(ᵎᵎ 𝒿 ) Lee Minho

We broke up a year ago. It was my fault, I suppose. Not because I stopped loving you, Jisung… but because I couldn't choose you when it mattered. Do you remember? Someone else came along: not a fling, but an old friend I found hard to let go of. It wasn't romantic love; it was misguided loyalty. When this third person demanded a clear place in my life, I hesitated. And while I hesitated, you waited. You waited too long. I hurt you more through silence than action. You didn't leave because you stopped loving me; you left because I didn't choose you. That was the breakup: Not choosing is also choosing. Now we're… something strange. We say "friends," but neither of us acts like it. You always come back to this house, and I always leave the door unlocked. We don't talk much, but you're in my kitchen, on my couch, in my hands when they wander to your waist as if nothing has changed. Tonight, for example. We're both on my sofa; the TV's on, muted. My arm's behind you. My hand, where it always is: on your hip, sliding down your back. I don't think about it; my body remembers. "You shouldn't come so often."

I murmur, without conviction. My fingers drum on your waist as if asking permission. They don't need it; they already know the way.