〈 I Wish You Were Mine ╱ MarkHyuck 〉 ✓

마흔둘

Minhyung sat at the edge of his narrow desk, papers scattered like fallen leaves. Passports, photocopies, stamped documents, approval letters—each one felt heavier than it should, as if soaked with the years he was trying to abandon.
His fingers lingered on his name embossed in navy blue: Philippine Passport. The book smelled faintly of ink and airport halls.

Canada.

The word itself carried snow and distance. A horizon wide enough to bury his feelings in. A country where Donghyuck's laughter wouldn't echo in every hallway, where the sight of him pressed close to Nakyung wouldn't stab every time Minhyung turned his head. A country that might finally let his chest loosen, his breath return.

He told no one. Not Koeun, who would demand explanations. Not Injoon, who would try to drag him back. Not even Johnny hyung, who had always been his quiet anchor. Some decisions were too fragile to survive the weight of other people's voices. This one had to be private, sealed in his chest until the plane lifted off.

At night, he prayed—an old, trembling habit. Not for courage. Not for a future. Just for one thing.

A last chance.

Not a confession. Not a demand. Just a moment stolen, a sliver of time with Donghyuck before distance became permanent. A glance, a touch, a word that could carry him through the cold of another country.

He wouldn't tell Donghyuck he was leaving. Wouldn't ask him to stop him. That wasn't fair. Love, he'd learned, wasn't about chaining someone down. It was about bleeding quietly until the other could breathe freely.

Still, his chest burned with longing. Before he disappeared into a new chapter, he needed to see him—just once, alone. He needed to burn the image into his memory: Donghyuck under the sun, Donghyuck's voice brushing against his skin, Donghyuck existing in a way no ocean could erase.

So Minhyung folded the papers, tucked them into a folder, and slid them into the locked drawer.

Tomorrow, he would live as if nothing had changed. Tomorrow, he would laugh with his friends, study, breathe, exist like an ordinary boy.

But inside, he was already counting backwards.

One week left.
One last chance.
One love he could never name.

The air that night was thick, not with summer heat, but with something heavier, something pressing down on Minhyung's chest. He had sent the message with trembling hands:

Hyuck, can we meet? Just once. Please.

No excuses. No reasons. Just a plea.

And to his surprise, Donghyuck agreed.

They met at the park bench near the river, the same bench where they once ate fish cakes after class, where Donghyuck had once leaned against Minhyung's shoulder half-asleep, mumbling about dreams and constellations. Tonight, the bench felt like a witness—old wood soaked in their history, splinters holding their laughter and now, maybe, their last goodbye.

Donghyuck arrived in a hoodie, his face pale in the dim light. The boy who used to radiate mischief now looked fragile, shadows clinging to him. Minhyung almost reached out the moment he saw him, almost pulled him close the way he used to—but his fingers curled back into fists.

"Hyuck..." Minhyung's voice cracked. "Thank you for coming."

Donghyuck sat down beside him, silent at first. The sound of the river filled the gap, water moving endlessly, as if mocking them.

"You sound strange," Donghyuck finally said, forcing a laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

Minhyung's throat tightened. He tried to smile, but it collapsed halfway. "Maybe I am."