WOP Ch 4.6

Six months.

A period of time that could be considered both short and long. There were moments that flashed by like lightning, and others where time seemed to stand still, each second stretching into an eternity. It felt as though different clocks, governed by the relativity of his emotions, danced freely across the large dial of his life.

Those six months had been filled with an inexplicable sense of confusion and chaos, yet he couldn’t deny that they had been a turning point in his life. It had been a strange time, a mixture of pain and understanding. The life he’d been gifted after his brush with death had been a constant stream of unpredictable turmoil, but even so…

[Arrived at the first floor].

Clang—

…Even so, humans, rather than accepting farewells, always dreamed of the miracle of chance, of unexpected reunions. Even though they knew such hopes didn’t always lead to happy endings.

“…….”

“…….”

The elevator doors opened, revealing a familiar figure. Ha Joyoon stared blankly, forgetting he was supposed to get off. The man’s eyes, dark and intense, seemed to draw him in. His complexion was darker than he remembered, but unlike before, Joyoon didn’t feel suffocated or uncomfortable in his presence. Just…

“Why aren’t you getting off?”

Shin Kwonjoo’s brusque voice broke the silence. Just as Joyoon was about to reply, an arm reached in, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him out of the elevator. He stumbled slightly, the box in his arms momentarily throwing him off balance. He stepped out into the lobby, a wave of warm air washing over him.

“Sunbae-nim.”

He hadn’t expected to see Kwonjoo. He’d always been bad at hiding his emotions. The slight downturn of his eyes, the nervous twitch of his lips, betrayed his inner joy. Kwonjoo, noticing this, frowned. He pressed his lips together, then asked, turning his head slightly,

“Have you packed everything?”

“Yes. There wasn’t much left.”

“Did you properly hand over your work?”

“Yes. I asked Reporter Nam to take care of it for now.”

“I see. Are you going straight home?”

“Yes…”

His voice trailed off, noticing the distance in Shin Kwonjoo’s demeanor. Kwonjoo had released his wrist, and the spot where his hand had been felt strangely warm. The unfamiliar flutter in his chest made Joyoon clench his jaw. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Kwonjoo.

“Give me that.”

Shin Kwonjoo reached out and took the box from him. A mixture of aftershave and the faint scent of cigarettes wafted from him. He glanced at the contents of the box, then turned and walked briskly towards the exit. It all happened so quickly.

“Sunbae-nim.”

Swallowing his rising emotions, Joyoon hurried after him. He wondered if Kwonjoo was angry, but his face was now unreadable, devoid of any emotion. As he followed, Joyoon couldn’t tear his eyes away from Kwonjoo’s back. It was the same back he’d watched disappear into the cold night.

Sunbae-nim— despite Joyoon’s repeated calls, Shin Kwonjoo didn’t stop. It felt as if Kwonjoo was telling him that that night had truly been their last encounter, a painful jolt shooting through his heart.

Lost in the dull ache of his emotions, he followed Kwonjoo out of the building. The biting cold made him shiver involuntarily. He saw Kwonjoo heading towards the taxi stand and blushed, embarrassed by his earlier assumption that Kwonjoo had gone to the parking garage out of some lingering consideration for him.

Shin Kwonjoo reached the taxi stand first and placed the box in the backseat of a waiting taxi. He held the back door open and called out to Joyoon.

“It’s cold, get in.”

His tone was still curt, businesslike, but the usual sharp edge, the tension that always surrounded him, had long since vanished. The strange combination made Ha Joyoon stare at him.

“Why aren’t you getting in?”

Kwonjoo’s gaze was firm, insistent. Joyoon’s lips twitched. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. The heavy ache in his chest made him reluctantly step forward.

“To the ○○-dong intersection, please.”

Shin Kwonjoo gave the driver the address, then turned his head slightly, glancing at Joyoon, his hand still on the car door. His dark eyes tilted upwards.

“Get in.”

“…….”

Joyoon’s persistent gaze caused a slight crack in Kwonjoo’s carefully composed expression. A cold gust of wind blew between them.

“What?”

“…….”

“Are you nervous?”

He asked. The sudden intimacy of the question made Joyoon catch his breath. He looked up, and as their eyes met, a faint smile touched Kwonjoo’s lips. An indescribable feeling washed over him.

“You’ll have to wait too.”

“…Sunbae-nim.”

Kwonjoo reached out and brushed his fingers against Joyoon’s brow, his touch almost careless. He sighed softly.

“I need time to sort things out too.”

His gaze was firm, resolute. Sort things out. Joyoon wasn’t sure what exactly Shin Kwonjoo meant by that. But he understood that Kwonjoo, like him, needed time. Whether the outcome was a new beginning or a definitive end, human will and emotions couldn’t be forced. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

Unsure how to respond, Joyoon simply blinked. Kang Taejung chuckled and began to gather the scattered belongings. It was the first time Joyoon had seen Taejung since their encounter with Shin Kwonjoo. How long had it been? As he tried to calculate the time that had passed, Taejung’s voice broke the silence.

“What’s all this stuff?”

Kang Taejung asked, his voice flat, gesturing to the box filled with miscellaneous items. Joyoon could have simply said he was collecting his remaining belongings, but the words wouldn’t come. He wondered why.

After a moment, he realized it was because Taejung looked so…peaceful. For the past few months, Taejung had always worn a pained, troubled expression whenever he saw Joyoon. He’d become so accustomed to seeing Taejung’s barely suppressed anguish that this calm demeanor felt unfamiliar. Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed Taejung repacking everything neatly into a single box.

“Let’s go.”

“Huh?”

“What are you doing standing out here in the freezing cold? Your nose is completely red. How long have you been out here?”

“…I don’t know.”

Taejung turned and started walking, and Joyoon followed, camera in hand. Their footsteps echoed softly on the deserted path.

“It’s not evening yet, though.”

“…….”

“It’s only five o’clock…”

“I just got back from a field assignment.”

“I see.”

Taejung adjusted his pace to match Joyoon’s, the distance between them closing. Despite commenting on Joyoon’s red nose, Taejung himself wasn’t wearing a coat and looked even colder. Joyoon checked his bag for a scarf, but of course, he hadn’t thought to bring one. He sighed softly, abandoning the idea, and continued to follow Taejung in silence.

Their footsteps filled the silence, a quiet, rhythmic counterpoint. Taejung’s back, broad and straight, was held with unwavering firmness. The sight of him, tinged with a familiar longing, brought back a flood of memories. The past few months felt like a compressed version of several years, a blur of intense, painful, and desperate moments, now distant and dreamlike.

“What were you taking pictures of?”

“A bird.”

“A bird?”

“It was beautiful…”

“The one in the bushes?”

“Yes. I wanted to take more pictures, but it flew away just when I had the perfect shot.”

“That’s too bad.”

“A little… but I took a lot of pictures, so it’s okay.”

Their conversation flowed easily, like old friends who had just seen each other yesterday. The casual atmosphere felt strange, unfamiliar, but Joyoon didn’t comment, simply replying with short answers, his eyes lowered.

Taejung’s long shadow stretched out before him, alternately covering and revealing Joyoon’s rounded sneakers. Joyoon’s heart, which had once burned with a fiery intensity, then been torn apart, plunged into the icy depths of despair, and then forcibly dragged back to the surface, now beat slowly, numbly, unable to keep pace with the rapidly changing circumstances.

Tap. Tap.

The quiet street amplified the sound of their footsteps, the only sound filling the space between them. The red roof of Joyoon’s house soon came into view, growing larger with each step, until they finally stopped in front of his gate.

“Yoon-ah.”

Joyoon had been about to ask for his box back, but Taejung’s voice, calling his name, made him stop.

The setting sun cast a warm, reddish glow on Kang Taejung, painting his features in hues that were difficult to define.

A sharp ache tightened Joyoon’s chest, and he pressed his fist against it. Despite having mentally broken up with Taejung and let him go countless times, the sight of him still brought a wave of pain, sadness, anguish, and longing. He realized, once again, just how difficult it was to truly let go of a relationship. He spoke quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

His voice was rough. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help. Taejung, his eyes filled with sadness, watched Joyoon’s clumsy attempt to compose himself, then forced a smile and handed him the box.

“I’ve wronged you so much.”

He took a deep breath. The sight of his own reflection in Joyoon’s calm eyes was so painful, so agonizing, that it made his chest ache, his breath catching in his throat.

“I can’t even apologize right now.”

His voice, low and warm, resonated deep within Joyoon. Joyoon listened intently, noticing that the tips of Taejung’s ears, peeking out from beneath his hair, were red from the cold.

“I know you can’t forgive me…”

Taejung’s voice trailed off, his lips pressing together in a firm line. He smiled weakly and lowered his head. He couldn’t bring himself to mention the camera Joyoon had returned, or the fact that he’d broken up with Seo Youngwoo. He knew he had no right to say those things, no right to expect anything. He carefully concealed his lingering feelings, masking them with a forced casualness.

In the silence, their unspoken emotions fluttered like leaves in the playful winter wind.

If there had been a predetermined path, a predetermined outcome, would he have chosen an easier route? If someone could have chosen the right path for him, for his emotions, his thoughts, his heart, would his current suffering fade away like the setting sun?

Looking at Ha Joyoon’s pale face, Kang Taejung thought about all the decisions he’d made, all the choices he’d had to make.

He regretted every single one of them, and the realization made his heart ache.

The door closed softly behind him. His footsteps, as he walked towards his bed, felt heavy, as if weighted down with iron. He took off his coat, still cold from the outside air, revealing his tailored suit.

If what Shin Kwonjoo wanted was for him to wait, then it wouldn’t be difficult. However, that too was Kwonjoo’s own volition, not an obligation. Ha Joyoon realized that nothing could completely bind him anymore. Every decision he made from now on would be his and his alone.

He lowered his gaze, breaking away from Kwonjoo’s intense scrutiny.

“I should get going.”

His voice was calm, a quiet farewell. A gentle rain began to fall within his heart, silently soaking the ground beneath his feet, a quiet observer of the passing season.

“…Alright.”

Shin Kwonjoo nodded and closed the car door, his movement decisive, without hesitation.

Click—

Just before the door closed completely, their eyes met through the narrow gap, Kwonjoo’s face contorted with a flicker of pain. Joyoon clenched his jaw, trying to quell the ache in his chest.

“We’re leaving.”

The taxi driver, sensing the awkward atmosphere, spoke hesitantly.

“Yes.”

With a quiet response, the car started moving, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed. The scenery outside the window blurred, transforming into a series of fleeting images.

Time flowed on.

Emotions, memories, all swept along by the current of time, flowing towards a vast ocean.

The current, carrying the weight of ages, would never stop, not for a single moment, not for any external force. Human emotions, relentless in their evolution, refused to give up. And so, he believed that even this current pain would eventually weather and erode with time, transforming into something new.

Accepting the surge of emotions, Ha Joyoon leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.

A nameless ache warmed his heart.

Thud—

The car door closed with a dull thud. The interior of the car was silent, so quiet that even the sound of his own breathing felt intrusive. Shin Kwonjoo stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought, then slowly turned his gaze towards the passenger seat. His cold eyes lingered on the file folder lying there, then drifted further back, to the memory of someone who had once occupied that space.

He rubbed his tired eyes and leaned back against the seat.

His tightly pressed lips parted. The faint memory had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The fleeting nature of it reminded him of someone who had once been by his side, then disappeared, and he covered his eyes with his hand, a silent laugh escaping him.

❄

— [Are you sure about this?]

[Yes.]

— [There’s no need to rush. Dyson, who’s currently there, said he can stay until next year, so don’t feel pressured.]

The overcast skies of the past few days had cleared, revealing a brilliantly clear sky. Shielding his eyes from the surprisingly warm sunlight, Ha Joyoon leaned against the railing of the bridge. The winter sky was a vibrant, almost piercing blue.

[If Dyson wants to stay, I’m happy to go somewhere else.]

— [Yoon, I guarantee you, when he hears this, Dyson will fly to Korea and kiss you.]

[Ha ha. I’ll pass.]

A shared laugh echoed through the phone. After briefly discussing work matters, Damian Boyle’s voice turned serious as he delivered his final message.

— [Don’t take this the wrong way. Please make sure to send us your doctor’s note before your official return. You’re a valuable asset to the company. As important as your work as a reporter is, nothing is more important than your health.]

His words carried the weight of genuine concern. Ha Joyoon nodded, as if Damian were standing right there before him. Just then, a small bird perched on the railing spread its wings and flew towards the riverbank. Joyoon’s gaze followed its free flight.

[I will.]

— [Good. I’ll talk to you later.]

The call ended with a final farewell. The cold river flowed beneath the bridge, moving steadily towards its destination. He spotted the small bird, the one that had been perched beside him, flitting amongst the reeds. He instinctively reached for his camera.

Carefully holding the heavy body and lens with both hands, he focused on the scene through the viewfinder. The reeds swayed gently in the wind, the small bird perched amongst them, a sharp contrast against the soft, blurred background.

Click, click, click—

After a patient wait, the moment was captured, preserved within the small device. Photography was about capturing a specific moment, a specific scene, in its entirety.

Before becoming a news reporter, Ha Joyoon had mostly taken landscape photographs. Unlike people, who always demanded quick, precise responses, nature, his most honest subject, rewarded patience with breathtaking beauty.

After taking a few more shots, the bird, as if signaling an end to the session, suddenly took flight. Joyoon blinked, watching it soar into the distant sky.

“Too bad.”

He muttered to himself, his words of regret cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Taking pictures?”

The unexpected voice made Joyoon freeze. Taejung stood before him, a slightly awkward expression on his face.

“…….”

His father sat with his back ramrod straight, but the worry etched between his wrinkles couldn’t be concealed.

“You can work as a journalist in Korea. Just like you are now… Going to a place like that doesn’t mean you’ve made it. It’s not like you’ve achieved anything extraordinary so far. Why don’t you reconsider? Your mother is worried sick.”

His father’s voice was heavy with concern. It was the kind of blunt assessment and advice only family could give, and because of that, it stung even more. But his family’s negative perception of him stemmed largely from his somewhat irresponsible and free-spirited nature, his unplanned, impulsive actions. To overcome the legacy of his past, he had to focus on the present and the future.

“There are plenty of people who can do my job in Korea. But there are places where there isn’t even anyone to tell the stories.”

“But son, that doesn’t mean you have to go. There are other people… Why does it have to be you? …Yoon-ah, am I being selfish?”

Ha Joyoon looked at them, his eyes filled with compassion, and spoke slowly, his voice sincere.

“I’m slow, and I’m not particularly good at anything…”

“…….”

“But…I’m a decent photographer.”

He smiled shyly, remembering the praise he’d received from his colleagues. Tears welled up in his mother’s eyes as she looked at him pleadingly.

“If I have a skill, I want to use it where it’s needed.”

“…But…”

“Don’t worry too much. I’m not saying I’m leaving right away. I’ll make plans after I’ve fully recovered. I just wanted to tell you what I’m thinking.”

“What if you get hurt again?”

His mother’s thin shoulders trembled with grief. Mother. He called out to her softly, closing his eyes, and buried his face in her hair, his voice a gentle murmur.

“I’ll be careful not to cross the line. I won’t do anything dangerous, and I’ll take care of myself. Last time, I was reckless, I didn’t think things through. I was foolish. I won’t do that again. I want to live a long life too.”

“…….”

“Don’t worry. I’ll come back, one way or another.”

He tightened his embrace, his arms holding her close. He felt her silent sobs against his chest.

“I have a condition.”

His father, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke, his voice heavy.

“You’re responsible for your own actions, so we can’t stop you, but at least recover enough to be able to travel overseas. If you get a doctor’s note saying you’re fit to travel, then I think I’ll be able to see you off with peace of mind.”

“Of course.”

Joyoon closed his eyes, a sigh of relief escaping his lips at his father’s compromise.

Unlike before, they were communicating, discussing their concerns, and compromising. They reassured each other, making promises, as if to remind themselves that this was how they should treat the people they loved. He briefly thought about how things could have been different, but regret was pointless. He was just grateful that they could finally communicate like this.

In the unknown amount of time he had left, Joyoon wanted to make his own choices, to do something meaningful, something worthwhile, with his one precious life.

He knew that his decision might seem selfish to some. He’d seen the negative consequences of his actions, his choices, when he’d lost the greatest love of his life. There were people who had been hurt by him, and his decision might be seen as a betrayal.

But as always, Joyoon wanted to follow his heart, to make choices that resonated with his soul. It felt natural, almost instinctive, as if it were etched into his very being. It wasn’t about seeking validation or achieving success; it was about pursuing his own values.

And in that moment, the face of someone he longed to see surfaced from the depths of his heart, a faint, flickering image, a whisper of longing.