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In all truth and honesty, he should have seen it coming.
It was hiding in plain sight, a secret that isn’t so much of a secret. Was it really a surprise for him when he should have seen it coming? No, Ikjun thinks he had seen it coming. It was unspoken, lingering in the air, quietly but glaringly, ever since he returned from Spain.
It was the hesitation he saw in the way she acted around him. They weren’t large reactions. She still laughed at his joke, still spoke to him with a level of fondness like how it has always been between them. The natural rapport, the steady foundation of a twenty years friendship.
But the changes were subtle. Her gaze which he could no longer hold, because she could barely look at him. Her pace he struggled to keep up with, as if she didn’t want his steps to be in tune with hers. Blink, and anyone would have missed it. Blink, and anyone would not have realised it.
But Ikjun wasn’t just “anyone”. He was her best friend, someone who knew her like the back of his hand. With those little changes, came the consequence of his confession in Sokcho, one which was beginning to haunt him. Ikjun began to see it.
He just pretended he didn’t. She needed more time, was what he told himself repeatedly, the ache in his heart a splinter, just a tiny fraction. Ikjun refused to dwell in those thoughts, refused to acknowledge the tiny voice within him that pleaded for her to end his misery. Entering into the New Year, he had reached a quiet acceptance that it was alright if she never gave him an answer. He could live with that, as long as nothing changes between them. He didn’t think it was something difficult to do; it was easy to forget. Rather, it was easy to pretend to forget.
Ikjun went about his usual disposition around her. He was loud when he had to, mischievous when he felt like it. He had every intention to prove to her that nothing had changed from the day he visited her in Sokcho. That nothing was going to change if she didn’t want it to.
But he was wrong.
He had been naive to believe that deciding if their relationship had not changed was within his prerogative. It wasn’t.
They were suddenly left alone in Seokhyung’s basement, and Ikjun truly didn’t expect to feel a tension so palpable hanging in the air. Maybe it has a lot to do with Songhwa’s difficulty in looking at him, or the way there was suddenly a distance too far, too huge, between them. Maybe it was the maddening silence in the car when she dropped him back, a silence so loud amidst his thundering heart that Ikjun could almost hear her answer to him.
When Songhwa came to a halt in front of his condo, he had fully expected her to address the inevitable. He had unclasped his seatbelt, muttering a soft thank you for the ride, and was prepared to leave when she spoke for the first time in the stretch of silence.
“Ikjun-ah,”
He froze, jaw hardening in reflex. He struggled, forcing himself to look at her. “Hmm?”
She was staring at him. She was staring at him with a look he recognised as part fear, part resolution, and Ikjun felt his heart lurching into his throat.
“Goodnight.” Songhwa whispered eventually, and her eyes went back to the front.
Ikjun blinked. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as if confused. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something -- but closed it two seconds after.
That evening, Ikjun went home with a conclusion carved in his mind. He knew her that much, knew what she was going to say. Songhwa may not have said anything then, but in her hesitancy, Ikjun had gotten her answer.
It was an answer he had predicted. He had kept his expectations to the minimal, only clouded by tiny sparks of hope that she would prove him wrong. But he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t.
The next day, Ikjun didn’t expect to see her name flashing across his phone. He remained his usual self, chiding her for not resting when she should. And then she said she would see him after he was done with his surgery. He offered to meet her instead. She refused.
That was when Ikjun knew.
This time, she wasn’t going to back away.
She had made up her mind, and she was here to deliver her answer to him.
His heart clenched. But he pushed that thought to the back of his mind.
Hours later, when she finally came to his office, Ikjun could only swallow the lump in his throat.
The distance between them was larger now, he noticed. Songhwa was pressed against his cabinet, as if making a statement that she wasn’t going to take any further steps towards him. Ikjun honestly didn’t know what to make of this.
Except that it hurts. It hurts beyond any feeling he could comprehend. It hurts despite him preparing for this moment. It hurts despite him knowing. It hurts because he knew.
The smile on his face was filled with an inexplicable ache, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if she could see it. He kept that smile though, not wanting to falter in front of her. From the way she had acted, he knew this wasn’t any easier for her.
She was cautious. But she was also certain. The words stumble out of her mouth like she had rehearsed it a few times, like she had thought about it long and hard. She probably had. It was Songhwa, after all.
“If I were you,” She had thrown a smile at him - one that did not reach her eyes. She was in the same situation as him, Ikjun noted somberly. “I wouldn’t confess.”
She shrugged everything off after that, her face breaking into an easy, curt laugh. Ikjun wondered if she knew that her doing that hurts even more.
“Don’t ask me for advice on matters like this,” She commented, the smile returning to her face. “I’ll get going.”
He watched her back, and she was gone in a matter of seconds.
Songhwa left his heart in tethers. She didn’t even wait for his reply. She didn’t even wait for his reaction.
Ikjun decided, there and then, that he would let go.
And he thought to himself silently; maybe this was for the best.