Minho's Perspective
I used to think I hated him.
That was the easiest thing to believe.
Hate was simple. Clean. Easy to control.
It gave me something sharp to hold onto every time he looked through me like I didn't matter. Every time he stood on that stage and made people fall for him with nothing but a smile. Every time I caught someone whispering, "Han Haru's so cool," or "Isn't he the guy who won that national acting competition?" or worse—when professors compared us.
They never said that about me.
Sure, I was popular. Talented. I had my own set of worshippers—people who liked my face, my presence, my reputation. I was the guy girls wanted and guys envied. I played three sports, scored well enough to stay at the top, and had modeling agencies chasing me before graduation.
But Haru...
Haru didn't just shine—he radiated.
People didn't just admire him; they trusted him. They followed him, as if just standing in his presence would make them better. It was stupid. Unreal. Unfair.
He wasn't even trying.
That's what pissed me off the most.
He didn't need to fight for attention. He earned it simply by being himself. While I was exhausting myself, trying to be visible in a world that never took me seriously beneath the surface, he existed in that spotlight like it belonged to him.
So I told myself I hated him.
It was easier than admitting the truth.
That I wanted to be him.
Or worse—
That I wanted him.
It started with a drama club event.
I was waiting for practice to end, lingering near the auditorium, scrolling through my phone. Just wasting time. I remember the gym was booked, and I was annoyed about having to wait for the juniors to finish drills. I walked toward the theater wing out of boredom, maybe half-hoping to catch a girl I knew from the drama club.
That's when I saw him.
Alone on stage.
No lights. No script in hand. Just… Haru.
He was rehearsing something. A monologue. His voice echoed across the empty seats, cutting into the silence like it belonged there.
I stood there, behind a column near the back door, completely still.
He moved like he was part of the air. He wasn't acting. He was feeling. The grief in his voice wasn't just performed—it was lived. And for those few minutes, it felt like the world fell away and he was the only real thing left in it.
When he paused—head bowed, arms limp—I held my breath.
He didn't know I was there.
But I knew something had changed inside me.
That night, I dreamed about him.
Not in any romantic way.
It was worse.
I dreamed I was standing in front of a mirror, but it wasn't my face staring back.
It was his.
After that, I started watching him more closely.
Not just at club events. In the halls. During lunch. Between classes. It started as a habit. A pattern. One that I didn't want to admit had formed.
I memorized the way he tilted his head when confused. The way he bit his inner cheek when annoyed. The rare moments he laughed out loud with that girl he was always with—the one people assumed he had a thing with. And the way his face softened when he thought no one was watching.
But he never smiled at me.
Not once.
He looked at me like I was a stain on his perfectly ironed uniform.
A glitch in his otherwise structured life.
It should've made me back off. Move on. Find someone else to obsess over.
But instead, I found myself… trying harder.
Trying to get under his skin.
I started messing with him—subtle at first. Casual jabs. Interrupting his conversations. Challenging his ideas during presentations. Getting assigned to the same group projects and derailing the plans just to make him argue with me.
I lived for those glares.
For the way he snapped when I pushed too far. For the rare moments when he raised his voice, cheeks flushed in frustration, eyes burning like wildfire.
Because in those moments, I knew he saw me.
He hated me, sure—but he acknowledged me.
And that was enough.
I hated how soft he was.
Not soft like weak.
Soft like water—unshakeable, calm, but capable of carving through stone with enough time. He didn't rise to my level of pettiness. He ignored me when I was acting out. Walked away when I baited him. He didn't try to beat me at my own game.
He just waited me out.
And somehow… that won.
Every time.
Because when I went home after those encounters, furious and embarrassed and confused—I couldn't stop thinking about him.
I hated that I cared what he thought.
I hated that when he talked to other people, I felt… jealous.
Jealous of the way he smiled at them.
Of the way they got to laugh with him, touch his arm, lean close without him pulling away.
I wanted that.
I wanted to be the one he chose.
Even when I didn't understand why.
So I started dating people I didn't care about.
Hooked up with anyone who made it easy. I let rumors swirl. Let people believe I was this untouchable playboy with no time for real emotions.
But every time someone kissed me, I imagined what Haru's lips would feel like.
Every time someone whispered in my ear, I wondered how Haru would sound if he was the one losing control.
And every time someone looked at me with admiration or lust or infatuation—I hated it.
Because it wasn't him.
He never looked at me like that.
He looked at me like I was a mistake.
Then came the group project.
We were paired up—probably by a professor who thought throwing us together would be some kind of moral lesson in teamwork.
It wasn't.
It was torture.
We bickered the entire time. About formatting. About content. About citations, of all things. He had this way of tapping his pen against his notes when I annoyed him—rapid, sharp taps that felt like gunfire in my brain.
And yet… I kept pushing.
Because the angrier he got, the more alive he became around me.
That night, it rained.
We stayed late in the library finishing the slides. The others left. It was just us. The storm outside made the windows tremble, and he looked… softer. Like his walls had worn down with the day.
When he reached across the table for a book, his hand brushed mine.
And he didn't move it right away.
I didn't breathe.
I looked at our hands, then at his face—and he was staring at mine.
Not glaring.
Not annoyed.
Just… staring.
That's when I knew.
I didn't just want to win his attention.
I wanted him.
His silence. His anger. His everything.
I wanted to be the only one who could shake his world.
And when I kissed him—
When he didn't shove me away, when his lips parted just slightly, when his breath hitched against my cheek—
I thought I had him.
I thought that was it.
But then he stepped back like I'd stabbed him.
Like I'd betrayed something sacred.
And I realized—
I didn't win.
I just broke something.
Now, I sit in the locker room after practice. Everyone's gone. The showers are off. The only sound is the drip-drip of a leaking faucet near the corner.
I'm soaked in sweat and shame.
His voice echoes in my head like a curse I deserve:
"You ruined me."
Maybe I did.
Not because I kissed him.
But because I kissed him without earning it.
Without giving him the safety. The space. The choice.
I let my obsession drive me. My fear of losing him made me selfish.
And he saw that.
He saw every flaw I tried to hide behind swagger and sarcasm.
But the worst part?
Even now… I don't want his forgiveness.
I want his heart.
I want to hold him when he cries at night.
I want to be the one who understands the parts of him no one else gets to see.
I want to sit in silence with him for hours and know it still means something.
I want him to trust me enough to fall apart in front of me.
To lean on me.
To love me—just once, without fear or doubt.
I don't know when exactly it started.
Maybe it was the night I saw him on that stage.
Or maybe it was earlier—some quiet afternoon when he laughed at something stupid and didn't know I was watching.
But I know when it changed.
It changed the moment I realized this wasn't just about wanting him to look at me.
It was about wanting to be enough for him to stay.
And if he never does—
If I'm always just a chapter he wants to forget
Then I'll carry that weight.
But I'll never stop trying.
Even if it kills me.