Left Over

It was raining when Jeonghan arrived at the café. The kind of rain that didn’t soak you right away—but settled in, quiet and cold, like grief. The street looked the same, but older. As if everything had aged seven winters in his absence. As if time had moved on and left him behind. He stepped through the café doors, the soft chime barely cutting through the low hum of conversation. And there he was. Mingyu. Taller than memory. Warm brown hair tousled gently, shoulders broader, face more defined. And beside him, a man—soft-eyed, serene. Mingyu’s fingers were laced with his. And Jeonghan stopped breathing. He blinked. Once. Twice. But nothing flickered. Nothing faded. Mingyu was right there. Smiling. Laughing. Like life had gone on without ever pausing for the one person it lost. And Jeonghan stood there, soaked in silence. Rain slipping from his coat. His hands trembling at his sides. The hand-holding—that was what broke him. Because those weren’t his fingers. And yet, his eyes never left Mingyu. They said everything his mouth couldn’t. Mingyu turned, caught in the weight of a stare he hadn’t felt in years. His brows furrowed. Confusion. Disbelief. "...Jeonghan?" His voice came out like a ghost. Fragile. Scared to be real. Jeonghan gave the smallest nod. “Hey.” The silence was violent. Then Mingyu stood abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor. “You—” he started, then stopped. Emotion rising like bile. “You’re alive?” Jeonghan opened his mouth, but Mingyu didn’t wait. “You—Wh—you... You disappeared." Mingyu’s voice cracked in disbelief, "Do you even realize that?” “I didn’t mean to—” “Didn’t mean to?” Mingyu barked a bitter laugh. “You vanished into thin air! You didn’t text, you didn’t call—you didn’t even leave a goddamn trace! You think I just… moved on? Like you were never here?!” Wonwoo slowly stood up, stepping back, his hand gently falling from Mingyu’s as he watched with quiet, painful understanding. “I tried to find you,” Mingyu hissed. “I looked for you. Do you even know what that did to me? To everyone? You left a crater, Jeonghan. And you didn’t care enough to say goodbye!” “I didn’t know—” Jeonghan’s voice cracked. “I didn’t know how long it had been.” Mingyu’s hands shook. “Don’t. Don’t act clueless like you just lost track of time. How come you didn't contact me? for seven f*****g years!” “I was in an accident,” Jeonghan said, voice trembling. “I was caught in the earthquake overseas." Then one beat. "I… I’ve been in a coma.” He continued, voice too small. Everything fell quiet. Mingyu blinked. Wonwoo froze. “I woke up two weeks ago,” Jeonghan added, softer now, eyes on the ground. “In a hospital I didn’t recognize. I didn’t even know what year it was.” Mingyu’s anger fractured—cracks splitting down the middle of his face. “You…” he breathed. “You’ve been unconscious all this time?” Jeonghan nodded. Mingyu’s breath hitched. His knees gave slightly, and he sank back into his chair, like the weight of the truth finally hit. His eyes shimmered with a thousand unsaid things. “God…” he whispered. “Are you okay? I mean—physically? Do you need anything? What did the doctors say?” “I’m still processing it,” Jeonghan said. “I have more scans next week. But I’m stable.” “What about your parents?” Mingyu asked, softer now, no longer biting. Just full of worry. “Are they with you?” Jeonghan shook his head. “I came to see you first.” Mingyu’s brows furrowed. "What? What are you even thinking? Go there—" “Right. I should’ve gone to them. But I didn’t, and went here instead.” Jeonghan lifted his eyes to meet Mingyu’s—glassy, worn, raw. “Because I missed you.” Wonwoo inhaled sharply. Quiet. But Jeonghan heard it. He glanced at him. Then back to Mingyu. “I needed to see you. I didn’t even think,” he added, almost ashamed. “I just… woke up, and the first person I thought... was you.” Mingyu stared at him, speechless. And Jeonghan, barely holding himself together, whispered, “I regret that now.” The words were soft. But they stung like hell. “Should’ve gone to them first,” Jeonghan added. “Would’ve hurt less.” And just like that, Jeonghan didn't hesitate to turn his back and walk away. His family wept the moment he stepped through the door. His mother clutched him like he might disappear again. Her face buried in his chest, her fingers trembling against his back. “I thought you were gone,” she sobbed. “I thought I’d never get to hold you again.” Jeonghan didn’t say anything. He just held her tighter. His father, now marked by the years—gray streaking through his once-black hair—tried to stay composed. He stood stiff, hands shaking at his sides, jaw tight. But when his eyes finally met Jeonghan’s, they cracked open with a single, desperate, broken breath. He stepped forward and pulled him into a shaky hug. "You’re really here,” his father whispered. “My boy’s really home…” His little sister wasn’t little anymore. She’d grown taller, her features sharper, voice lower. No longer the high school girl who snuck into his room at 2AM asking for snacks or help with her homework. Now, she stood with a diploma in one hand and heartbreak behind her eyes. Later that night, the two of them sat on the old garden bench in the backyard, under the quiet hum of the porch light. The night was cold, but Jeonghan barely noticed. The world still felt like it was made of glass. “Everything changed,” his sister said after a long silence, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Except you.” Jeonghan turned slightly, eyes reflecting the soft glow of the porch light. He opened his mouth—but nothing came. So he just nodded. She glanced at him. Then down at her hands. “You know…” she began again, gentler this time. “Mingyu really loved you. Like, in the kind of way people don’t come back from.” Jeonghan flinched—just barely. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “He broke when we couldn’t find you,” she continued, voice tight. “You should’ve seen him, Hannie. He’d come here and just sit. He never stopped hoping. He wouldn’t even let us talk about memorials. Not once.” Jeonghan stared ahead, lips parted slightly, chest rising slowly like each breath was borrowed. “But then… he met Wonwoo,” she added. “And one day, he smiled again. Not just that polite kind. A real one.” She paused. Then, softly: “Wonwoo helped him breathe.” Jeonghan said nothing. Not a single word. He didn’t cry. Not then. He just sat there, frozen in time, letting her words settle into the hollow that the years had carved into him. Seven years ago Yoon Jeonghan in his third year of college had always been a little whimsical. He once said he needed to breathe foreign air just to finish a journal entry. Just one. “For inspiration,” he told Kim Mingyu, his boyfriend, while cramming a half-folded shirt into a too-small suitcase. “You don’t get raw emotion sitting on your bed with takeout and instant coffee. You need the ocean breeze. Maybe even a near-death experience. Preferably one where I survive, obviously.” Mingyu had laughed from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, holding Jeonghan’s hopelessly disorganized travel pouch. “You’re dramatic,” he grinned, tossing a packet of gum into the bag. “You’re going for a week, not writing the next great novel.” Jeonghan leaned down and kissed the top of Mingyu’s head. “And you love it,” he said, smug. Mingyu looked up, lips tugging into a smile. “I do. Unfortunately.” He did. He really did. And that’s why he drove Jeonghan to the airport, fingers intertwined the entire ride. Jeonghan’s playlist played low in the background—mostly acoustic ballads with dramatic violins. He sang along off-key, because of course he did. At the terminal, they stood just outside the gates. The announcements blurred into noise. Mingyu held onto Jeonghan’s wrist like it was the last real thing in the world. “Text me when you land,” he said. “I will.” “Send me photos. And don’t forget your meds. And please don’t jump off anything weird for the ‘experience.’ I mean it, Hannie.” Jeonghan smiled, soft and shining. “You worry too much.” “I love you too much.” Jeonghan's expression flickered—just for a second—into something achingly tender. He reached out and cupped Mingyu’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks like he was memorizing every curve, every detail. “I’ll come back with a story,” he whispered. “One worth telling you over a bottle of wine. Deal?” Mingyu nodded, swallowing hard. “Deal. But no near-death chapters.” “No promises.” Mingyu pulled him in for one last kiss—long, slow, reluctant. The kind that made people walking past turn away, because it wasn’t casual. It was heavy with everything they didn’t say. “Come home to me,” Mingyu murmured against his lips. “I will,” Jeonghan promised. But Jeonghan never came back. Present The next morning, Jeonghan stood by the kitchen counter, coffee gone cold in his hands. “Do you… still have Mingyu’s number?” he asked his sister quietly, not looking up. She froze mid-step, eyes flicking toward him. “For what?” Her voice was careful. Guarded. “I just want to catch up,” he murmured, gaze fixed on a crack in the tiled floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. A long pause stretched between them. Finally, she sighed and handed him her phone. “Don’t hurt yourself, oppa,” she said, her voice gentle but heavy with warning. “He’s not the same anymore. None of us are.” Jeonghan nodded once, took the number, and typed it into his own new phone with trembling fingers. He stared at the blinking cursor for a long time. His heart beat louder than it had in days. He took a breath. Then another. Then, finally, he typed. Jeonghan [8:42 AM] Hey. It’s Jeonghan. Can we talk? He hit send before he could change his mind. He stared at the message until the screen dimmed. No reply. One minute passed. Then two. Then— Mingyu [8:47 AM] Is this really you? Jeonghan [8:48 AM] Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should text you. But I wanted to. There was a pause. Jeonghan could see the dots appear and disappear. Typing. Not typing. Typing again. And before Mingyu could reply. Jeonghan [8:49 AM] To catch up and talk properly. Mingyu [9:01 AM] Where and when? Jeonghan [9:01 AM] Anywhere you’re willing to be. And the weight of seven silent years began to stir. Café in Gangnam. The same one Jeonghan used to visit, the same one he once dragged Mingyu to after a rainy bookstore date, saying the lighting made people look “cinematic.” Back then, Mingyu laughed and said, "Only you would romanticize a burnt espresso and flickering lights." Jeonghan loved that version of him. The one who loved how Jeonghan romanticized everything. It hadn't changed much. But they had. Jeonghan sat across from him now, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cappuccino he’d barely touched. He watched the condensation bead on Mingyu’s glass, then followed the curve of his face, the familiar arch of his brow as he sipped his iced americano like it was still his favorite. “Tell me everything,” Jeonghan said quietly, trying to sound casual—like his voice wasn’t trembling with nerves. “What’ve you been up to?” Mingyu looked up, surprised. “Everything?” Jeonghan nodded, lips barely lifting. “Everything.” And so Mingyu spoke. About work. About the publishing firm downtown. About writing when inspiration struck. He always had a way with stories, Jeonghan remembered—turning mundane days into little epics with the right tone and a crooked grin. He spoke about his dog, about his apartment, about his favorite late-night ramen place near Wonwoo’s building. Jeonghan tried to follow. He really did. Then— “We visited this island Wonwoo liked last summer,” Mingyu said, stirring his drink absently. “He got so sunburnt, he looked like a boiled crab.” He laughed—genuine, if a little sheepish. Jeonghan blinked once, then forced a smile. “That’s funny.” Mingyu’s laughter faded. “s**t. Sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to bring him up like that. That was insensitive.” Jeonghan shook his head, voice softer than the steam rising from his untouched drink. “No. It’s okay. It’s your life now.” Even if every sentence felt like a paper cut—small, but bleeding all the same. A silence settled over them, not cold… just full. Full of things unsaid, full of years that had passed in only one direction. Jeonghan glanced out the window. The clouds had broken apart a little. Light spilled through in slanted streaks. “You’re doing well,” he said eventually, eyes still on the glass. “I’m trying,” Mingyu replied. “That counts for something, I think.” “It does,” Jeonghan murmured. He didn’t say what he wanted to—I missed you. I kept dreaming about your voice. You were the only memory I didn’t forget. Because how do you say that to someone who has learned how to breathe again without you? So he just sipped his coffee and said nothing at all. In the next few days, they talked more. Texted occasionally. Sometimes Jeonghan would send something mundane like a photo of a chipped mug he found in the back of his kitchen. Mingyu would reply with a laughing emoji, then a story about how Jeonghan used to insist it was “aesthetic.” And somehow, those tiny exchanges made Jeonghan feel like they hadn’t lost everything. Not yet. They agreed to meet again. Another catch-up. Another café. But Jeonghan didn’t know someone else would be there. Someone who now lived in the place he used to. Wonwoo. Mingyu brought Wonwoo. The man who now held what used to be his world. Jeonghan stopped mid-step just outside the café door when he saw them sitting by the window. Mingyu was smiling—really smiling—and Wonwoo was across from him, laughing at something, two fingers lazily circling the rim of his teacup. A piece of Jeonghan's chest twisted so hard he had to take a moment to breathe. You can do this, he told himself. He walked in. Mingyu spotted him first, his face lighting up. “Jeonghan! Over here!” There was no warning. No mention in the texts. Not even a hint. Wonwoo stood politely, offering a small, respectful bow. “It’s good to finally meet you properly. I’ve heard a lot.” Jeonghan’s body moved before his heart could catch up. He returned the bow with a polite smile, but his fingers curled into his sleeves beneath the table. “Likewise,” he murmured, voice stretched tight. They sat. And they talked. Well—Mingyu talked. Jeonghan listened. And Wonwoo sipped his tea like he belonged there. Jeonghan wanted to hate him. But the man hadn’t done anything wrong. That made it worse. “So we ended up getting caught in a storm on the island,” Mingyu was saying, eyes crinkling with laughter. “We were soaked. Wonwoo forgot to bring an umbrella, and we had to hide in this tiny beach shack. We looked like drowned rats.” Wonwoo gave a quiet chuckle, looking down at his cup. “Wonwoo booked that place too,” Mingyu added, fond. “He’s so much better at planning than I am. I swear I’d forget my own birthday without him.” It started to sting. Then came more. “Wonwoo said something the other day that stuck with me…” “Wonwoo makes this ridiculous green tea toast, but it’s actually good—” “Wonwoo saved my draft during the blackout. I would’ve lost three weeks’ work if not for him—” Every word was a bruise forming beneath Jeonghan’s ribs. Not punches. Not slaps. But slow, suffocating pressure that left no surface untouched. He forced a smile. Sharp at the edges. “You two are cute.” Mingyu blinked. “Huh?” “You match more than we ever did,” Jeonghan said, lifting his coffee like it didn’t tremble slightly in his hand. “He’s calm. You’re chaotic. Balance.” There was a short pause. Wonwoo looked at him with cautious curiosity. Then Jeonghan leaned back, lips tilted in a mock-casual grin. “Though I didn’t know you liked quiet guys. I always thought you liked… fun.” The air shifted. Just a degree colder. Wonwoo’s brow twitched. “Excuse me?” Jeonghan tilted his head. “Oh, nothing. You just seem like the type who takes life too seriously. Suit and spreadsheets energy.” Wonwoo placed his cup down with delicate control. “Well… someone had to be serious when Mingyu almost gave up on himself.” That silenced everything. Even the hum of background music dulled into static. Even Jeonghan’s breath caught. Wonwoo hadn’t said it cruelly. But the words were precise. Measured. Honest. Jeonghan’s smile wavered. “Right,” he said, quieter now. “And someone had to be there… because I wasn’t.” There it was. His absence. Spoken aloud. Louder than the café. Heavier than all three of their silences. Then—“Jeonghan.” Mingyu’s voice. Firm. Low. Final. Not angry. Just… different. Colder than any memory Jeonghan still clung to. He looked up, startled. The softness—the warmth that used to coat every word Mingyu spoke to him—was gone. That tone had never been used on him before. And it hurt more than anything Wonwoo could have said. Jeonghan blinked, throat dry. “I…” He swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your happy little reunion.” He stood, the metal leg of the chair screeching against the tile. No one reached for him. No one followed. Not this time. Jeonghan didn’t go home. He couldn’t. But his feet took him somewhere else, somewhere dark and numbing and full of people who didn’t know his name. A bar. Soft jazz, amber lights, the smell of oak-aged whiskey and stale dreams. He ordered the strongest drink on the menu. Then another. Then a third. And by the fifth, he was leaning on the counter like a sleepy cat, cheeks flushed, hair messy, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “Another, please,” he slurred, poking the bar top with one finger. “Make it double. No—make it triple. Triple sadness on the rocks.” The bartender stared. “Sir… maybe some water—” “Water can’t solve betrayal,” Jeonghan sniffled dramatically. “Only alcohol and amnesia.” He chuckled to himself. And that’s when it happened. A strong shoulder bumped into his arm. A glass tilted. And his drink splashed—completely, tragically, entirely—onto the tailored black suit of the man standing beside him. Jeonghan blinked. Up. Tall. Broad. Expensive-looking. Eyebrows knit into a stormcloud. And scowling down at his now alcohol-soaked chest like he was contemplating murder. “…Oh,” Jeonghan said, trying to focus his vision. “You’re really… blurry.” “You just dumped bourbon on my suit,” the man deadpanned. His voice was low. Calm. Terrifyingly controlled. Jeonghan blinked again. “That suit was thirsty. I’m doing it a favor.” The man’s jaw flexed. “Unbelievable.” Then, Jeonghan hiccuped. “Wait… wait, I think I know you. Are you… from one of those Netflix mafia shows? You look like someone who kills people for money but… respectfully.” “Please don’t speak.” That’s when Jeonghan swayed forward. The man stepped back instinctively, but—too late. Jeonghan puked. Directly onto the man’s thousand-dollar jacket. Time paused. The bar went silent. Jeonghan blinked, horrified for half a second—then just moaned. “I am… so sorry. You looked like a trash can for a second, and I got confused.” The man squeezed his eyes shut. His whole body radiated restraint. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Jeonghan stumbled forward again, but the man caught him firmly by the arm before he collapsed. “You can’t even stand,” the stranger muttered. Jeonghan grinned—completely unserious. “I can stand. Just not… right now. Or ever.” The man sighed. “Perfect.” Despite the ruined suit and unbearable headache that was Jeonghan, he didn’t let go. Instead, he dragged Jeonghan toward the restroom, carefully avoiding puddles of bourbon puke and muttering things under his breath that sounded suspiciously like prayers for patience. Inside the restroom, Jeonghan leaned over the sink while the man wiped at his shirt in cold silence. “Why are you helping me?” Jeonghan mumbled, cheeks pressed to the cool porcelain. “You could’ve left me to rot.” “Believe me, I considered it.” “But you didn’t,” Jeonghan grinned. “Which means you have a heart. Aww.” “I have guilt. That’s not the same thing.” “Same vibe.” The man ignored him. Then, Jeonghan’s breath hitched. Soft. Barely a sound. A sob cracked out of his chest—raw and broken, like something splintered inside him. The man looked up, startled. Jeonghan was still leaning over the sink, but now his shoulders were shaking. His eyes glazed, tears spilling freely. “…What happened?” the man asked, his tone losing its edge. “I shouldn’t be here,” Jeonghan murmured. “What do you mean?” “I slept for seven years,” he whispered, voice wobbling. “And I woke up thinking maybe someone—just one person—was still waiting. But he wasn’t. He left. They moved on. They’re… happy.” The man didn’t speak. Jeonghan sniffed. “And I just stood there. Smiling like an i***t. Saying things like ‘you’re cute together.’ Like a goddamn supporting character. I’m not supposed to be the supporting character in my own life.” And then he cried. Loud, ugly sobs that made the mirror fog up and his knees give out. The man cursed under his breath and rushed forward to hold him up. Jeonghan clung. Wrapped both arms around the stranger like he was a pillow, sobbing into his already-wrecked shirt. The man didn’t know what to do with his hands. Eventually, he patted Jeonghan’s back stiffly. “It’s… okay. Just breathe.” “You smell like disappointment,” Jeonghan mumbled into his chest. “You threw up on me,” the man reminded him, voice dry. “Oh right. Sorry, Tom.” “…It’s Seungcheol.” “Huh?” “My name. Choi Seungcheol.” Jeonghan smiled mid-sob. “That’s a hot name.” Eventually, Jeonghan passed out. Deadweight. Limp as a noodle. Seungcheol stared at the man slumped over his arm. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” With a sigh that came from the depths of his soul, he half-carried, half-dragged Jeonghan out of the bar and into his car. He tried waking him. Nothing. “Of course,” he muttered. With no other choice, Seungcheol drove to the nearest hotel. He booked a room. Dragged Jeonghan in. Opened the door— Rose petals. Red lights. Soft jazz. A bottle of champagne on ice. Seungcheol stopped cold. “What the—?” A couple’s suite. He stared at the decor, then at the snoring mess in his arms. “Why is this my life.” Still, he brought Jeonghan in. Dropped him carefully on the heart-shaped bed. “Ow,” Jeonghan mumbled, face buried in silk pillows. “This mattress just slapped me.” “That’s not how mattresses work.” Seungcheol turned to leave. Then felt a tug on his pant leg. “…Stay,” Jeonghan whispered. “No.” “Please?” “No.” “I’m scared. And you smell like a very expensive pine tree.” “…What?” “Like, rich forest vibes. Stay.” Seungcheol closed his eyes. Thought of all the places he could be right now. Anywhere but here. Then sighed. Fine. He sat on the edge of the bed stiffly. Jeonghan, still half-asleep, curled around him like a cat. “Thanks, Tom.” “…It’s still Seungcheol.” And that was the start of the weirdest night of his life.