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Sung Hanbin has had many romantic interactions, mainly two or three, but by far his favourite was his recent boyfriend, or now, his ex-boyfriend—Zhang Hao, whom he had met in college and fallen in love with from the first day. But here he was, sitting on a crowded bus behind a teenage boy who had probably just gone through a breakup and was listening to some sad songs.
Hanbin only noticed the song in front of him because the boy had his volume a little too loud. From there, he caught on from the Mandarin lyrics to the soft instrumental.
For a moment, his hands shook above his phone screen. He used to be the one who sent those kinds of songs to Hao in the middle of the night, sometimes with voice notes.
When he sent those songs, he would always add a text message saying, “Thought of you.”
Now, as he stared at the stranger’s headphones, he realized that he didn’t even know what Hao’s favourite song was, whether it was Lullaby, Cry for Love, or a completely different song. He didn’t know what city Hao lived in now, who he went home to, or which contact would be saved as “favourite” in Hao’s phone.
He didn’t know anything about Hao anymore because they had broken up, and Hanbin had stopped keeping tabs on him. That’s what happens when two people who seemed like soulmates break up.
Months before the end of their relationship, they were fine and happy, and their nights were filled with love and care instead of fights. That night, Hanbin had told Hao to dress up nicely, as they were going on a date in Itaewon at a fancy restaurant. Hao had gotten ready in an hour, but it was worth it because he had pink hair at the time.
“You’re so silly, Hanbin-ah,” Hao said, laughing at how adorable Hanbin was.
“Worth it, you look nice tonight,” Hanbin murmured.
Hao rolled his eyes, but his face went red. “I’m wearing just a normal outfit for a date.”
“Exactly. Because you’re you, and you make everything look pretty on you,” Hanbin said, glancing at how pretty Hao was with his pink hair and in the outfit he was wearing.
That day, they talked about everything and nothing: what Hao had done, the annoying guy in Hanbin’s group project, how Gunwook and Matthew kept pining over each other, and how both were oblivious. As they kept talking in the restaurant with neon lights and a queer-friendly crowd, they suddenly realized that the date was over.
Those were happy times, and Hanbin had felt truly seen and loved. But relationships aren’t always like that. The first time Hanbin noticed the gap between them, it was easy to ignore, but it still hurt.
He was standing outside with his phone in his hand, just outside Hao’s dorm. A few minutes before, he and Hao had planned to meet after practice.
Hanbin: How was practice?
Before this, Hao had said, “Call you after practice, I wanna hear about your audition.”
The word promise had settled, warm, in Hanbin’s chest. He’d spent the whole evening replaying the day in his head, lining up stories to tell Hao—from the director smiling at him to him messing up the choreography and recovering in the same second.
It was already 10:00 p.m., but the time had come and gone. At 11, Hanbin refreshed his messages. Nothing.
Finally, at 1:37 a.m., his phone buzzed.
Hao: Sorry, babe, I passed out after practice. How was your audition?
Hanbin: It was fine, dw babe. Sleep well <3
When Zhang Hao finally went to Hanbin’s apartment on a random Sunday, it smelled like dust and a hint of mint chocolate. Hanbin had cleaned his apartment twice.
Ring. Ring.
Hao stepped inside with an apologetic smile, dropping his bag on the sofa. “Sorry, practice ran late.”
“It always does,” Hanbin said before he could stop himself.
“What?” Hao blinked.
“Nothing. You hungry, hyung?” Hanbin said, forcing a smile to hide the words he’d almost said.
They ordered food from Haidilao. The television was playing a show they weren’t even watching. Hanbin kept glancing sideways, taking in every new change in Hao from the dark circles under his eyes to the new bracelet on his wrist, which Hao had never told him about.
“You’ve been busy,” Hanbin said.
“Yeah, you know how it is, jagiya,” Hao said, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Do I?” The words slipped out without a second thought.
Hao looked at him, really looked, like he was seeing Hanbin for the first time in weeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hanbin opened his mouth. How could you say, I don’t know your life anymore, without it sounding like an accusation? How could he explain that before, they texted almost every day like the speed of light, but now their conversations moved like air—there, but barely felt.
“Nothing,” he said, but this time he didn’t even believe himself.
The silence between them stretched thin and tight. On the TV, laughter burst out of nowhere, too loud for a room this quiet.
“Hanbin-ah,” Hao said quietly, “are you… unhappy?”
The question landed heavier than it should have. Hanbin let out a laugh that didn’t sound like him. “I—I don’t know,” he answered. “I just miss you, but you’re right here.”
Hao’s eyes dropped to his hands. “I feel like I’m always choosing between you and everything else,” he whispered. “And somehow I’m still failing both.”
Months later, on the bus behind the same boy, Hanbin would replay that moment and realise that was when they’d both understood some relationships don’t get happy endings. He watched the boy’s headphones blink with each beat and typed, It’s the end, and I’m okay with it. If he stared at the words long enough, maybe one day they wouldn’t feel like a lie.