Chapter Text
Jihoon had said it first.
They were five years old when Hyunsuk cried over a broken red crayon during arts and crafts. Jihoon didn’t know what to do, so he pulled out a sparkly green dinosaur sticker and stuck it on Hyunsuk’s hand.
“I love you,” he said, like it was the most natural cure for tears.
Hyunsuk hiccupped, then laughed.
From that day on, “I love you” became theirs. They said it for everything and nothing—for passing a test, for sharing an umbrella, for no reason at all. It became the background noise of their friendship. Part of the script they lived in.
They used it like punctuation. Like breath.
In elementary school, someone teased them about it. “Are you guys, like… married?” the kid had asked.
Jihoon only grinned. “We’re just smarter than the rest of you.”
It was always easy—until it wasn’t.
By high school, something started shifting. Jihoon still said the words. Sometimes in laughter, sometimes quietly. But Hyunsuk stopped saying them back.
He smiled. He nodded. But he didn’t echo the words.
The first time it happened, Jihoon had handed him orange soda while they watched the sky melt into gold by the riverbank.
“I love you,” he’d said.
Hyunsuk smiled. But didn’t answer.
And Jihoon felt it—something heavy settled in his chest. Like the words had finally started meaning too much.
He kept saying them, again and again. Until he couldn’t anymore. The silence after each one became louder than anything else.
That summer, they still hung out—convenience store runs, arcade games, bike rides that stretched until curfew. But something was missing. A softness. A closeness. Jihoon felt like he was walking next to a version of Hyunsuk who was there but unreachable.
He noticed the red in Hyunsuk’s sketches was gone. Everything was purple now—quieter, more muted. “It’s just a nice color,” Hyunsuk had said when Jihoon asked. So Jihoon didn’t push. He just started saving purple gummies from the mixed bags, slipping them into Hyunsuk’s pocket without comment.
And Hyunsuk noticed.
Because he had stopped saying it for a reason.
He had begun to mean it. Every time Jihoon laughed or leaned too close or looked at him like he mattered more than anything else. He was terrified of meaning it, of breaking what they had. He thought silence might protect them.
But it didn’t. It only built walls.
So one night, he texted Jihoon to meet him on the rooftop—their rooftop.
Jihoon showed up like he always did. With strawberry milk. With cookies. With too many unsaid things in his eyes.
They lay on a blanket, just like they used to.
“I’ve been thinking,” Hyunsuk said after a while.
Jihoon didn’t speak. Just waited.
“Do you remember the first time you said it?”
Jihoon nodded. “The red crayon.”
Hyunsuk smiled faintly. “I thought you were weird. But I also thought… maybe you meant it.”
“I think I did,” Jihoon said. “I just didn’t know what it meant back then.”
Hyunsuk looked at him, really looked. His voice wavered.
“I stopped saying it,” he said, “because I didn’t want it to be a joke anymore.”
Jihoon was quiet for a breath. “Then let’s not joke.”
Hyunsuk reached out. His hand trembled slightly.
“Can I try again?” he whispered.
Jihoon nodded.
Hyunsuk laced their fingers together.
“I love you.”
And this time, the words didn’t float off like a reflex or punchline. They stayed. Heavy and real. Jihoon smiled, not because it was expected, but because it was right.