Chapter Text
Grief never ends… but it changes. And somehow, love stays alive between the tears.
The rain fell in a gentle, relentless curtain, each drop pattering softly against the sea of black umbrellas, as though the sky itself was mourning.
The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and the faint tang of pine from the surrounding trees.
A low mist clung to the ground, curling around the mourners’ feet, as if reluctant to let go of the moment.
Baek Nakyum stood at the edge of the grave, his shoes sinking slightly into the sodden grass, water trickling down his dark hair and seeping into the collar of his black coat.
The cold was biting, but he didn’t feel it—not the chill, not the damp, not the weight of his soaked clothes.
His senses were dulled, drowned out by the deafening silence in his chest where Seungho’s voice used to live.
The casket descended into the earth with agonizing slowness, the creak of the ropes cutting through the quiet hum of the rain.
Nakyum’s knees trembled, threatening to buckle, but he locked them in place, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Behind him, someone murmured a prayer, their words soft and fleeting, carried away by the wind.
Seungho’s mother stood a few steps away, her face pale and drawn, her quiet sobs muffled as she leaned into her husband’s shoulder.
Seungho’s father stood rigid, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the ground as though he could will the moment to be undone.
A priest spoke in a low, steady voice, his words weaving a fragile tapestry of comfort—love, peace, eternal rest.
But Nakyum didn’t hear them.
Not really.
All he could hear was the ghost of Seungho’s voice, warm and teasing, echoing in his mind: “Nakyum-ah, don’t stand there looking like a drowned puppy. Come here, let me warm you up.”
He didn’t look away from the casket.
Not when the ropes were pulled free.
Not when the first shovelful of earth thudded against the polished wood, the sound like a punch to his gut.
He stood rooted to the spot, watching as the grave filled, each scoop of dirt burying a piece of his heart.
The mourners began to disperse, their umbrellas bobbing like dark waves as they retreated to their cars, but Nakyum remained, his gaze fixed on the growing mound of earth.
When the final shovel was emptied, the workers stepped back, their faces somber but professional.
A white marble headstone was brought forward, its surface gleaming despite the overcast sky.
It was simple, elegant, exactly as Seungho would have wanted—nothing ostentatious, nothing excessive.
The inscription was carved in clean, precise letters:
Yoon Seungho
1997 – 2025
“You were my masterpiece.”
Nakyum had chosen the epitaph himself, late one sleepless night, hunched over a notepad with a pencil trembling in his hand.
He’d written and rewritten the words, searching for something that captured the enormity of what Seungho had been to him.
Nothing had felt enough—not “beloved,” not “cherished,” not even “forever.”
But masterpiece—that was Seungho.
A work of art, complex and flawed and breathtakingly beautiful, a creation that had reshaped Nakyum’s world.
He stepped forward, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth marble.
He pressed two fingers to his lips, then touched the stone, the gesture achingly familiar.
It was the same way he used to touch Seungho’s cheek after a long day, when they’d collapse onto the couch together, Seungho’s arms pulling him close.
“I’ll see you again,” Nakyum whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain.
The words felt like a promise, a vow he wasn’t sure he could keep but needed to say.
The days that followed were a haze, each one bleeding into the next like watercolors left too long in the rain.
Nakyum moved through them mechanically, his body present but his mind elsewhere.
He didn’t eat much, the taste of food turning to ash in his mouth.
He didn’t talk much, either, his voice feeling foreign and heavy in his throat.
He spent hours sitting in their shared apartment, staring at the spaces where Seungho used to be.
The kitchen counter where Seungho would perch, sipping coffee and teasing Nakyum about his terrible cooking.
The worn-out armchair by the window where Seungho would sketch, his pencil moving with a grace that made Nakyum’s heart ache.
The bed, still unmade, where they’d spent countless nights tangled together, whispering dreams and secrets into the dark.
Seungho was everywhere.
In the faint smell of coffee that lingered in the kitchen, even though Nakyum hadn’t brewed any in weeks.
In the oversized sweater draped over the back of a chair, one Nakyum had forgotten to wash, still carrying the faint scent of Seungho’s cologne—sandalwood and cedar, warm and grounding. In the song that played unexpectedly on the radio, a soft jazz tune Seungho used to hum absentmindedly while cooking dinner.
In the smudge of watercolor on Nakyum’s desk, a remnant of the day Seungho had leaned over his shoulder, guiding his hand to blend the colors just right. “Like this, Nakyum-ah,” he’d said, his breath warm against Nakyum’s ear. “Don’t be afraid to let it bleed.”
Some nights, when the silence became too heavy, Nakyum would pull out his phone and call Seungho’s number.
He knew it was pointless, knew the line had been disconnected, but he dialed anyway, just to hear the familiar ringtone.
He’d close his eyes and imagine Seungho picking up, his voice lazy and warm: “What’s this, calling me in the middle of the night? Miss me already?”
But the call always went to voicemail, and Nakyum would listen to the automated message until it cut off, leaving him in silence again.
One night, lying in the too-big bed, Nakyum clutched Seungho’s pillow to his chest and whispered into the dark, “You liar… you said we had time.”
His voice broke, and the tears came, hot and relentless, soaking the fabric.
He remembered the day Seungho had made that promise, sprawled out on a picnic blanket under a cherry blossom tree, petals drifting around them like soft pink snow.
“We’ve got forever, Nakyum-ah,” Seungho had said, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on Nakyum’s wrist.
“No rush. Just you and me.” Nakyum had believed him, had let himself sink into the warmth of those words, not knowing how little time they truly had.
A week after the funeral, Nakyum found himself standing outside a boxing gym he’d passed countless times but never entered.
The neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a red glow over the wet pavement.
He didn’t know why he was there, only that he needed to feel something, anything, to drown out the numbness.
The receptionist, a young woman with a kind but curious expression, looked up as he walked in. “First time?” she asked, her voice gentle.
Nakyum nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
She handed him a pair of gloves, pointing him toward a corner where a punching bag hung, its surface worn and patched from years of use.
He pulled on the gloves, the leather stiff against his palms, and approached the bag.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at it, his breath shallow and uneven.
Then he swung.
One punch.
Two.
The impact jolted up his arms, sharp and grounding.
He hit harder, faster, each strike a release of the rage and grief he’d been carrying.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat on his cheeks.
His jaw clenched, his teeth sinking into his lower lip until he tasted blood.
“You idiot!” he shouted, his voice raw and jagged.
“You left me! You promised—you promised!”
The words tore out of him, echoing in the quiet gym.
“You said you were fine!”
PUNCH!
“You didn't take your symptoms serious!”
PUNCH!
“You flirted me!”
PUNCH!
“Seduced me!”
PUNCH!
“Took my virginity!”
PUNCH!
“Loved me!”
PUNCH!
“Made me love you!”
PUNCH!
“And I love you too!”
PUNCH!
“I love you so much!”
PUNCH!
“So fucking much!”
PUNCH!
He punched again, again, again, until his arms burned and his shoulders screamed, until his sobs were louder than the thuds against the bag.
People glanced over, their expressions a mix of concern and restraint, but no one approached.
Nakyum didn’t care.
He kept hitting until his strength gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, his gloves sliding off as he curled into himself.
The sobs came heavy and shaking, like a child’s, wracking his body until he was breathless.
He lay there for what felt like hours, the cold floor grounding him, the ache in his muscles a strange kind of comfort.
When he finally stood, the bag still swaying slightly before him, he felt… not whole, not healed, but lighter.
Like he’d shed a fraction of the weight he’d been carrying.
A month passed, and the world refused to pause.
Spring gave way to summer, and graduation season arrived, bright and bittersweet.
Nakyum sat in the front row of the university auditorium, his hands folded tightly in his lap.
The room was a sea of caps and gowns, the air buzzing with excitement and anticipation, but Nakyum felt like an outsider, a ghost among the living.
When Seungho’s name was called for doctoral degree, the crowd rose to their feet, their applause a thunderous wave.
Seungho’s parents stepped forward to accept the certificate, but halfway to the stage, they paused and turned to Nakyum, their eyes soft with understanding.
They gestured for him to join them.
Nakyum hesitated, his heart pounding, but he stood and walked to the stage, his black suit a stark contrast to the vibrant robes around him.
The dean handed him the certificate, its weight heavy in his hands.
He stepped to the microphone, his throat tight, his voice trembling as he began to speak.
“Seungho was more than an artist, more than a teacher. He was a storm—a quiet one, the kind that creeps up on you and changes everything before you even realize it’s there. He saw beauty in places others overlooked, in broken things, in messy things.”
His voice cracked, and he paused, swallowing hard. “He was the love of my life.”
The crowd fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them.
“He taught me how to see the world, how to paint it, how to live in it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to honor that.”
He held up the certificate, his hands steady despite the ache in his chest. “This belongs to him. But I’ll carry it. In his name. For as long as I live.”
The applause was soft at first, then grew, a warm wave that enveloped him as he stepped down from the stage.
Seungho’s mother hugged him tightly, her tears damp against his cheek. “He loved you so much,” she whispered. “He’d be so proud.”
Nakyum nodded, unable to speak, his throat choked with emotion.
He clutched the certificate to his chest, a tangible piece of Seungho he could hold onto.
Weeks later, Nakyum stood on another stage, this time in his own high school cap and gown.
His name was called, and he walked across the platform, his diploma a small but significant weight in his hands.
He managed a faint smile, the first in weeks, as the crowd clapped.
Some cried—classmates who knew, teachers who understood, friends who had seen the light in his eyes dim.
After the ceremony, his parents enveloped him in a hug, their pride mingling with their sorrow. “He would be proud,” his mother whispered, her voice thick with tears.
“I hope so,” Nakyum replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
That afternoon, he drove to the cemetery, the air warm and heavy with the scent of blooming flowers.
Seungho’s grave was marked by fresh bouquets, their colors vibrant against the white marble.
The headstone was clean, the inscription still sharp and clear.
Nakyum knelt beside it, brushing away a fallen leaf with careful fingers. “Hi,” he said softly, his voice catching. “How are you doing there? Everything fine?”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out two rolled diplomas, their ribbons fluttering in the breeze. “Guess what? I graduated. Both of us did.”
He placed them beside the headstone, smoothing the ribbon on Seungho’s with a tenderness that made his chest ache. “Yours says Doctor Yoon Seungho,” he said, a small chuckle escaping him. “Fancy, huh?”
The silence that followed was heavy but not empty.
Nakyum could almost hear Seungho’s smug laugh, the one he’d use when Nakyum teased him about his academic achievements.
“Doctor Yoon, huh? Sounds like I’m too good for you now,” Seungho would have said, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“I miss you,” Nakyum whispered, his voice breaking.
He sat beside the grave for an hour, his words spilling out in a quiet stream.
He told Seungho about the new paint set he’d bought, how he’d mixed the colors just like Seungho had taught him.
He talked about the weird bird that had nested outside his window, its chirps waking him up at dawn.
He described the way he’d redecorated their old study, hanging one of Seungho’s unfinished sketches on the wall—a portrait of Nakyum, half-complete, with soft lines and smudged charcoal.
Finally, he stood, his hand trembling as he pressed it to the headstone. “I’m leaving for university,” he said. “Seoul National University. You always said I’d get in.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ll come with me, right?”
The drive to SNU was long, the road stretching out before him like an uncharted map.
Nakyum had rented a small car, packing lightly—a suitcase, a few art supplies, and the things that mattered most.
On the passenger seat sat Seungho’s sketchbook, its pages worn and creased from years of use, and his old hoodie, faded but still soft.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, Nakyum plugged his phone into the car’s AUX cord.
He opened Telegram and scrolled to the last voicemail Seungho had sent him, months ago, when they’d thought they had all the time in the world.
He pressed play, and Seungho’s voice filled the car, warm and familiar, like a hand reaching out from the past.
“Nakyum-ah… if you’re listening to this, that means I’m not there to nag you to eat your vegetables or kiss your forehead. But I want you to smile. And paint. And love. And live. Don’t get stuck, okay? And if you ever need to cry… just cry. But then get up. Keep going. I’ll be watching. Always. I love you.”
The message ended, and the next one started automatically—a silly recording of Seungho laughing, joking about a terrible pun, humming a tune off-key.
Nakyum smiled through his tears, the road blurring as his eyes filled with water.
Nakyum rolled down the window, letting the warm breeze rush in, ruffling his hair and drying the tears on his cheeks.
The wind felt like a touch, soft and fleeting, like Seungho’s fingers brushing against his skin.
“I love you forever,” Nakyum whispered into the wind. “Even when we're not together.”
THE END...