The boys don’t ask. They do wonder where Hanbin disappears to, why his eyes are swollen when he comes back, but they never ask. They never ask because they did once and it didn’t go well. Hanbin snapped, with that fold stitching his eyebrows together, threatening to stay there forever. They rather Hanbin didn’t push them away, so they don’t ask again.

Hanbin is distant, even when the shadows clawing at him from inside out are at bay and he gets to laugh and joke around, he is distant. He never eats in the cafeteria or at home. He works hard though, perhaps harder than he’s ever done. He stays up all night and locks himself in one of the rooms to avoid distractions, writes songs until his hands hurt. He crashes on the couch in the lounge at 3PM, catching up on much needed sleep that he never appreciates.

He runs even in his dreams.

The meetings with Jinhwan become more frequent. He never pries Hanbin though, he’s just there whether Hanbin needs quiet company, or a shoulder, or a joke to laugh at. Hanbin bares his soul without telling, if that’s possible, and Jinhwan wants to ask for more but he doesn’t.

Hanbin’s skin is almost translucent compared to the vivid colors of spring. The once frozen undergrowth is alive and it has the vines climbing up the founding pillars of the bridge. Hanbin looks so spent, so tired, so far away, and so everything Jinhwan doesn’t want to see him be.

“I feel like I don’t have the right to see you like this,” Jinhwan tells Hanbin one day, when the younger has silent salty water streaming down his face a tear at a time. It doesn’t feel like he’s breaking apart. It’s just that he can’t stop the thoughts—thoughts of uncertainty, of endless chase, of death—from running in his head and he doesn’t know what to do. The tears don’t really stop. They’re light drizzle on a fair day.

“No one deserves to see a face this ugly,” he laughs at his own joke; Jinhwan doesn’t.

“You know I don’t mean it that way,” Jinhwan looks at him eye to eye, and Hanbin just nods as he wipes a tear with the back of his hand.

“It’s too personal.” Jinhwan looks away. “Too precious,” he says under his breath. “People always put on a front. We hide, because we’ve got ourselves to protect, because crying is for the weak, they said. I’ve stepped into your personal space… I’m sorry,” the last two words are barely above a whisper.

Hanbin’s hand reaches for the smaller guy’s knee unknowingly and the tears stop then, because he has other things to ponder on. It takes his mind away from his problems, being around with Jinhwan. He’s never imposing. He’s always so near but distant at the same time. He didn’t step into Hanbin’s personal space. Hanbin let him in. Hanbin wants to tell him that but he just says, “Don’t be sorry. I would’ve asked you to leave or I would’ve never returned to this place if I wasn’t okay with it. Some people just want to run away, you know. That’s why I’m here.”

The faint smile on Jinhwan’s face relaxes the fold on Hanbin’s forehead. The latter only realizes then where his hand is resting and he lets it fall to his side without being obvious.

Hanbin goes home with a handkerchief in his pocket. Attached to it is a note that says:

I never knew crying could be beautiful.
I wish I could cry like you.
I wish I could run like you.
You’re one strong person, Hanbin.
Beautiful, too.

Hanbin has his head th