The feeling was a physical thing, lodged under his ribs like a swallowed stone, as he stood in the open doorway of her apartment. It had been there since he’d woken with her in his arms that morning, since the slow, wordless way they’d moved together in the pale light. It wasn’t just sex. It was a tectonic shift, a continent inside him cracking and settling into a new, permanent shape. He held her, her face buried against his neck, her fingers clutching the back of his t-shirt. “Bye,” he whispered into her hair, the word too small, too stupid for what was happening in his chest. His throat closed. Three other words, heavier than planets, lined up behind his teeth. I. Love. You. They choked him. What came out was a fractured exhale. “I’ll… I’ll miss you.” It was the truth, but it was the shadow of the truth, and the stone in his ribs ground harder.
Now, strapped into a first-class seat thirty thousand feet above the Pacific, the feeling hadn’t left. It had just taken up more space. The jet’s low, constant hum vibrated up through the floor and into his bones. The cabin was dark, most of the others asleep or watching screens with headphones on, the only light a dim blue glow from the reading lamp above Minho’s seat. It cut across the sharp line of Minho’s jaw as he scrolled through his phone, oblivious. Jisung stared straight ahead at the seatback in front of him, praying to every god he didn’t believe in that he didn’t look like what he was: a man who had just had his entire heart surgically removed, fondled, and sewn back in by his best friend, all in the span of seventy-two hours.
His carry-on bag, stowed by his feet, held the contraband. Nestled between his notebook and a change of clothes was the denim jacket. The one he’d left in Arizona a lifetime ago. The one she’d worn to his concert, the one that smelled like her car and her perfume and her. He’d taken it from her closet as she was brushing her teeth, a swift, silent theft. In its place, draped over her desk chair, he’d left the hoodie he’d worn to her apartment. A trade. A claim. She’d be mad. Pissed, probably. She’d text him later, all caps and exclamation points, telling him he was in so much trouble. The thought of it, of that familiar, fiery thread of connection snapping across the ocean between them, was the only thing that made the stone in his ribs feel less like a tombstone. He was already looking forward to it.
“You’re breathing weird.”
Minho’s voice, low and flat, didn’t even look up from his phone.
Jisung startled, his knee knocking against the bag at his feet. “I’m breathing.”
“You’re breathing like you’re trying to meditate but you’re really just thinking about how much you want to punch a wall.” Minho finally glanced over, his eyes sharp even in the gloom. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been a ghost since we left LAX.”
“Jet lag.”
“We haven’t crossed the date line yet, idiot. Try again.”
Jisung looked out the window. Nothing but blackness and the occasional wisp of moonlit cloud. An endless void matching the one in his gut. “Just tired.”
“Tired,” Minho repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. He put his phone down, folding his arms. “You left dinner the other night like the building was on fire. You missed two schedule check-ins. You’ve been smiling at nothing for three days. And now you look like someone kicked your puppy into traffic. This isn’t tired. This is a whole drama. Is it the girl?”
The word ‘girl’ was too small. Kelsey was a force of nature, a gravitational pull. “What girl?”
Minho snorted. “The one you introduced us to. The one you were practically glued to. The one whose lipstick was on your collar when you finally stumbled back to the hotel. That girl.”
Heat crept up the back of Jisung’s neck. He’d forgotten about the lipstick. He’d found it later, a faint smudge of mauve like a secret stamp. He’d slept in that shirt. “We’re friends.”
“Right.” Minho drew the word out, long and slow. “Friends who swap DNA. Very platonic.”
“It’s not like that.” The lie was automatic, brittle. It was exactly like that. It was so much more than that. The memory of her tracing his tattoos, her lips following her fingers, her quiet “show me” in the morning light—it hit him with a physical ache. His cock, traitorous and predictable, stirred in his sweatpants. He shifted in his seat, willing it down. It was just a memory. Just her skin, her taste, the way she gasped his name like it was a prayer. Just everything.
“Hyung,” Minho said, his tone shifting from teasing to something quieter, more observant. “You’re doing that thing where you get all still. Like a rabbit that hears a hawk. What happened?”
Jisung closed his eyes. He saw her doorway. The way she’d hugged him, not letting go. The three words that had burned on his tongue, so close to spilling out. The cowardice that had tasted like copper in his mouth as he swallowed them back. “I almost said it,” he murmured, more to the darkness behind his eyelids than to Minho.
“Said what?”
“That I love her.”
The hum of the jet filled the silence between them. Minho didn’t speak for a long moment. “Okay,” he said finally, simple. “So you do. And you didn’t say it. Why?”
“Because it’s a hand grenade,” Jisung said, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “You pull the pin, you can’t put it back. It changes everything. What if it’s too much? What if it… ruins what we have?”
“What you have,” Minho said slowly, “looked pretty ruined from where I was sitting. In a good way. In a ‘nobody at that table could eat their steak because you two were radiating so much heat’ way.” He paused. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re terrified. You’re Jisung. You write songs about your fears and scream them in front of fifty thousand people. But telling one person you love them? That’s the real scary stage.” Minho leaned his head back. “You left her your hoodie, didn’t you.”
“How do you—?”
“You always do that. You leave a piece of yourself. It’s your weird, possessive little nesting habit. You probably took something of hers, too.”
Jisung’s hand drifted down, his fingers brushing the top of his bag. Feeling the stiff denim seam through the fabric. “Maybe.”
“So you’re committed enough to play creepy souvenir swap, but not enough to say the words.” Minho shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Minho picked his phone back up, the conversation clearly over in his mind. “Just say it next time. Before you give her another hoodie. The merch department is starting to ask questions.”
Next time. The phrase echoed. When would next time be? Schedules, continents, promotions, a life lived in a blinding, public fishbowl. The stone in his ribs turned to ice. He’d asked her to wait. He’d vowed to wait. They’d sealed it with their bodies, with a desperation that felt like trying to memorize each other by touch. But here, in the sterile, pressurized cabin, with Seoul rushing toward him, it felt like a promise made on sand.
He needed a distraction. He needed to not feel the vast, empty distance opening beneath the plane. Sliding his bag out, he unzipped it just enough to slide his hand inside. His fingers found the worn denim. He didn’t pull it out, just gripped the fabric, hidden from view. He brought his hand, clutching the jacket, back onto his lap, resting it under the airline blanket.
The scent hit him first. Vanilla, from her perfume. Then the fainter, deeper note that was just her. Sunshine and skin and Kelsey. It was a punch to the sternum, a sweet, violent nostalgia. He remembered her at seventeen, driving that stupid blue convertible, music blasting, her laugh swallowed by the wind. He remembered the exact moment he’d seen her, a cheerleader in a uniform too big for her, and known he’d found someone who spoke his language. Just friends. The biggest lie he’d ever told, and he’d told it to himself most of all.
Under the blanket, his other hand drifted to his own chest, pressing over the ‘Blessed’ tattoo through his thin t-shirt. He’d told her it was for knowing her. It was. It was also a plea, a gratitude, a permanent mark of the boy who’d been found in the Arizona desert by a girl with loud music. His fingers traced lower, to his side, where ‘Resplendent Life’ snaked down his ribs. Answering the call. She was the call. Every lyric about longing, every melody about a home he couldn’t name—it had been her. It had always been her.
The realization was quiet and absolute. It didn’t erase the fear, the logistical nightmare, the ocean of complications. But it sat beside them, solid and immovable. He loved her. He was in love with Kelsey Allen. The truth, finally named in the silent dark of the plane, didn’t feel like a grenade. It felt like a cornerstone. Heavy. Unshakeable. The foundation everything else had to be built on.
Minho was asleep now, head tilted against the window. The cabin was a tomb of soft snores and electronic glow. Jisung carefully, slowly, pulled the denim jacket from his bag. He didn’t put it on. He folded it, once, then brought it up to his face, burying his nose in the fabric where her neck would be.
He inhaled. Vanilla. Her. Home.
His eyes burned. He squeezed them shut, holding the jacket against his face, letting the scent wrap around him. The stone in his ribs cracked open, not with pain, but with a devastating, hopeful ache. He’d left a piece of himself with her. He’d taken a piece of her with him. It wasn’t enough. It would have to be enough, for now.
He would say it. Next time. The first second he saw her. He would pull the pin. He would watch her eyes, and he would say the words. The promise solidified, colder and harder than the fear.
Lowering the jacket, he kept it clutched to his chest. He stared out at the endless night, the horizon invisible. Somewhere behind them, Los Angeles glittered. Somewhere ahead, Seoul waited. And in the space between, held tight in his hands, was the smell of a girl in a blue convertible, the echo of a laugh, and the three words he would no longer swallow.