It’s snowing lightly and your boots crunch on the powder already covering the sidewalks. Your breath puffs fogs of white as you hurry inside to escape the cold. You walk into the grocery store a little past six on Christmas Eve and you see him.

He has a little plastic basket under his arm, full of breads and vegetables and healthy things you remember he liked to eat. His hair is still cut the same way, his fringe falling gracefully over his eyes, but it’s back to its original black, a color that shocks you to see. He looks as pale and small as ever as he disappears around a corner and you hurry after him. He’s picks up a jar from the shelf as you reach out and touch his elbow. He jumps slightly and looks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide and confused for a moment until a grin breaks across his face.

“Jongwoon?” he asks quietly, tucking the jar into his basket and turning around.

“Hi, Ryeowook,” you smile.

He leans forward to hug you but his basket bumps you in the stomach and you stumble a bit. He laughs, embarrassed, and bites his lip. Your heart thumps dully at the long forgotten, yet so familiar, habit of his.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, brushing the dark strands of hair away from his eyes.

“Buying… something. I can’t remember now.”

“That’s so like you,” he laughs. “So forgetful and clumsy.”

“I think you’re the clumsy one tonight,” you tease. He laughs again and you follow him to the checkout stand. “I can’t believe your hair. It’s so different now.”

“I’m getting too old for dyed hair, don’t you think? I’ve been back to natural for two years.” He pays for his groceries and you pick up the single bag for him, shrugging when he raises his eyebrow.

“Want to get a drink? Catch up a bit? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“Sure,” he says, smiling. “What harm can it do?”

You carry his groceries out to his car, an unremarkable black sedan, and climb into the passenger seat. His hair is sparkling with melted snow, so you reach out and brush it away. He jerks away from the touch and looks at you with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Old habit.”

Unsurprisingly, there are no bars open on Christmas Eve, so he U-turns on a side street and drives to a liquor store he says he knows the owners of. The drive is spotted with trivial conversation about the snow and lights and the radio. He parks far from the door and gets out, leaving the key in the ignition and the heater on. He scurries across the parking lot and into the store. You look around the car while he’s gone. You find a chapstick, gloves, and a couple CDs. One CD is shockingly familiar. It’s your very first album, the one that skyrocketed your fame, released only a month after you and Ryeowook parted ways. It’s the album you hate the most, the one that makes you cry whenever you listen.

The car door opens and Ryeowook slides back in, the bottles of a six-pack clinking together. You drop the CDs back on the floor and take a beer from the cardboard container. You both unscrew the tops and clink them together.

“To old friends,” you say.

“To first loves,” he replies before taking a drink.

You sit in silence for the entirety of the first beer, both staring out the windows at the snow steadily piling up on the windshield and ground. As you twist the top off your second you ask, “Still living at home, or d’you have a place now?” It’s a stupid question, you think as soon as you ask it. Ryeowook’s thirty-years-old now.

“No, I have an apartment. Although, I think my mom wishes I would have stayed home.”

“Why didn’t you?” You know how close Ryeowook was with his mother.

“I moved in with my boyfriend,” he whispers and takes another hasty gulp of beer.

“Oh,” you hear yourself say. An odd weight settles in your stomach. It shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve been apart for five years now. Of course he would have moved on.

“He’s nice. He was there for me when I had a hard time and I was there when he had his.” You know exactly what he means by hard time and your heart constricts in your chest. You notice, however, how sad his eyes become as he talks about his boyfriend. He talks for ages about how his boyfriend, like how he loves to dance and to pick Ryeowook up and twirl him around their apartment. Not even a ghost of a smile lights his face as he recounts this. “I’d like to say I love him, but you know I don’t like to lie.”

“Are things alright?” Your hand finds his in his lap and your thumb rubs over his knuckles, chaffed from the cold.

“Of course they are. Donghae’s the sweetest person. Please don’t get the wrong idea. Just… I’m not the one he loves. He says I am, and maybe he’s convinced himself he’s telling the truth, but I know it’s not. When I met him after… after I moved out, he was dating some guy he met in college. They were perfect together, you know? Best friends that fell in love. But one day Hyukjae got a job in Paris. They saved up for months so Donghae could move out there to be with him, but I guess those plans have a way of falling through.”

“That’s sad.”

He nods in response and you lapse into silence again.

“You know,” Ryeowook says halfway through his third beer, “I can’t even remember why we fought. How silly is that?” You notice he says fought and not broke up with a melancholy smile. It’s true you never broke up. After The Fight you ignored each other, left rooms when the other entered, brushed sideways past one another in the hallway until one day he disappeared. You came home from work and found exactly half of the apartment empty. Half the furniture was gone. Half of the books and DVDs and CDs were gone. Half of the refrigerator and half of the closet were bare. Yet, every second Tuesday of the month, an unmarked envelope with exactly one half of the rent enclosed was in the mailbox until the month the lease ran out.

“Probably something stupid I said.”

“No,” he shakes his head with a laugh. “Probably me being selfish again.”

“You were never selfish,” you disagree.

“I am now,” he sighs. “Leading Donghae along like I am.”

“You aren’t leading him on. You need each other.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Jongwoon.” He turns to you with the saddest little smile, one that conveys all of his hopelessness and defeat. You gulp down the rest of your beer to squelch the twist of guilt in your stomach. “I’d better get home to him.”

“I’d better get going, too. Thanks for the beers.”

“Do you want me to drop you off at home? Or the grocery, seeing as you never got what you came for.”

“No, I can walk from here.” You give his hand one more squeeze and pop open the car door.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, pulling you back in by the sleeve. You turn back to him in time for him to catch your lips as he leans forward. He kisses you softly, the way he did before, and pulls away, eyes downcast. "Take care of yourself.”

“You do the same, Ryeowook. Take care of Donghae, too.”

He nods silently and you get out of the car. You watch from the awning of the liquor store as he pulls out of the parking lot and drives away. You shove your pockets and just as you step out to make your way back to the grocery, the snow turns into rain.