Sometimes Kyungsoo thinks he sees a familiar figure in the distance, watching him from outside his window, across the street. And sometimes that figure raises a hesitant hand, as though in greeting. But Kyungsoo just turns away, unwilling to bear the pain of old wounds. And when he looks back, the figure is gone.

No, it can’t be, Kyungsoo thinks to himself as Kris wraps his arms around him from behind, burying his nose into Kyungsoo's hair. Jongin is gone, he's dead, and he isn't coming back.

But the very next day, the lonely figure is standing on the sidewalk across the street again, and Kyungsoo swears that it looks just like Jongin.

Jongin had gracefully jetéed his way into Kyungsoo’s life.

The first time Kyungsoo saw Jongin onstage, every plié and fouetté was another tiny knife embedding itself into Kyungsoo's chest until his heart was bleeding Jongin.

It was right before Kyungsoo had been hired as the head makeup artist for the local ballet company. Jongin, the primeur danseur of the company, was to be his primary focus. He would create a look for Jongin and coordinate the rest of the troupe based on Jongin's look. Kyungsoo bought a front row ticket to observe his new clientele, to familiarize himself with Jongin's facial structure and memorize the way the lights illuminate the planes and angles of his face.

It was easy, much too easy. Even when midnight diluted to dawn that night, Kyungsoo still couldn't get the exquisite lines of Jongin's face out of his mind.

And now, it's been over a year since Jongin's full, red lips faded to white. As much as Kyungsoo tries to let go of the past and focus on his present life with his flesh and blood boyfriend Kris, he still catches glimpses of Jongin in the shadows and in his dreams.