𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄
❝ The world had given up on me but I don't want the world to give up on you. I'm not giving up on you, Heeseung ❞
Park Sunghoon had it all - world-renowned, unstoppable, and reigning as the best figure skater for as long as anyone c...
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I KNOW HEAVEN MUST EXIST
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6 MONTHS LATER
Time had become a treacherous thing, stretching each moment into an eternity of waiting. Six months—half a year of promises that felt more like prayers with each passing day. Jake and Jay had sworn to him that Sunghoon would return, that patience was all he needed, that worry was unnecessary.
But worry had become Heeseung's closest companion, settling into his bones like a persistent ache that no amount of reassurance could cure.
Time moves differently when you're waiting for someone who might never come home.
The Grand Prix Finals felt like a lifetime ago, though the gold medal still sat on his dresser, catching morning light like a beautiful, hollow reminder. He'd won everything he'd ever dreamed of, but when he'd returned to the hospital with victory singing in his veins and tears of triumph on his cheeks, Sunghoon was gone.
In his place stood a stranger—a new coach with kind eyes and careful words who could never fill the Sunghoon-shaped void that had opened in Heeseung's chest.
"He'll be back," they all said, like a mantra, like a spell they could cast to make it true. "He just needs time." But how much time? How long did healing take when the wound was carved so deep it seemed to reach the soul?
The silence was the worst part. No calls that made his heart race with hope. No messages that he could read and reread until the words lost all meaning. No sign that he'd ever mattered more than a fleeting chapter in someone else's story. Sunghoon had vanished as completely as if he'd never existed at all, leaving only memories that grew more fragile with each day that passed.
Absence has its own weight—heavy enough to crush hope, light enough to let it float away.
Had he changed his mind? The thought gnawed at Heeseung in the darkest hours before dawn, when the world was quiet enough for doubts to speak their poison truths.
Did Sunghoon regret their journey together? Had those tender words in the hospital been nothing more than medication-induced sentiment, forgotten as soon as the drugs wore off?
No. Heeseung knew better—or at least, he wanted to. They'd been through too much together, shared too many moments that felt sacred, built something too beautiful to be discarded like yesterday's newspaper. Sunghoon wouldn't abandon him. He couldn't.
But knowing and believing were different creatures, and belief grew harder to maintain when fed only on hope and stubbornness.
The videos on his phone had become both salvation and torture—glimpses of Sunghoon's smile, echoes of his laugh, fragments of a voice that Heeseung was terrified of forgetting.
