martin looked away. That, more than anything, hurt.
Keonho pushed back his chair slightly, the legs scraping softly against the floor. “We can stop for tonight,” he said. “I think I’ve got enough to revise.”
Martin didn’t argue.
As Keonho gathered his things, he felt the strange, uncomfortable realisation blooming behind his ribs. Martin’s attention wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t careless. It was deliberate. And somewhere along the way, Keonho had started to understand it not as hatred, but as something dangerously close to care. Which didn’t make it hurt any less.
As he stepped out into the cold air afterwards, Keonho hugged his jacket closer around himself, heart racing with thoughts he wasn’t ready to name. Because if Martin’s cruelty was an effort, a mask of complimenting and helping him improve, then the question wasn’t why does he hate me?
It was why won’t he just say what he means?
Yes, he was a coward and had waited until Martin left before returning to the study room in the library, but Keonho hadn’t meant to stay late. It just happened. One more paragraph revised. One more sentence smoothed until it finally sounded like something he could stand behind. By the time he shut his laptop and grabbed his newly printed essay draft from the printer, the library was nearly empty.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed down the hall toward the staff offices, intending to drop off a printed draft for James before going home. That was when he heard Martin’s voice. It was so distinctly his and carried clearly through the half-open door at the end of the corridor.
Keonho slowed without thinking. He told himself it was a coincidence. That he wasn’t listening. That he’d just wait a second before knocking.
“…his argument structure is solid,” Martin was saying.
Keonho froze.
James responded with a hum of acknowledgement. “You mean Keonho?”
“Yes.”
Keonho’s breath caught.
“He’s better than this assignment allows,” Martin continued. “The constraints flatten his thinking.”
There was only truth in his voice, lacking any form of edge, bite, or performance. Keonho stood very still, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.
James sounded mildly surprised. “That’s high praise coming from you.”
“It’s not praise really,” Martin replied. “I’m just being honest.”
Something inside Keonho tilted.
“I think,” Martin went on, “he second-guesses himself too much. If he trusted his instincts, his work would be exceptional.”
Exceptional.
The word echoed in his mind, soft and unreal. Keonho felt moisture rise behind his eyes, sudden and unwelcome. He stared down at the floor, grounding himself in the tile beneath his shoes, in the quiet hum of the lights above.
He hadn’t known Martin spoke about him at all when he wasn’t there. He hadn’t known Martin saw him.
“Thank you for the insight,” James said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He could hear footsteps shift and papers rustle. Keonho stepped back just in time, heart pounding, as the office door opened.
Martin emerged first. They locked eyes. For a fraction of a second, neither of them moved.
The older one’s expression flickered with surprise, calculation, and something Keonho recognised as dangerously close to concern. Keonho wasn’t sure how much he’d heard. He wasn’t sure if it mattered. He just nodded once, polite and neutral, and walked past.
“Keonho.”
The sound of his name stopped him anyway. He turned slowly. Martin looked… unsettled. Like he’d been caught mid-thought. “Did you need something?”
Keonho swallowed. “I came to drop off my draft.”
Martin nodded. “Right.” He didn’t comment on the fact that Keonho had stayed behind and finished editing his work right after their tutoring session instead of heading home.
Another pause. The air between them felt different now. Emotions lingering in a way Keonho didn’t trust himself to name.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Martin said. Then he turned and left before either of them could say anything else.
“Yeah,” Keonho replied, watching the back of Martin’s retreating figure before he disappeared down the corridors.
Outside, the evening air was cool against his flushed skin. Keonho walked mindlessly for a block before stopping beneath a streetlight, bag slipping from his shoulder to the ground. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer against it.
Better than this assignment allows. Exceptional.
The words replayed again and again, gentler each time. They didn’t erase the sharp ones or undo the hurt. But they changed the balance, changed something fundamental in how the past moments settled in his memory. Martin’s corrections no longer felt quite as hollow. His silence no longer felt quite as empty. Keonho let out a shaky breath.
Because once words existed, once they were real, they couldn’t be taken back. And now Keonho knew something he hadn’t before. Martin saw him. He didn’t see him as a rival or as a benchmark. But instead, as someone worth investing his time in. For some reason, that Keonho couldn’t quite comprehend, that knowledge hurt almost as much as it healed.
☆☆☆
The cafeteria at lunch was always too loud. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, and conversations collided into a constant hum that never quite settled. Keonho usually liked it—liked how the combined noise blurred his thoughts into something manageable—but today it felt overwhelming, like every sound was turned just a little too high.
He followed Juhoon and Seonghyeon through the crowd, weaving between tables until they reached their usual spot near the windows. Sunlight spilled across the surface, catching specks of dust in the air. The reason he had tossed and turned around last night instead of sleeping was already there.
Martin sat with his back straight, tray untouched, a notebook open beside his drink. He glanced up as they approached, gaze flicking briefly to Keonho before dropping again. His form of acknowledgment. Keonho felt the echo of last night’s overheard words still warm in his chest, fragile and unreal. He sat down slowly, careful not to let it show.
For a while, they ate in relative peace. Juhoon narrated a dramatic retelling of a classmate’s failed presentation, Seonghyeon chimed in with dry commentary, and Keonho laughed at the right moments. He even forgot to feel nervous for a minute. Then Martin spoke.
“Your evidence selection in the essay revision,” he said, eyes still on his notebook, “is better now.”
Keonho froze mid-bite. Juhoon stopped chewing. Seonghyeon’s head snapped up.
Martin continued, unbothered by the sudden attention. “Your conclusion’s stronger, too. Your evidence could be refined more to lower your word count, though.”
Keonho stared at him, pulse thudding. “...Was that a compliment?”
Martin finally looked up. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, rolling his eyes. But he didn’t deny it.
Juhoon’s grin was immediate. “I can’t believe this is finally happening. Seonghyeon, mark this historical moment on your calendar.”
Seonghyeon leaned back, studying Martin with narrowed eyes. “Are you sick?”
Martin ignored them both. Keonho felt something unfurl in his chest, slow, cautious, and disbelieving. The words echoed softly, replaying in his mind this time not as weapons thrown endlessly at him but as something steadier, constructive, and grounded.
The rest of lunch passed differently. Martin still corrected him, still precise, still maddening, but the edge was gone. When Keonho pushed back, Martin listened. When Keonho hesitated, Martin waited. At one point, their knees brushed under the table. Martin moved away instantly. Keonho pretended not to notice, even as his heart stuttered.
Later, at the vending machine down the corridor, Juhoon grabbed drinks while Seonghyeon hovered, considering his options displayed on the shelves. Keonho lingered nearby, and Martin stood beside him.
“You didn’t bring up what you heard,” Martin said quietly.
Keonho glanced up at him. “I didn’t feel the need to.”
Martin said nothing, so Keonho kept his mouth shut too. Seonghyeon and Juhoon paid, and then they all stepped outside, the afternoon air cool against their skin.
Juhoon watched them with undisguised interest. “You know,” he started casually. “You two argue like you’re on the same side.”
Keonho laughed softly. “That’s debatable.”
Martin hesitated, then said, “Disagreement doesn’t always mean opposition.”
Keonho looked at him. Martin met his gaze. The moment held. It wasn’t soft or romantic, but it was honest.
As they walked back toward the school building, Keonho felt lighter than he had in weeks. Everything wasn’t fixed yet, but something had changed. Words were no longer just wounds. They were becoming bridges. For the first time since he had started feeling this way, Keonho let himself believe that maybe Martin was learning how to cross them.
☆☆☆
The exam hall smelled like fresh paper and nerves so thick Keonho could almost taste them. Rows of desks stretched out beneath fluorescent lights, each one identical, each one holding a student trying very hard not to think about what was at stake. Keonho sat near the middle, hands folded neatly on the desk, pencil aligned just right.
He told himself to breathe. This was just another assessment. Another set of questions. Another chance to prove himself. That he belonged. That he deserved the placement. That he was more than capable of reaching people’s expectations.
Across the aisle, three rows up, Martin sat perfectly still. He hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t needed to. His presence alone was enough. An anchor, a challenge, a reminder. Keonho felt it like pressure at the base of his spine.
You can do this, he told himself. You’ve survived harder.
When the exam began, the room filled with the soft, collective sound of writing. At first, things were fine. The opening questions were familiar, almost comforting. Keonho moved through them steadily, confidence settling into his hands. He underlined keywords, structured his responses well, and built arguments the way he’d practised a hundred times before.
Then came the last section. His heart sank to his stomach.
It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the question. It was worse. He understood it too well. Saw too many angles at once. Too many interpretations tugging at him in different directions, each one plausible, each one incomplete. His pencil hovered.
Pick a stance, Martin’s voice rang in his head, unbidden.
Keonho swallowed and chose. But halfway through his response, doubt crept in. A sentence felt wrong. Then another. He paused, crossed a line out, and rewrote it. Time slipped through his fingers much faster than he realised. When the teacher called out the five-minute warning, panic bloomed sharp and sudden in his chest.
Keonho rushed the conclusion. He hated it the moment he finished.
When the exam ended, chairs scraped back, and the room erupted into noise. Students compared answers in low, frantic voices. Someone laughed too loudly, too carelessly. Someone else swore under their breath, on the verge of tears.
Keonho packed his bag slowly. He didn’t look for Martin. He didn’t want to.
The results came out two days later. Keonho stared at the screen in the hallway, heart pounding as names and numbers blurred together. He scanned once. Then again. His last mark was a 99, and he had dropped to a 97. It wasn’t a dramatic decrease. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to care because he maintained his rank as second.
But it was enough for him to feel it. His chest hollowed out, disappointment settling heavy and cold. He stood there longer than necessary, forcing himself to breathe normally, to school his expression into something neutral. Then, Keonho scanned the screen once more and saw it. A 100 written next to Martin’s name.
Behind him, footsteps approached. He knew who it was before Martin stopped beside him. Keonho didn’t turn. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the screen casting pale light across both their faces. Keonho waited for it—for the sharp assessment, the blunt truth, the familiar cut that at least meant something.
Nothing came. Martin said nothing. The silence stretched. It pressed in on Keonho from all sides, louder than any criticism Martin had ever delivered. His throat tightened, anger and hurt tangling into something sharp and unbearable.
“Just say it,” Keonho said finally, voice low. “I know you’re thinking it.”
Martin glanced at him. “Thinking what?”
“That I failed.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue.
Martin frowned slightly. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it,” Keonho insisted. “You always are.”
Martin’s gaze moved to their marks, then back to Keonho. “You underperformed.”
There it was. It wasn’t cruel or soft. It was honest in a way that made Keonho feel like he had been stripped bare, showing parts of him he never wanted anyone else to see.
Keonho laughed quietly, a sound that held no humour. “You know what the worst part is?” he asked, finally turning to face him. “I could’ve handled that. I was ready for it.”
Martin’s brow creased. “Then what—”
“You didn’t say anything,” Keonho cut in. His voice trembled despite his effort to keep it steady. “You just… went quiet.”
Something flickered across Martin’s face. Keonho wasn’t sure if it was surprise or confusion.
“I didn’t want to pile on,” Martin said.
Keonho shook his head. “You don’t get it.”
He stepped back, putting space between them. The hallway felt too bright, too open. His head spun.
“When you’re silent,” Keonho said quietly, “it feels like you’ve already given up on me. Like I’m not important enough for your words.”
The words landed. Hard. Martin went still.
Keonho didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked away, shoulders squared, heart racing painfully in his chest. He told himself not to look back. He didn’t.
But the damage had already been done.
For the first time since they’d started circling each other, since words had begun to soften and bridges had started to form, Martin’s silence hadn’t felt thoughtful or calculated.
It had made Keonho feel hopeless.
☆☆☆
Keonho didn’t register the walk home. He knew he’d taken the usual route—past the bus stop with the peeling timetable, across the intersection where the pedestrian light always lagged a second too long—but the details slid off him, unanchored. His body moved on instinct alone, backpack heavy against his spine like it was filled with bricks instead of books.
By the time he reached the comfort of his room, the sky outside his window had dulled into a washed-out grey. He shut the door quietly behind him. His bed sat unmade, notes spread across his desk in careful piles, colour-coded tabs peeking out like proof of effort.
Keonho stared at it all. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and didn’t move. The silence inside his room was different from the hallway silence with Martin. Softer. Safer. It didn’t ask anything of him.
His chest hurt in that dull, compressed way that came from holding too much inside for too long. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs, grounding himself, counting his breaths like he’d been taught once in a congress he’d attended because it looked good for his records.
In for four. Hold. Out for six.
It didn’t help.
His mind replayed the movement in the hallway over and over. This time it wasn’t the words, but the pause before them. Martin standing there, close enough that Keonho could feel the warmth of him. The way silence had settled between them like a verdict already passed.
Keonho squeezed his eyes shut. He hated how much it mattered.
His phone buzzed on the bed beside him. Once. Twice.
He didn’t need to look to know who it was from. Seonghyeon had a specific kind of persistence, a rhythm Keonho had come to recognise—check-in texts spaced just far enough apart not to feel overwhelming, close enough to say I’m here. Keonho picked up the phone anyway.
Seonghyeon: did you get home okay?
Keonho stared at the message longer than necessary. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed yeah, and deleted it. Typed i’m fine, and deleted that too. The lie felt too obvious today.
Keonho: home
A moment passed.
Seonghyeon: want company?
Keonho swallowed. He imagined Seonghyeon sitting cross-legged on his bed, quiet but solid. Imagined Juhoon barging in uninvited, complaining loudly about Martin like it was his personal mission to hate him on Keonho’s behalf. Imagined laughter. Distraction. Relief.
Then he imagined trying to explain the hollow feeling in his chest and failing.
Keonho: maybe later
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Seonghyeon: okay. but don’t disappear on us
Keonho set the phone down carefully, like it might break if he wasn’t gentle. He stood and went to his desk. Pulled out the exam copy he’d been allowed to keep. The red marks were minimal. Neat. Clinical. A few comments in the margins—strong introduction, expand, clarify intent, final call to action missing.
He hated the way his mind went straight to Martin.
He sank into his chair and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, forehead resting against his clasped hands.
You underperformed. He didn’t say anything about failure or about how he wasn’t good enough.
But there was enough distance to imply expectation. Keonho laughed quietly to himself, the sound brittle.
Everyone else saw numbers. Rankings. Percentages. Martin saw potential. And Keonho didn’t know how to live up to something that existed only in someone else’s head.
Night fell slowly. At some point, his room grew dark enough that the desk lamp became necessary. He didn’t turn it on. He just sat there, letting the shadows stretch across the room.
His phone buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen made his stomach twist.
Martin.
Keonho stared at it, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He didn’t open it. The phone buzzed again. Longer this time. A call. Keonho let it ring. When it stopped, the silence that followed felt heavier than before, thick and unresolved. He waited for relief to come with it.
It didn’t.
Instead, something settled deep in his chest. A quiet, aching certainty.
Martin wasn’t the kind of person who chased. Martin wasn’t the kind of person who softened first. If Keonho didn’t answer now, the distance would grow. It wouldn’t be obvious or significant, but it would be just enough to become permanent.
Keonho picked up the phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. His reflection stared back at him from the dark glass—eyes tired, smile gone, shoulders slumped in a way he’d never let anyone else see.
He exhaled slowly. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he unlocked the phone and opened the message.
Whatever Martin had to say, Keonho needed to hear it. Even the words cut deeper than the sharpest of knives.
☆☆☆
Martin had always believed silence was mercy. It was what he’d learned early on—back when expectations hardened into something immovable, when praise became conditional, and mistakes were treated like moral failings. Silence meant restraint, control, and I won’t make this worse for you.
So when he stood beside Keonho in the hallway, eyes on the glowing screen, he thought he was doing the right thing. He thought space was kindness. But the moment Keonho walked away, Martin knew he had miscalculated.
He replayed the exchange all afternoon, every word weighed and reweighed, every pause examined for fractures he hadn’t seen in the moment. When you’re silent, it feels like you’ve already given up on me. Like I’m not important enough for your words.
The sentence lodged itself somewhere deep and immovable.
Martin sat at his desk that evening, textbook open and untouched. His pen rested between his fingers, unmoving. Outside, the light faded in thin bands of grey and blue, the world quieting in a way that usually soothed him.
Tonight, it didn’t.
He checked his phone. No messages. He told himself not to care. He failed.
Martin wasn’t used to uncertainty, at least not like this. He thrived on clarity. On knowing where he stood, what was expected, and how to improve. With Keonho, everything felt slightly out of alignment, like trying to read familiar text through warped glass.
He picked up his phone. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
You did well. Too dismissive.
You shouldn’t measure yourself against rankings. Too hypocritical, coming from him.
His thumb hovered uselessly. The truth was simpler, but harder to admit.
Martin hadn’t gone quiet because he thought Keonho was a failure.
He’d gone quiet because he’d been disappointed. And disappointment scared him.
But he wasn’t disappointed in Keonho. He was disappointed in himself.
Because somewhere along the line, Martin had started expecting things from Keonho he’d never consciously asked for. Martin started seeing him not as competition, not as someone chasing a rank, but as someone whose effort mattered in a way that was… personal.
When Keonho underperformed, to Martin, it felt like watching someone you believed in doubt themselves.
And Martin had never learned how to respond to that without sounding cruel.
He exhaled sharply and stood, pacing his room once before stopping. Then he called.
The rings sounded too loud in the quiet. It went on longer than he expected. Longer than he could justify. When it stopped unanswered, something twisted low in his chest.
He waited. Counted to ten. Then called again. This time, it rang only once before the line connected.
Neither of them spoke.
Martin could hear Keonho breathing on the other end—soft, controlled, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. The sound alone stripped something bare in Martin’s chest.
“I shouldn’t have been silent,” Martin said finally.
Straight to the point. He didn’t trust himself to run around the bush. Keonho didn’t respond right away.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Martin continued, quieter now. “What I said earlier. Or what I didn’t say.”
A pause.
“Then what did you mean?” Keonho asked.
The question wasn’t sharp. Keonho sounded exhausted more than anything.
Martin closed his eyes. “I expected more,” he admitted. “And that’s not because I think you owe it to me, but because I know you’re capable of it.”
Keonho let out a soft, humourless laugh. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” Martin said. “It’s supposed to be honest.”
Another silence. This one fragile, stretching thin.
Martin pressed on, voice steady despite the tension curling in his spine. “I thought if I didn’t say anything, you’d… adjust. Push yourself. I didn’t realise you’d hear it as me giving up on you.”
Keonho’s breath hitched, just slightly. “You don’t get to decide how your silence lands,” Keonho said. “You don’t get to decide what it means to me.”
Martin swallowed. “I know,” he said. “I’m learning that.”
The admission felt dangerous, but necessary.
He continued, slower now. “I believe love isn’t about holding back. It’s about investment, time, energy, and showing up, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
He hadn’t exactly planned to say that. The words came anyway, pulled from somewhere deeper than strategy or intellect.
“When I went quiet,” Martin said, “I was withholding. And that’s on me.”
The line was silent for a long moment.
Then, softly, Keonho asked, “Why does it feel like everything with you is a test?”
Martin’s eyes shot open at the younger one’s words. He had seriously hurt Keonho more than he realised.
“It’s not. It’s just that I was taught that effort equals worth,” he said. “And I forget that not everyone wants to be evaluated.”
Keonho didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. Rawer. “I don’t want to be something you measure,” he said, hesitation clouding his tone. “I want to be someone you choose. Even when I mess up.”
The words landed with unmistakable weight. Martin felt them settle, heavy and undeniable.
“I do,” he said, without hesitation. “Choose you.”
“Then don’t disappear on me,” Keonho said. “Not like you did today.”
“I won’t,” Martin promised. “Never again.”
When the call ended, Martin remained where he was, phone still warm in his hand.
Silence wasn’t comfort. It was distance. If Martin wanted Keonho to stay, he would have to learn how to give without holding back. Just like love demanded.
☆☆☆
Keonho didn’t sleep much that night. It wasn’t because he was spiralling—he was oddly calm for once—but because his mind kept circling the same thought, over and over, like it was afraid to let go of it in case it vanished by morning.
I do. Choose you.
Martin hadn’t hesitated when he said it. His voice was full of certainty, spoken like a fact.
Keonho lay on his side, staring at the glow of dawn creeping across his wall, trying to decide whether or not that scared him more than the silence ever had.
By the time he arrived at school, the building already buzzed with the usual chaos of lockers slamming, laughter ricocheting down hallways, the smell of instant coffee and something fried drifting from the cafeteria. It all felt strangely distant, like he was watching it through glass.
He spotted Seonghyeon and Juhoon near their lockers.
Juhoon’s eyes lit up the moment he saw Keonho. “There he is,” he said, voice too bright to be casual. “Our academic prodigy lives.”
Keonho huffed softly. “Please don’t.”
Seonghyeon studied him for a second longer than necessary. “You okay?”
Keonho hesitated just barely before he nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
Juhoon squinted. “That sounded suspiciously like a real answer.”
Before Keonho could respond, the bell rang, slicing through the moment. Literature again. Same classroom. Same rows of desks. Same seat that suddenly felt too close to the front. And inevitably the same presence.
Martin was already there.
He sat two rows ahead, posture straight, pen aligned neatly with the edge of his notebook. He looked exactly as he always did. Composed, controlled, and untouchable. If Keonho hadn’t spoken to him the night before, he would’ve believed nothing had changed.
But when Martin turned his head slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet, Keonho felt it. It was no longer the sharpness he had grown accustomed to, but rather awareness. Martin’s gaze didn’t dissect him this time. It didn’t measure or weigh. It lingered, brief but unmistakable, before he inclined his head in a subtle nod.
It wasn’t an apology or a challenge. But it was an acknowledgment. Keonho’s chest tightened in a way he didn’t entirely dislike. He took his seat, fingers curling around his pen. His hands were steady, and that alone felt like progress.
James launched into the day’s discussion without preamble, building off their previous analysis. Keonho listened, truly listened, the way he usually did, but this time, the fear sat quieter in his chest. It was still there, but it was bearable, less loud than before.
A question was posed. One that required interpretation, nuance, and risk. Keonho felt the familiar pull to answer and the familiar instinct to stop himself. What if it’s shallow again? He inhaled slowly. Then raised his hand.
When James called on him, Keonho spoke, his voice careful, but he wasn’t timid. He talked about intent versus perception, about how narrators shape truth not just to deceive others, but to survive themselves. He didn’t rush. He didn’t apologise for his thoughts before offering them.
When he finished, the room was quiet.
James nodded. “That’s a strong reading,” he said. “Anyone want to build on that?”
Martin shifted ever so slightly in his seat. Keonho braced himself without meaning to.
“Yes,” Martin said, raising his hand.
The word alone used to make Keonho’s spine go rigid. But still, he listened.
“He’s right about survival,” Martin continued, eyes on the text. “But I think the exaggeration also functions as control. If the narrator dictates the tone, he dictates the audience’s response. It’s not classified as just defence, but rather as agency.”
He paused. Then, almost imperceptibly, he added, “It’s more deliberate than it looks.”
The words settled into the room. Keonho blinked. Martin hadn’t said his name. Hadn’t looked at him. Hadn’t softened his voice. But he hadn’t cut him down either. And somehow, that made all the difference.
Juhoon’s foot nudged Keonho’s under the desk. Keonho glanced sideways to see him grinning as if he had just witnessed something historic. Keonho shook his head. Juhoon only grinned wider.
The rest of the class passed without incident, but Keonho felt acutely aware of Martin’s presence the entire time. When the bell rang, chairs scraped back, and students flooded toward the exits. Keonho packed his bag more slowly than usual, stalling without admitting to himself why. He felt it before he saw it, Martin stopping beside his desk.
“For what it’s worth,” Martin said quietly, voice low enough that only Keonho could hear, “your analysis the other day wasn’t shallow. It was incomplete.”
Keonho looked up. Martin met his eyes this time.
“And incomplete,” Martin continued, “is something you can build on.”
His words weren’t warm, nor poetic, but they were honest. And it came with something new layered beneath it, similar to respect, offered without thorns.
Keonho swallowed. “You could’ve just said that.”
“I know,” Martin said. After a beat, he added, “I’m working on it.”
That made Keonho’s chest ache. Martin stepped back, giving him space, but not retreating immediately in case Keonho had something to add.
As he walked away, Juhoon leaned in immediately. “I hate to say it, but that was kind of hot,” he whispered.
Keonho snorted despite himself. “Please never say that again.”
Seonghyeon slung an arm around Keonho’s shoulders as they headed into the corridors. “You look lighter,” he said simply.
Keonho considered that. Maybe he was. Because for what felt like the first time in forever, Martin’s words didn’t feel like weapons aimed at his chest. They felt like stepping stones. Maybe Keonho could learn how to walk on them without bleeding.
☆☆☆
The debate room emptied faster than Keonho expected. Chairs scraped back in uneven bursts, papers stuffed into bags, voices hushed in that particular way people get when they don’t know whether they’re allowed to react. A loss always did that to a room—turned noise into something cautious.
Keonho lingered near the doorway, his debate notes folded too neatly in his hands. The final score still echoed in his head, stark and undeniable. Second place. He glanced toward the front. Martin hadn’t moved.
He stood near the teacher’s desk, shoulders rigid, gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the whiteboard as if the answer to what went wrong might still be written there. His blazer was unbuttoned, a sign Keonho had unconsciously learned to notice. His pen lay abandoned on the desk, angled wrong, misaligned.
Martin was off his game. It made something tighten in Keonho’s chest.
Seonghyeon brushed past him, pausing just long enough to murmur, “We’ll wait outside,” before tugging Juhoon along with him. The door clicked shut behind them, the sound final in a way that made the room feel suddenly too big. Too quiet.
Keonho hesitated. He told himself he could leave. That Martin wouldn’t want company. That this wasn’t his responsibility.
But then Martin exhaled, sharp and frustrated, and dragged a hand through his hair, the motion rough enough to break the careful image he always maintained.
So Keonho stayed.
He crossed the room slowly, footsteps soft against the wooden floorboards. Martin didn’t turn until Keonho was close enough to feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Martin said without looking at him. The words were flat and defensive.
“I know,” Keonho replied.
Martin’s jaw tightened, like he was bracing for something anyway.
Keonho looked at him properly then—he was no longer the version of Martin everyone else saw with the composed, cutting presence that dominated classrooms and debates—but this one. The one standing in an empty room after a loss, hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them.
Keonho thought about all the times words had hurt him. How easily. How deeply. And then he thought about the phone call. About I do. Choose you. About how Martin had admitted that words stuck to him, too.
So he started carefully. “I think you’re brilliant.” Keonho swallowed, his heart hammering against his chest, but he continued. “Even when you lose.”
That did it. Martin turned to face him, his expression stripped bare of its usual sharpness. For a second, he looked almost startled, like Keonho had spoken a language he wasn’t prepared to understand.
Brilliant. No qualifiers. No conditions. No but.
The silence stretched, but Keonho didn’t rush to soften it or laugh it off. He let the words sit where they’d landed.
“I know this hurts,” Keonho continued quietly. “And I know you’ll probably replay every argument in your head until you convince yourself you should’ve been better.” A faint, knowing smile tugged at his mouth. “But losing doesn’t erase all the wins.”
Martin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice low.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Keonho said. “Just don’t take it away from yourself.”
For a long moment, Martin didn’t speak. Then, almost reluctantly, he sat down on the edge of the desk, shoulders sagging a fraction as the tension finally bled out of him. He pressed his palms flat against the wood, grounding himself.
“No one’s ever said that to me,” he said quietly.
Keonho’s chest ached at the honesty of his words. “Then I’m glad I did.”
Their eyes met again as two people standing on equal ground for once, no longer as supposed rivals or opponents locked in some unspoken war. The bell rang somewhere down the hall, distant and irrelevant.
Eventually, Martin straightened. The sharpness returned to his features enough to resemble himself again.
“Thank you,” he said.
They left the room together.
☆☆☆
Martin found him after sunset.
Keonho was at the back stairwell—the one most students forgot existed, tucked behind the science wing where the concrete still held the day’s warmth and the noise of the school faded into something distant and manageable. He sat on the steps with his bag beside him, knees drawn up, rereading notes he didn’t really need to study.
He heard footsteps before he saw him. Measured. Familiar. Keonho didn’t look up right away. Martin stopped a few steps above him, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere ahead like he was lining his thoughts up before letting them out.
“I’ve been thinking,” Martin said.
Keonho almost laughed. “That’s new.”
Martin huffed softly, an exhale that might’ve been amusement if anyone else were watching. “Do you know why I’m careful with words?”
Keonho glanced up at him then. Martin’s expression wasn’t guarded, focused in that way he got when he was about to say something he couldn’t afford to misplace. Keonho shook his head in response to the question. Martin hesitated for a moment. Then stepped down one more stair, closing the distance without touching Keonho.
“Because when someone says something about me,” Martin said, “I believe it.”
The admission landed heavier than any of his so-called constructive insults ever had. Keonho stayed quiet, listening.
“Praise, criticism, and expectations. They don’t slide off. They stick. They become measurements I can’t stop comparing myself against.” Martin looked away briefly, jaw tightening. “So I learned to ration words. To believe that if I didn’t give praise freely, I could control its weight.”
Keonho’s chest tightened.
“And then,” Martin said, turning back to him. “I met you.”
Keonho’s breath caught, barely noticeable, but Martin noticed it anyway.
“I believed you were strong,” Martin went on. “Strong enough to survive mine.”
Keonho stood slowly, bringing them eye to eye. “I am,” he said.
Martin searched his face, like he was checking for fractures or some sort of lie. Keonho stepped closer.
“But I don’t want to survive you,” Keonho said, softer now. “I want to be wanted and loved and cared for.”
Something in Martin’s expression broke open. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he inhaled, deep and deliberate, like he was choosing each word the way someone chooses where to place their feet on unstable ground.
“You’re intelligent,” Martin said.
Keonho froze.
“You’re disciplined,” Martin continued. “You work harder than anyone gives you credit for. And you care—about people, about ideas, about doing things right—even when it costs you.”
Martin swallowed. “And you make me want to be kinder than I know how to be.”
The words settled into Keonho slowly, like warmth spreading through cold hands. He didn’t rush to fill the silence. Then he nodded once, taking in Martin’s words properly.
“Then let me be the one who reminds you how good you are, even when you forget.”
Martin’s breath hitched. He reached out to rest his hand lightly against Keonho’s wrist, a question rather than a demand. Keonho answered by stepping closer into his orbit.
They stood there, close enough to feel each other breathe, close enough to understand that this—this careful choosing of words, this honesty without cruelty—was the thing they’d been circling all along.
When Martin finally leaned in, it was unhurried. Gentle. Like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing with his mouth now, too. Keonho smiled against his lips.
☆☆☆
They still argued after that. Still challenged each other. Still corrected, debated, and pushed until sparks flew. But everything had changed. Criticism came with affirmation. Silence was replaced with honesty. Words became shared ground instead of a battlefield.
Keonho hated Martin’s heart because it spoke in truths. He loved it because it learned to speak gently to him.