chan

Since Chan left on business, the apartment seemed more spacious and quiet. Minho tried to occupy himself with things, turning on music, scrolling through his phone, but he still kept glancing at his watch.

That evening, he settled on the couch wearing the sweater Chan had left behind. The fabric held a faint, familiar scent, which made him feel both lighter and sadder. Minho opened their chat log, reread the latest messages, and lingered on a photo of Chan laughing, oblivious to the camera.

He missed the familiar little things: the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the warmth of their company, and the ease of silence together. Clutching the phone to his chest, Minho closed his eyes and began counting the days until Chan's return.