According to Sunggyu, after he left, he bought a ticket going anywhere. He travelled around for three years, telling stories, surviving off his ability to bring words to life. It kept him alive, but just barely.

He could never forget that small town, but he could also never gather enough courage to return.

He was never mad at Howon. Disappointed, maybe. Hurt, definitely. But never mad.

“People fall out of love, Howon,” he says, looking over the sea. “It just happens, and it’s not anyone’s fault.”

He could never go back, but he always loved the sea. He was on a three-day fishing trip when a storm hit. He washed up on the shore of this island and had been surviving ever since.

“News spreads slowly,” he says with a wry smile. “Especially when you live in a small seaside town.”

Howon feels himself answering that smile, and he lets himself do it, the corners of his mouth lifting up. Sunggyu’s eyes soften, and he reaches over to ruffle Howon’s hair.

Howon lets himself fall into it, closing his eyes. The warmth of the sun sinks into his bones, Sunggyu’s fingers work their way through his hair, and Howon falls asleep in Sunggyu’s lap.