〈 I Wish You Were Mine ╱ MarkHyuck 〉 ✓

스물다섯

The rink gleamed under the overhead lights, ice smooth and inviting, a cruelly beautiful mirror reflecting the flickers of Donghyuck's racing thoughts. He tightened his grip on the edge of the skate rental counter, staring at the polished surface with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. Skating. He'd done it before, of course, but this time... this time was different. Nakyung was beside him, radiant and alive, full of energy he couldn't match. And Minhyung—his Minhyung, the one whose absence clawed at him relentlessly—was not here. He couldn't be.

"Here, Donghyuck! Take my hand, you'll be fine!" Nakyung's voice cut through his thoughts, light and cheerful, almost impossibly bright. She extended her hand toward him, her smile infectious, the kind that made his chest squeeze with longing and frustration all at once.

Donghyuck hesitated. His fingers brushed hers tentatively. "O-okay..." His words were stilted, awkward, betraying his inner tension. He could feel every heartbeat, every unspoken thought pressing against his ribs. He wanted to enjoy this moment, to focus on her, to forget, if only for a little while. But every step on the ice echoed the absence of Minhyung.

"Trust me! You'll get the hang of it in no time!" Nakyung's laughter bubbled as she guided him forward, her hands firm yet gentle around his. Donghyuck wobbled, legs trembling like reeds in the wind. He fell forward, catching himself just in time against her shoulder.

"I-I'm okay! Really!" he stammered, cheeks burning.

Her eyes sparkled, teasing. "Sure you are! But don't worry—I've got you."

And there it was—the warmth of her presence. Donghyuck tried to focus, tried to anchor himself in the moment, but his mind betrayed him. Minhyung's voice, his touch, his laughter—they were everywhere, ghosting through the edges of his thoughts. How could he shove it aside? How could he pretend that Nakyung's hand wasn't a poor substitute for the one he truly wanted?

Minhyung's absence throbbed in him like a physical wound. He clenched his fists inside his gloves, skating carefully, forcing himself to look at the ice, at Nakyung, anywhere but at the phantom of his best friend.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed how Nakyung's laughter sparkled across the rink, how her hair caught the light when she spun, carefree, unafraid. Donghyuck's chest tightened. This was the first time he'd felt... this—vivid, intoxicating, and utterly impossible to ignore.

"Why here?" he murmured under his breath, thinking of Minhyung. He could almost see him, perfect on the ice, graceful, teasing, patient. It was a pang he couldn't hide.

Nakyung glanced at him. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he lied quickly, forcing a smile. "Just... concentrating."

"Concentrate more on having fun, then! Don't think too much." Her voice was light, commanding, playful. And yet, every syllable seemed to whisper all the things he couldn't say.

Donghyuck stumbled again, and Nakyung steadied him. "Careful!" she said, laughing. The sound should have been joyful, but to Donghyuck, it was bittersweet. Every laugh was a reminder, a silent echo of the joy he used to share with Minhyung, now replaced, substituted.

Somewhere in the rink, Minhyung's memory hovered like a shadow. Donghyuck gritted his teeth and focused on Nakyung, on the motion of his skates, on the sound of the blades scraping the ice. And still, his mind betrayed him: he imagined Minhyung's hands, guiding him, steadying him, laughing at his awkwardness, and he clenched his jaw.

He fell, again, and again, and each time Nakyung steadied him, she didn't know that he was silently cursing the world for putting her here, for making him feel, for forcing him to confront this impossible longing.

"You're improving, Donghyuckie!" she said after he finally managed a shaky glide across the rink. "See? I told you, you just need a bit of practice!"

"Yeah..." he whispered, voice hollow.

Her grin didn't falter. "Come on, let's spin! I'll show you!" She grabbed his hands, pulling him into a gentle spin, and Donghyuck let himself be guided, letting her lead, letting himself forget. For a second.

A small voice broke through the haze of motion: "Hey! Watch your speed, slow down!"

It was Injoon, far across the rink, waving and shouting encouragement, or maybe admonition. Donghyuck barely registered him, too tangled in his own thoughts.

He glanced at Nakyung, and their eyes met. She smiled, unaware of the storm raging inside him. His heart ached. He wanted to tell her about Minhyung, about the ghost of his feelings, about how every laugh, every touch, every glance, reminded him of what he had lost. But he couldn't. And so he smiled back, forcing his heart into submission.

They skated together, laughed, tripped, and caught each other. Donghyuck's fingers brushed hers more than once, and each time, electricity surged, a spark he couldn't control. And yet, with every spark, every shared smile, the shadow of Minhyung grew heavier.

Finally, they collapsed into a bench by the rink, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, hearts racing. Nakyung grabbed her water bottle and offered it to him. "Here, hydrate!"

Donghyuck nodded, swallowing hard. He wanted to speak, to confess the chaotic mixture of feelings—the guilt, the longing, the impossible pull toward Nakyung. But words failed him. All he could manage was a stiff nod, a faint smile, a silent prayer that Minhyung wouldn't haunt him too fiercely in this moment.

"Photo booth?" Nakyung asked suddenly, eyes glinting mischievously. "We should take one, for memories!"

"Yeah... sure," he managed to say, his voice small.

The booth was cramped, warm, and smelled faintly of plastic and old electronics. They squeezed in, laughter spilling over, pretending, for the moment, that the rest of the world didn't exist.

The camera clicked. Six frames. Smiles, peace signs, playful cheek pinches, and the last one—Nakyung kissing his cheek, capturing a heartbeat that would echo in him for hours, days, weeks. Donghyuck froze, the warmth spreading across his chest, a mixture of joy and guilt, longing and impossibility.

He couldn't breathe. Not fully. And yet, he wanted to hold onto it. Every second with her, every touch, every laugh—it was fleeting, fragile, but it was all he had.

Meanwhile, far away, Minhyung's absence pressed down like a lead weight. He had climbed the rooftop, seeking solitude, seeking escape, and found the wind, the city lights, and the hollow ache of longing. Memories of Donghyuck, of what had been, of what could never be, pressed in on him. He felt abandoned, and his pride, his pain, his heartbreak, all surged together in a bitter tide.

He moved closer to the edge, as if drawn by gravity, by despair, by the unbearable weight of absence.

Minhyung shook, sobbing against the smaller boy, clinging to the only proof that someone, somewhere, still cared. He wanted Donghyuck. He wanted the world he had lost. He wanted the impossible. But for now, he had Injoon, and that was enough to keep him from the edge.

The city lights below stretched infinitely, cold and indifferent, but on the rooftop, two figures clung to each other against the wind, a fragile testament that even in the darkness, someone could reach out, someone could stay, someone could fight for you when you couldn't fight for yourself.

And Donghyuck, unaware of the chaos in Minhyung's heart, skated on, laughed, lived, and lingered in Nakyung's light—each moment a silent, cruel reminder of everything Minhyung had lost, of everything he might never regain.