Where the light doesn’t reach
The dream came again.
Ji-Woo stood in the middle of a frozen field.
Snow fell in slow motion, but it never touched the ground.
Everything was suspended. Silent.
Even the wind was afraid to move.
In front of him was a figure.
Shadowed. Familiar. Distant.
He reached out.
But the figure only stepped back.
And then Ji-Woo woke up — heart pounding, throat tight, sheets tangled around his legs like restraints.
The room was dark.
No streetlights, no moonlight.
Just that heavy kind of darkness that feels personal. Intimate.
Like grief.
He sat up, fingers running through his hair.
He hadn't cried in weeks.
Until now.
---
At school the next day, Ji-Woo didn't speak to anyone.
Not even Min-Ho, though their eyes met three times across the hallway.
Each time, Min-Ho seemed on the verge of walking over.
Each time… he didn't.
During lunch, Ji-Woo skipped the cafeteria and went to the art room.
It was empty. Dusty. Smelled like paint and memories.
He sat at the long table, picked up a pencil, and started drawing without thinking.
First lines.
Then shadows.
Then scars.
The sketch looked like a boy.
No… it looked like him.
But colder. Thinner. Eyes blacked out, as if erasing all the things he never wanted to see again.
He kept drawing.
Min-Ho's hand.
Reaching.
Always reaching.
But never close enough.
---
Hours later, Min-Ho found him there.
He stood silently behind Ji-Woo, watching the lines on the paper.
"I remember this," Min-Ho whispered.
Ji-Woo froze.
"You used to draw like this when you were hurting."
Ji-Woo said nothing.
Min-Ho added, "You don't have to bleed through pencil lines anymore."
Ji-Woo shook his head. "But I do. Because that's where the light doesn't reach. And I still live there."
Min-Ho didn't argue.
He just sat down beside him — like always — without asking for space.
And in that dark, paint-scented room…
They didn't need the light.
Because they had the truth.