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Joshua had never thought of himself as someone who lingered in the past. At least, that was what he told himself. After the accident, his life was restart, like a blank canvas. He didn't remember anything—including his own name. He need to rebuilt his life brick by brick—new habits, new faces, a rhythm carefully pressed into place by his parents.
Never once he curious about what his life was like before the accident. Who were his friends? Did Joshua act differently in front of his friends than he did in front of his parents? Did he even have friends outside of his parents' connections? He chose to believe whatever his parents told him when he woke up from that long sleep. Simply because every time he tried to remember something, it left him with nothing but a headache.
Then came Seungcheol. Introduced by his parents. They said if he married Seungcheol, many good things would come. Joshua knew it had something to do with business, but he didn't refuse. He entrusted his life completely to his parents, believing they would surely give him the best.
Once Seungcheol entered his life, Joshua felt this was indeed the life meant for him. He felt content, safe, with Seungcheol. And his life continued on that way.
But then came the cracks.
After his encounter with the man at the cafe, Joshua felt something was wrong. Yes, he did leave the cafe smiling, hand in hand with Seungcheol. But he couldn't deny the strangeness gnawing at him.
He was certain he knew that man.
So one night, when Seungcheol was already fast asleep beside him, Joshua remained wake, sitting up against the headboard. His phone balanced in his hands as he scrolled through old albums, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. He scrolled through the gallery, restless, eager to find it. He scrolled and scrolled until the hours blurred. And the more he scrolled, the more he noticed the gaps.
The photos leapt in odd skips. A neat row of graduation shots—his parents flanking him, a few close friends, a tired but relieved smile on his face. Then suddenly, a jump forward. No photos from the months that followed, only scattered shots from years later. Whole stretches of time seemed missing, like torn-out pages.
Joshua never noticed this before, so he frowned, tilting the phone slightly. He scrolled lower, double-checking, as though his eyes had tricked him. But the gaps remained.
He glanced at Seungcheol who still soundly asleep. Relief loosened his shoulders. Carefully, Joshua set the phone down, slipping out from under the coves. He moved on bare feet across the room, the air cool against his skin, and crouched by the wardrobe. His heart pounded—not from fear of being caught, exactly, but from the heaviness of what he might find.
He opened the wardrobe slowly, careful not the wake Seungcheol. For a moment, Joshua hesitated, questioning himself—would he really find anything here, in this brand-new wardrobe? But he forced himself to go on. He remembered moving everything from the old closet at his parents' house into this one, here in the home he now shared with Seungcheol.
Joshua dig deeper to the wardrobe, pulling out boxes long ignored. Old clothes, stacked notebooks, stray ticket stubs. His fingers brushed over papers until they caught on something different—a folded piece of stationary, yellowed at the corners.
Joshua unfolded it slowly. The handwriting inside was careful but fluid, looping letters that tugged at something in his chest. The words were simple—reminders to eat, a playful complaint about his habits, a warmth threaded between the lines. At the bottom was a name.
Jeonghan.
Joshua's breath stilled. His eyes traced the name again and again, the shape of it both strange and heartbreakingly familiar. He whispered it under his breath, so softly it barely stirred the air. “Jeonghan...”
Something inside him shifted. Like the faintest click of a lock long rusted shut.
Behind him, Seungcheol stirred faintly, and Joshua scrambled to fold the paper back, tucking it quickly into his pocket. He shut the wardrobe with the gentlest push, the sound muffled, his pulse roaring in his ears.
He slipped back into bed, sliding under the covers as though nothing had happened. But sleep wouldn't come. Not with the name burning against his ribs, not with the echo of laughter he couldn't quite remember ringing faintly in his head
Day stretched into weeks.
Joshua became careful, always careful. He searched only when Seungcheol was out running errands, or when the apartment was otherwise silent. He returned to the wardrobe, to old boxes, to shelves gathering dust. Each time, he unearthed something more. A crumpled movie ticket. A scrawl on the margin of an old book, don't skip meals, Shuji. A faded grocery list written in that same hand.
Some of the notes didn't have name below it. But, Joshua knew, it was Jeonghan.
And with every discovery came fragments—dreams he couldn't place, a voice calling him, the faint memory of soft hair brushing against his cheek. The ache grew sharper, harder to ignore.
At meals with his parents, he tested the waters gently. “Would you answer me if I asked you about my past? Before the accident?”
The silence fell over the table, only for the briefest second. It might not have been noticeable to anyone else, but Joshua felt it, the sudden chill creeping into the room.
“Why bring this up now?” his father broke the quiet.
“I found some old notes the other day. There was a name I didn't recognize—it didn't seem like a friend of mine, or one of Seungcheol's friends,” he hesitated, then forced the question that had been lodged in his throat. “Do you know who Jeonghan was?”
His mother's hand paused, barely, before lifting her glass of water. His father laughed too easily. “You met so many people after graduation, maybe he was one of them. My only advice—don't dwell on it.”
The dismissal cut sharper than it should have. Joshua smiled anyway, letting the subject slide, but the tightness in his chest only deepened.
Joshua didn't bring it up to Seungcheol. Not yet. Each night, lying beside him, Joshua would feel the paper still hidden in his drawer, hear the echo of the name pressing at the edges of his mind. He wanted to ask, to say something, but he couldn't. Not when he didn't even know what Jeonghan had been to him.
So he stayed quiet, careful as ever. And the silence grew heavier, pressing like a weight against his ribs.
It was Seungcheol who finally noticed something different.
They were sitting together one evening, Seungcheol reading on the couch while Joshua fidgeted with a small notebook in his lap. He hadn't meant to let it show—he had been so careful—but something in his stillness must have given him away.
“You've been distracted lately,” Seungcheol said gently, lowering his book, “is something wrong?”
Joshua's fingers stilled on the notebook's edge. The question hung between them, heavy. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then exhaled slowly. The secret had grown too heavy to carry alone.
“Do you...” his voice faltered. He tried again. “Do you know anyone named Jeonghan?”
Seungcheol blinked. “Jeonghan?” He shook his head after a pause, “No, I don't think so. Should I?”
Joshua’s throat tightened. “I don’t know. I keep finding things things, small reminders... with his name.” He hesitated, his grip tightening on the notebook. “And I think... I think he was important to me.”
Seungcheol leaned forward, brows furrowed. “What kind of things?”
So Joshua told him. Halting at first, then steadier, as though the words had been waiting too long to be spoken. He described the notes, the handwriting that felt achingly familiar, the fragments of dreams that left him breathless. He tried to explain the ache, the sense that Jeonghan wasn’t just a passing friend but someone who had carved his name into Joshua’s very bones.
As Joshua spoke, he saw something shift in Seungcheol’s eyes. A shadow, fleeting but sharp. Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his shoulders stiffening. Joshua didn’t understand it—too caught in his own unraveling—but Seungcheol felt it like a blow.
Because as Joshua spoke the name, as he described the warmth and the laughter, there was something in his voice. A tenderness. A longing. And Seungcheol realized with sudden clarity, Joshua still loved this Jeonghan guy. Whoever Jeonghan was, however much time had passed, a part of Joshua’s heart had never let go.
The thought terrified him.
“Cheol?” Joshua’s voice was small, pulling him back.
Seungcheol forced a smile, though it trembled. He reached across the space, resting his hand over Joshua’s. “It sounds like he meant a lot to you.” His voice was even, careful. “Maybe… maybe you just need time to remember.”
Joshua lowered his gaze, nodding faintly. The silence stretched, heavy with what neither of them said.
When Joshua finally confronted his parents, he did it quietly. Subtly.
It was a Sunday, the three of them gathered around the table for dinner at his parents' place. The food was warm, the air easy. Joshua waited until the plates were half-empty, until his father was sipping tea, his mother laughing softly at some small anecdote.
“Are you sure you don't know anything about Jeonghan?” he asked, trying to sound calm even as his blood boiled, his hand trembling slightly.
The laughter died. His mother set her chopsticks down with deliberate care. “Joshua, we've talked about this. You met so many people after graduation, don't dwell on it.”
“But this isn't just somebody,” Joshua pressed, voice steady though his pulse thundered, “I keep finding things, notes, his handwriting, I knew he mattered to me.”
His father's smile didn't reach his eyes, “Sometimes the mind plays tricks. You went through a lot, son. Not everything you think you remember is real.”
Joshua swore it was the most nonsensical thing he had ever heard from his father. But, Joshua swallowed hard, staring at them both. The deflections, the careful dismissals—it was too rehearsed, too clean. He felt the truth in the silence between their words. And it burned.
“Then why are there gaps?” he asked quietly. “Why are there whole months missing from my albums? Who deleted them?”
Neither of them answered. His mother’s gaze dropped to her plate. His father’s jaw tightened.
Joshua pushed his chair back, the sound loud in the silence. “You know something. You’ve always known.” His voice trembled now, sharp with hurt. “And you’ve kept it from me.”
He left before they could respond, his chest aching as though something had cracked wide open.
After the dinner with his parents, Joshua's nights became restless and sleepless. His mind was crowded with unanswered questions about Jeonghan, while Seungcheol—his husband—slept soundly beside him.
It only added to Joshua's burden. But he couldn't lie to himself, he couldn't push Jeonghan out of his thoughts.
If he and Jeonghan truly knew each other, and if the person he met at the cafe really was Jeonghan, then why hadn't Jeonghan admitted it and explained everything? Wouldn't that have been the perfect chance to reclaim Joshua after they were forced apart?
Or perhaps Jeonghan had genuinely chosen to forget him and no longer carried any feeling for him at all.
When morning came, after smiling and waving at Seungcheol's car as it slowly disappeared from the garage on his way to work, Joshua decided to try his luck.
He changed into something more presentable, quickly started his car, and pulled out of the garage. He was headed to the cafe again. All throughout the drive, Joshua could only pray that Jeonghan would be there today. He couldn't help pressing the pedal harder than usual, letting the car speed down the road.
When he arrived, Joshua rushed inside the cafe. Breathless, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes scanned the room—searching for the one person he had been aching to see these past weeks.
And there he was.
Sitting by the window again, just as he had been the first time Joshua saw him.
Slowly, Joshua approached. His heartbeat thundered as if it would give him away. Jeonghan sat bathed in sunlight, as though the sun ray had chosen him alone for a spotlight.
“Jeonghan?” Joshua called, his voice almost a whisper.
But as if he had heard it clearly, Jeonghan turned toward him—quicker than Joshua had expected.
“Joshuji?”
His memories of Jeonghan were still blurred, but something in his chest tightened. Jeonghan looked different from what fragments of memory he still had—older now, sharper around the edges—yet painfully familiar. His hair was a little longer, but Joshua was certain it was still as soft as his fingers remembered.
“So you do know me... we do know each other.” Joshua finally broke the brief silence between them.
Jeonghan looked at him at disbelief, “How? Do you finally remember... us?” The word us felt foreign on his tongue, leaving his throat dry the moment it slipped out.
Joshua pulled out the chair and sat across from Jeonghan, his legs no longer strong enough to hold him up. “Why did you say we never met?” His voice broke the stillness—trembling, almost accusing.
Jeonghan flinched. His gaze dropped to the table. “Because you looked happy. You didn't remember me, Joshua. You forgot about us. And you already have someone—a perfect life. I didn't want to ruin that.”
Joshua's throat ached. He wanted to be angry, but the sight of Jeonghan's downcast gaze tore him open instead, “You erased yourself from me. You let them erase you.”
Jeonghan's lips trembled. “I didn't have choice, Shuji.”
Joshua leaned forward, desperation spilling out of him. “I thought I was crazy. I thought I was losing my mind when the memories came back in pieces. Do you know what that feels like? To remember someone's laughter but not their face? To remember warmth but not the name? And all this time—it was you.”
Jeonghan's eyes shone. “I thought it was kinder this way.”
“It wasn't,” Joshua's voice cracked. “It wasn't kinder. It was hell. Especially when everyone hide everything from me.”
“Do you still love me?” Joshua's voice became softer, almost like a whisper, but his gaze never left Jeonghan's.
Jeonghan's reaction was immediate—no hesitation, no doubt. His lips parted, and he almost laughed, bitter and breathless. “Of course I do. I always have. That never changed.” His eyes, sharp and glassy, locked onto Joshua's, “What about you? Don't you have Seungcheol now?”
The silence after that was brutal. Joshua's heart lurched, torn between guilt and longing. He lowered his gaze to his hands, “Seungcheol... he's nice, steady, and been there for me.”
The words fell like stones between them. Jeonghan's face faltered for the briefest moment, as if Joshua had just driven a knife into him.
But then Joshua lifted his head, tears already threatening his lashes, “But even with all of that, my heart is still calling for you.”
Jeonghan's breath hitched, his throat working around the emotion that surged up too fast to contain. His hand curled into a fist against the table, “Then let me fight for you this time, let me—”
Joshua cut him off, his own voice firm despite the trembling, “No, it's my turn to fight. I let them take everything from me once. I'm not going to let it happen again.”
The weight of his words silence Jeonghan, who could only stare at him, eyes wide and wet. Slowly, Joshua reached across the table and slid his fingers over Jeonghan's, holding on with quiet convition.
It was no longer a question. No longer a maybe.
It was already dark outside when Joshua returned to his place with Seungcheol. Seungcheol was waiting, seated on the couch, the glow of the television flickering across his face.
“Hey, where have you been?” he asked softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed more than casual concern.
Joshua hesitated, placing his car key beside Seungcheol's. “I... went to meet someone.”
Seungcheol's gaze sharpened. “Jeonghan.”
The name landed heavy in the room. Joshua froze, then turned slowly. “You knew?”
“I guessed,” Seungcheol's voice was low, taut with something Joshua couldn't name. “I got the hint that you probably already remember everything about your relationship with him, and I guess it's true, right?”
Silence fell heavy between them. Seungcheol's hand tightened around the remote. Joshua swallowed hard, fighting the tears in his eyes to not fall.
“Cheol, you've been so good to me, more than I deserve. You gave me a home, a family, and love. I do love you, Cheol, I really do,” his chest heaved, his eyes pleading for understanding, “but it's not the same. I realized it's still his name my heart is calling for. I can't fight it, I don't want to lie to myself anymore.”
For a moment, neither of them moved nor spoke. The ticking of the clock sounded louder than ever, marking the death of something they had tried to build together.
Finally, Seungcheol let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes briefly before looking at Joshua again. His gaze was steady, but his voice carried the weight of quiet surrender. “I knew,” he admitted, “the way you said his name when you talked about him, the way your hands shook when you found those traces of him in your things. I did notice, Shua-ya. But I stay silent, because—” his voice cracked, just barely, making Joshua's chest ache even more, “I hoped maybe I could make you forget.”
Joshua's tears fell freely now.
“Cheol, you're everything I could ever ask for. You really are. But my heart...” he pressed his hand to his chest, voice breaking, “...my heart already chose him a long time ago.”
Seungcheol's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He only nodded slowly, as if carving the truth into himself with each motion.
“Then go, Shua-ya. I will not hold you back. Be with him, I won't chain you here if your heart's already somewhere else.”
Joshua's knees buckled as guilt consumed him. But before his knees touched the floor, Seungcheol hold him.
“Just one thing,” Seungcheol murmured, his voice softer now, almost a plea, “stay with me tonight, let me hold you. Just once more.”
Joshua's chest ached. Every instinct told him it was cruel to agree, cruel to let this man cling when he already decided to leave. But the sorrow in Seungcheol's eyes broke him. He couldn't deny him this one last piece of comfort. So he nodded.
“Okay.”
That night, they lay in the dark, bodies pressed close beneath the sheets. Seungcheol's arms wrapped securely around Joshua, as though trying to memorize the feel of him—the slope of his shoulders, the warmth of his skin, the rhythm of his breath.
Joshua remained silent, face buried in Seungcheol's chest. The older man's embrace was steady, protective, everything Joshua had once believed he needed. Seungcheol's breathing grew deeper, slower, until finally it settled into the even cadence of sleep.
But Joshua's eyes stayed open. His heart pounded, not from the closeness of Seungcheol's touch, but from the memory of Jeonghan's eyes across that cafe table, from the sound of his voice cracking when he admitted, Of course I still love you.
Joshua's gaze trailed over Seungcheol's sleeping face, the peace that softened his features even in the midst of heartbreak. A lump formed in Joshua's throat. He wanted to love him enough. He wanted to make his heart obey. But the truth was merciless.
I'm sorry, Cheol, he thought, his tears soaking into Seungcheol's shirt. You gave me everything, and still, my heart beats louder for Jeonghan.
He stayed awake until dawn, caught in the quiet tragedy of knowing this would be the last time he'd ever be held like this by Seungcheol.
When the sun rose, he would let go.