〈 I Wish You Were Mine ╱ MarkHyuck 〉 ✓

열하나

The apartment felt too small for the weight they carried. Morning light sifted in through thin curtains, pale and muted, dust motes trembling in the air as if caught between breathing and breaking. The world outside was alive — cars passing, faint laughter from the street below, a dog barking somewhere in the distance — but inside, the silence between Minhyung and Donghyuck was thick enough to choke on.

Donghyuck sat hunched at the edge of the couch, his knees pulled close, fingers picking at the loose threads on the hem of his shirt. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his lips bitten raw, and there was a hollowness to the way he stared at nothing. He looked small, almost fragile, yet the storm inside him rattled loud enough that Minhyung could hear it without a word spoken.

Minhyung hovered by the stove, spatula in hand, trying to anchor himself in the ordinary. Eggs hissed in the pan, butter sizzling as it browned. It should've smelled comforting, grounding. Instead, it was sharp, bitter, like the sound of something burning in the background of their lives. He wanted to fix this — the food, the air, the mess of everything — but every movement felt clumsy, every attempt too heavy, as if the weight of his care only pressed Donghyuck further into the ground.

"You don't get it, Min," Donghyuck muttered finally, voice low, hoarse. He didn't look up. His words cut through the quiet like glass dragged across stone.

Minhyung stiffened, spatula pausing mid-stir. His chest tightened. "Then help me get it," he said, his voice firmer than he intended, though it trembled at the edges. "Don't just shut me out, Hyuck. Don't leave me guessing like this."

"I'm not shutting you out." Donghyuck's reply was sharp, defensive, but when he lifted his face, his eyes glistened. "I'm trying to breathe. To think. You keep asking me to go with you, to sit in your classes, to fit myself into your world. But what about mine, Minhyung? What if I don't belong there?"

The hiss of the pan grew louder in the silence that followed. Minhyung swallowed hard, turning off the flame. He set the spatula down, palms bracing the counter as if holding himself upright against the tilt of the room.

"I'm not asking you to give up your world," Minhyung said quietly. His voice was rough, pulled from someplace deep. "I'm asking you not to leave me out of it."

Donghyuck let out a shaky laugh, bitter and wounded. He pushed himself up from the couch, pacing the narrow stretch of the living room like a caged animal. His hands waved in sharp, restless motions, like even his body couldn't contain what he felt.

"You don't even hear yourself," he snapped, his voice cracking. "You're saying it like—like we're—" His words broke apart, tangled in the air. He shoved both hands through his hair, tugging hard, eyes brimming. "We're just best friends, Minhyung. That's what this is. That's all this can be."

The phrase hung heavy between them. Best friends. A cage disguised as safety.

Minhyung's chest burned, but he didn't move, didn't flinch. He only looked at Donghyuck, his eyes steady, though every heartbeat felt like shattering glass.

"Then why does it hurt so much?"

Donghyuck's voice cracked wide open, the words tumbling out like they'd been forced from the deepest part of him. His face crumpled as tears broke free, spilling hot and unsteady down his cheeks. His body shook, his hands trembling where they hovered in the air before dropping helplessly to his sides.

Minhyung froze. He had seen Donghyuck cry before, but not like this. Not with such raw confusion, not with a pain that seemed to tear him apart from the inside. This wasn't just exhaustion or frustration. This was heartbreak, even if Donghyuck refused to name it.

"Why does it hurt so much, Min?" Donghyuck sobbed, voice breaking. "If we're just friends, why does it feel like I'm losing something every time you talk about leaving me behind? Why does it feel like I can't breathe when I imagine you moving forward without me?"

He pressed both hands against his chest as though trying to hold the ache in place, his knees buckling as he stumbled back toward the couch. He collapsed onto it, burying his face in his palms, shoulders heaving with ragged breaths.

Minhyung's heart clenched. He moved without thinking, crossing the small distance to kneel in front of him. Gently, carefully, he reached for Donghyuck's wrists, prying his hands away just enough to see his face.

"Hyuck..." His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it, for not being stronger, steadier, clearer. "I don't want to move forward without you. I never did. That's not what this is. I just... I can't imagine any of it — school, the future, any of it — if you're not there somewhere in it with me."

Donghyuck's eyes met his, red and wet and brimming with disbelief. "But what if I'm not enough, Min? What if I can't follow you there? What if I ruin everything, like I always do?"

"You don't ruin anything." Minhyung's grip tightened, his words fierce even as his eyes softened. "You make it matter. You make me want it more. Don't you see that?"

The room was unbearably quiet again, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but swollen with everything unsaid. Donghyuck's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his lips trembling as though every answer he wanted to give warred against the ones he was afraid to.

Minhyung wanted to close the gap. To pull him in. To erase every doubt with the warmth of his arms, his lips, his everything. But he didn't. He stayed kneeling there, hands on Donghyuck's wrists, holding steady while the other boy broke in front of him.

Donghyuck sniffled hard, tearing his gaze away. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, embarrassed by the mess of his face, the mess of his heart. "You make it sound so easy," he whispered, voice fragile.

Minhyung exhaled, sitting back on his heels. His hands lingered on Donghyuck's knees before falling away. "It's not easy. It's terrifying. Every damn second of it. But you're worth being terrified for."

Donghyuck's breath hitched. He stared at Minhyung like the words themselves had undone him, like he wanted to believe them but didn't know how. His lips parted, then closed again. No answer came. Only silence, heavy and aching.

The eggs on the stove had gone cold. The morning light shifted higher, painting long lines across the floor.

Eventually, Donghyuck lay back on the couch, curling into himself, eyes shut tight as if sleep could bury what he couldn't say. Minhyung sat on the floor beside him, back resting against the couch, staring at the ceiling as the weight of everything pressed down.

Neither spoke. Neither moved closer. But neither walked away.

And in that fragile stillness, the world went on — unaware of the two boys clinging to the breaking edge of something too big, too tender, too terrifying to name.