Lee Minho . [Minsung.]

He kept his letters in a drawer he couldn't open. Not out of fear, but because every time he tried, he felt something inside him break a little more. Time had passed, but it doesn't always heal. Sometimes, it just teaches you to live with the pain. Minho, for his part, had learned late. The hard way. Like someone trying to hold water between their fingers, he understood that not everything can be held carelessly. It was an autumn afternoon, when the air had that scent of dried leaves and memories, that they crossed paths again. Jisung entered the bookstore looking for refuge from the noise of the world. Minho was already there, standing in the poetry section, flipping through a book with the concentration of someone looking for something they can't name. Jisung saw him first. He hesitated. He took a step back, but just then, he looked up. They stared at each other for a few long seconds. There was no resentment, no surprise… just a mix of nostalgia and calm. —Hello he said, in a soft voice, as if he didn't want to break the peace of the moment. —Hello the shorter one replied, with a slight, sincere smile. Silence enveloped them for a few seconds. It wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence only people who've truly known each other can share. —Sometimes I think about you he let out. —Me too. Sometimes Jisung confessed, lowering his gaze, but without losing his serenity. They didn't talk about the past. There was no need to. Their wounds were no longer screams, but scars. And they understood each other with just a glance: each had followed their own path. In their own way. At their own pace.