Yul Shim

When he looked at you, you always looked back. You always had. But deep down, you knew—he wasn’t really looking at you. His gaze, so golden and full of something distant, always drifted just past your eyes… as if he were searching for someone else on the horizon of your soul.

The quiet hum of guitar strings, the echo of a boy’s soft voice trembling with raw hope, it all used to sound like home. But lately, every chord felt like a thread snapping. Was it always this way? You couldn’t remember when it started to ache.

He was the sun—warm, impossible, and blinding. Born under the plain roof of a quiet neighborhood to middle-class parents who had waited years to hold him in their arms, he was their miracle. Their dream. A boy bathed in light, raised with laughter and calm. Nothing too grand, nothing tragic. Just a steady, radiant warmth. A boy of summer days and golden skies. He didn’t need to be special, and so he became it anyway.

Someone you could never reach.

You, on the other hand, were born under storm clouds, into a world that regretted your very first breath. Though your crib was gilded and your clothes always pressed, you were not wanted. The silver spoon handed to you was cold and bitter, a symbol of a family scandal. You were the child born from your father’s betrayal—a walking reminder of a love destroyed. Your half-siblings saw you as poison. Your stepmother wouldn’t touch you. And your father? He acknowledged you only when the world demanded it. To them, you were shame with a heartbeat.

And maybe that’s why you were so sharp-edged, so standoffish. Cold before the world could be cold to you first.

But he… he reached out anyway.

You were nine when he smiled at you for the first time. You don’t even remember what he said, only how it felt: like someone cracked the sky open and let sunlight in. You didn’t know how to talk to people without sounding cruel. How could you, when that’s all you’d ever been taught? But he stayed. You became his shadow, trailing behind him like the moon trying to catch the sun. And maybe—just maybe—he liked the way you stayed.

From scraped knees in elementary school to messy desks in high school, you were always near him. Quiet. Watching. Listening to the way his voice lifted when he laughed, memorizing the tilt of his head when he was confused. You couldn’t say when it happened, when admiration twisted into love. But somewhere between popsicles in the summer and late-night studying in dusty libraries, you found yourself falling.

Hopelessly.

You told yourself it was enough—his smile, his time, his presence. You told yourself you could be happy with just that. After all, what right did a shadow have to demand the sun?

Then came senior year. And her.

She transferred in the fall. Pretty. Bright. With a laugh like tambourines and a presence that made even the teachers lean forward. And worst of all—she loved music.

Of course, he noticed her. Of course, he wanted to impress her.

So what does a boy in love do, when he doesn’t know the language of music? He forms a band.

And who does he ask first?

You.

You—the one who’d been forced to learn guitar at a young age, your father's voice always just behind your ear: “Do something useful if you want to stay in this house.” You hated the instrument. Every pluck of the strings reminded you of your bruises. But for him, you said yes. You always did.

He sang. He beamed. He begged classmates to join. You helped. You practiced late into the night, fingers aching and heart sore, wondering how long you'd be able to stand watching him smile for someone else.

The festival came. The stage glowed. The crowd waited. And your heart—terrified, trembling—made a decision without asking your permission.

You cut the power.

Just a slip. Just a moment. One small sabotage that sent your fragile, beautiful little world crashing down.

The girl rejected him. The band disbanded. The dream collapsed.

And you? You collapsed with it.

Now you’re in the band room. The sky outside is ink-dark, and inside, it smells like dust and tears. He sits curled on the couch, sobbing into his sleeves. And you're beside him, your hands clenched in your lap, breathing in the sound of a heartbreak that you caused.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he chokes out, childlike and shattered. “I checked everything. I swear I did everything right.”

You nod. You don't speak. His tears dampen your shoulder, and still, you sit like stone.

“I loved her more than the world…” he whispers, voice splintering.

That’s when your own heart breaks.

And the truth slips free, wild and bleeding.

You tell him everything. About how you felt. About the power. About why.

The silence afterward is heavy enough to crush the walls. His breath stills. His eyes, those honey-colored suns, darken into thunderclouds. He turns to you, jaw clenched, and grabs your arms.

“You?” he hisses, voice rising. “YOU?! Why did it have to be you?”

He shoves you back into the couch, trembling. His face is red, his hands shaking. Tears are sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto your face.

Then, suddenly, he kisses you.

Hard. Rough. Like he’s trying to erase something.

“Is this what you wanted?!” he growls, his forehead slamming against yours.

It hurts. His hands tremble against your skin. His voice is thick with confusion, betrayal, grief.

But you don’t cry. Because this is what love looked like for you. Always one-sided. Always too much.

You let him press his weight into your soul.

Because if this is the only way you can be close to him… even if it’s full of pain…

You’ll let it hurt.