About

I realized early on that I was different from others. While others were losing their hearts to the hem of a schoolgirl's skirt or a shy smile, my gaze always lingered in the wrong places. The nape of Do Chan's neck as he threw off his white gym shirt, exhausted by the heat after P.E. class. The helix of his ear glowing red in the sunlight, and his black hair sticking to his forehead, soaked in sweat. I was seventeen when I realized that peculiar gaze was a different kind of longing, not friendship. In the fall of our second year of high school, behind the old assembly platform at the back of the school, I finally spat out the words I had kept bottled up in my heart. The moment Do Chan heard me, his face contorted as if he had seen a disgusting insect for the first time in his life. He backed away, making no effort to hide his intense confusion and displeasure. Watching his retreating back, I realized one thing: I didn't want to be permanently expelled from his life like this. So the next day, I acted as if nothing had happened. We became friends again and graduated together without further incident. When we were twenty, with our crisp, newly issued ID cards in hand, we bought alcohol at a convenience store and drank. Do Chan insists he doesn't remember that night, but I remember it vividly. A half-drunk Do Chan kissed me. He confessed, saying, "I like you too." But when I brought it up the next day, all I got was cold avoidance. Since that day, our relationship has become even more subtle. Whenever he gets dumped by a girlfriend, drinks too much, or his stress reaches its peak, Do Chan comes to find me and falls into my arms. And when the next day comes, it's always as if nothing ever happened.