Even though Luhan is sitting only a couple of feet away (probably even less than that), the atmosphere in the car is painfully tense, complete silence enveloping the vehicle; the only sound that can be heard is the steady thrum of the engine and the faint tune coming out of the radio.

If there's one thing that puts Kris on edge, it's silence. Silence means someone's thinking of something they can't say; sometimes it means there's nothing to say. Silence means that a heavy weight is hanging above your head, waiting for the least expected moment to drop.

Silence means more than any words could ever express.

Kris' hands are starting to go slick around the wheel; he rubs a sweaty palm on his knee distractedly.

He had called his brothers and told them that he wouldn't be able to make it for the pre-recording of whatever show it was that they had been booked for. Kris hadn't told them why, which had pissed them off, but it seemed to have hurt Luhan more.

He hadn't realised, but Luhan had been listening in on the whole call. Kris had gone after him and tried to explain why he didn't tell his brothers, but Luhan had just looked at him blankly, and in that moment, everything Kris had mentally prepared to explain disappeared.

He'd never seen someone so... so empty.

Maybe I should try again, Kris thinks. Maybe he could explain to Luhan that he can't tell his brothers about his son's existence because there's no space in his life for things like these. He had been an idol for 16 years, not a father, and now that's being shoved at him, he doesn't even know where to start, especially since the one person who could have helped him is now dead.

There's no space for Luhan in his life.

And Kris knows that he'll have to say it out loud at one point or another. It sounds harsh, he knows, but the truth will always hurt.

Maybe, Kris reasons, Luhan has a friend he could stay with after we go back to our own lives. Maybe he doesn't have to be alone.

But he knows it's not true; Kris tries to push away the voice in his head reminding him that Luhan has nothing to go back to.

Then he remembers that if Luhan is in his life, there will be nothing for him, either. His career, and life as he knows it, will come to a grinding halt.

Kris takes a deep breath, about to broach the conversation, but before he can say a word, he suddenly remembers that it's Luhan's birthday. Guilt stabs him in the gut.

The conversation can wait. I'll tell him later, and we can talk about where he can live after all this. Maybe when we're out of this car. He reaches out and lowers the volume of the music till it's mute, turning his head slightly in Luhan's direction.

"Listen, you said today is your−"

Kris stops because Luhan is looking at him with that dead face again. This time, though, Luhan's eyes say, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want your pity.

He sighs and turns his eyes back towards the road, shoulders slumping as his fingers grip the wheel tighter.

Silence means more than any words could ever express.

***

Luhan finally says something an hour later, and it has nothing to do with either of them. "Take this exit," he says flatly, pointing at an upcoming sign.

Kris squints at it. "But that leads to the coast."

His only instructions from Luhan until now had been to keep driving along the motorway; he'd expected that they were going to another city, but the coast?

She never left?

"I know," Luhan murmurs. "That's where she is."

Kris tightens his jaw and does as he's instructed, taking the exit Luhan had indicated. "When I knew her," he murmurs, "she lived near the coast."

Luhan looks up at him, unhidden surprise in his eyes. "You remember?"

"Of course I remember."

Luhan gnaws on his lip for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to add something that's eating away at his mind. In the end, he says, "We actually lived there my whole life. Mom said she wanted to be buried by the sea."

Kris feels tears pricking his eyes and blinks furiously, willing them to go away. "She told you that?"

Luhan stares at him for a long time before nodding. "She told you, too, didn't she?"

Kris doesn't say anything in reply.

***

"This is it," Luhan mumbles, hands buried in pockets too shallow to hide his trembling hands. He nods up at the road up ahead that climbs a grassy hill overlooking the ocean.

Kris slams the car door shut and tries to swallow the sudden nausea that's gripped him. He remembers this place; you could see it from the lighthouse if you squinted hard enough. Of course, it's been a while since he's been here and maybe things have changed.

Luhan trudges up the short hill without a second glance at Kris, head bowed. After a moment, Kris follows him, up the hill and through the thicket of trees, keeping a few feet away until they reach the cemetery.

There's a black fence surrounding the burial area, but it's broken and they walk straight in without having to push open the gate. Around them, the view has morphed from coastal scenery to light forest, the remains of last year's autumn still painting the ground. Through the trees, the view of the sea is visible; bluey green crashing onto white, with little specks of people dotting the shore.

Kris tears his gaze away from the view and trails behind Luhan until the boy stops in front of a white headstone. It's no taller or smaller than the others, but somehow, even without reading the name on it, Kris knows this is the one.

Luhan takes a few steps back and gestures for Kris to move forward.

He does as he's told (and feels odd doing so, realising that he's allowing his son to order him around), kneeling in front of the grave because it's hurting his head to peer down at the low headstone (though Kris knows it's not the only reason he's sinking to his knees).

Written on the gravestone are the words:

In loving memory of Im Yoona;

Dear mother, daughter, sister and friend.

Below that are the dates of her birth and death.

Seeing the words for himself makes Kris feel odd, to say the least. His heart stutters and he realises for the first time just how real this is.

The kid behind him isn't ever going to see his mother again, and he himself is never going to be able to see Yoona's face again, or tell her that he's sorry for everything. Sure, he can tell her now, but how will he know that she can hear him?

Kris opens his mouth to say something, anything, but someone taps his shoulder.

He turns to see Luhan holding something out. "It's for you," he whispers. "Mom said to give it to you when I... if I saw you again. And I have, so.." he doesn't finish and Kris doesn't make him.

He nods, taking the envelope from Luhan with cold fingers.

Kris looks down at it for a moment, not knowing whether to smile or cry when he sees that her handwriting never changed; scrawled on the front are the words, To Kris.

There's the sound of air trembling as he lets out a shaky breath, turning the envelope over; it's sealed shut. So Luhan hadn't opened it.

He wonders if the boy will peek over his shoulder if he opens it now, but Kris realises that it probably doesn't matter. If anything, Luhan has more right than he ever will to read something from Yoona.

Careful fingers loop under the lip of the envelope, hesitating for a few beats, though it's not long the paper is torn carelessly in impatience; Kris has never been one for waiting.

There are two pieces of paper inside, both the same thickness; a single sheet of paper each. Kris chooses one randomly and unfolds it.

It's a letter, written in Yoona's hand, that reads:

Dear Kris,

When you think of me (if you do), I know you'll think of late summer nights and stolen kisses under the cover of hoods, pulled low over both of our heads.

You'll think of orange juice and hurried words every time I passed your table, balancing plates on my arms and desperately trying to ignore the way you distracted me.

You'll think of the hours you told me you spent trying to perfect the sound of my name on your lips, the tip of your tongue, rounding the vowels in your mouth like a toddler ("Yoooon-aaa. Was that good?").

You'll think of the shutters being drawn after hours, shoes skidding on the tiles of the diner as we danced the night away.

Back when we were 22.

Back when you had eyes for me.

But now we're 38, and things have changed. I want you to think of different things. I want you to think of Luhan's first steps, his first words, and his first day of school.

I want you to think of Luhan's report cards, and how he never listens when he's told that he's not supposed to ride his bike without a helmet.

I want you to think of Luhan's first crush, and how that girl made him cry like there was no tomorrow. The way you made me cry sixteen summers ago, except you weren't just a crush, and for me, there really wasn't a tomorrow.

I want you to think of Luhan, but you can't, because you don't know him and he doesn't know you (not really), and that's the way it has to be.

Like you said, there's no space for wants and would-be's in the lives of idols whose longest companion and first love is work.

I'll be gone by the time you read this (otherwise, I would be saying these words to your face. You know I would), and I hope that Luhan doesn't resent you too much to give this to you.

He's a strong boy, and he tries not to show it when he's hurt−and he's been hurt a lot. It's not easy growing up and knowing that everyone else seems to know your father better than you do.

I guess that's my fault. I thought about whether or not I should tell him who you were, but then I realised that he deserves to know. No child deserves to be lied to, especially by a parent.

No child deserves to be left alone, either.

I know you're not one for kids, Kris, and to be honest, I didn't think I was, either. But I gave Luhan a chance, because that's what being a parent means. That's what being family means. You do things that you don't want to do, but it doesn't matter, because it's for people you love.

It may not seem like it now (I know Luhan; he doesn't forgive easily), but our son is hurt. He's lonely. And deep down, he wants to get the chance to know you. He wants to know that he didn't miss you for nothing.

Please remember that.

I forgive you for abandoning me; I moved past that years ago. I had to. I understand that you were busy and had another life, and that you had no space for me in that life. And I get that. You're an idol, and still are, from what I'm guessing.

It's just who you are.

But after all these years, don't you think it's time to slow down? Our son is turning 16. He needs someone with him in this time of his life, to support and guide him, and I know that won't be me.

So, please remember that. Remember that he's still a child, and no child deserves to be left alone.

Yours,

Yoona.

Kris lowers the letter slowly, and it's only when he sees the smudged splodges of ink that he realises he's crying. He wipes them away, but they keep coming, sliding down his cheeks unbidden.

"I-I'm sorry, Yoona," he manages to choke out. "I didn't realise. I didn't even know you were pregnant. I didn't know what you went through. I only thought of myself, and I thought I could just leave you behind, thinking that you would be fine without me." Kris takes a shuddering breath. "You could have told me, you could have−"

He breaks off, shaking his head. There's no point in could have's now. There's no point in telling her what she could have done, because it's all in the past now.

Kris takes a few breaths to steady himself, waiting for his tears to stop before raising the backs of his hands to wipe them away. He clears his throat several times, looking back down at the letter, at Yoona's handwriting, and staring at the words, as if doing so will burn them into his memory.

Most of it had been about Luhan. Kris' whole being is wallowing in guilt because he hadn't known any of the things Yoona had written to him about. He hadn't stopped to think about how lonely Luhan must be feeling. How hurt he is.

Kris suddenly remembers that he hadn't come here alone.

He straightens, looking around to see if Luhan had heard him and how the boy is reacting to seeing him cry.

But he's gone.  

Luhan is nowhere to be seen.