Kim Dokja
Dokja remembered the first time he met Yoo Joonghyuk like it was yesterday.
He had been late to his art class—an unusual occurrence for him—so when he turned the corner at full speed, the last thing he expected was to slam into what felt like a brick wall.
Stumbling back, he landed on the floor with a grunt, blinking up in surprise. And there he was.
Yoo Joonghyuk.
The oh-so-talented music prodigy. The one known for his talent, his aloof nature, and—most infamously—his violent temper.
Internally, Dokja panicked.
But then, Joonghyuk glanced at his watch, tsked in irritation, and turned to leave without so much as a word. And something in Dokja’s mind snapped.
Oh, look at this rude bastard just walking away.
Without thinking, he blurted out, “Aren’t you going to help me up? Or at least apologize?”
To his surprise, Joonghyuk actually stopped. He turned back, let out a sigh, and extended a hand.
Dokja smirked as he took it. "Well, thank you, Mr. Yoo~" he teased, drawing out his name with a playful lilt. “Anyway, I’m late.”
With that, he walked away, a pep in his step, grinning as he heard Joonghyuk call after him
Their relationship started from there—if you could even call it that. It began with Dokja pestering Joonghyuk to play for him, and Joonghyuk repeatedly refusing with that same stoic indifference. But then, one day, Joonghyuk did something unexpected.
He invited Dokja to his school concert.
A solo performance.
Dokja still sighed at the memory. That night had been the first time he dared to attend a major event so late. He almost didn’t go, but something in him wouldn’t let him miss it.
And then Joonghyuk played
The moment the bow touched the strings, Dokja felt it—Joonghyuk’s soul bleeding into every note, raw and unrestrained. It was powerful, breathtaking, a melody that wrapped around his heart and refused to let go.
By the time the last note faded into silence, Dokja already knew.
I want to stay by his side for the rest of my life.
After the concert, he made his way backstage, eager to congratulate him—only to freeze at the sight before him.
Joonghyuk.
Kissing a beautiful woman with silver hair.
Dokja’s breath hitched.
Then Joonghyuk pulled away and introduced her with that same indifferent tone he used for everything. His girlfriend.
Dokja forced a smile. Said something he couldn't even remember. But inside, something fractured.
He had always known.
People like him—dependent, unremarkable—were never meant to be cherished. Not the way others were.
Still, he stayed.
Clinging to every sliver of affection Joonghyuk threw his way.
From the night Joonghyuk broke up with her, to the moment he reached out, asking for a favor Dokja should have refused if it had been anyone else.
That night changed everything.
The lingering touches. The late-night conversations. The way Joonghyuk’s gaze softened, just barely, when he looked at him.
But deep down, Dokja knew the truth.
This won’t last
In the end, he would be discarded.
Used and left behind.
Just like always.
It was graduation night when Joonghyuk invited him to Jeju Island.
"Let’s run away," he had said. "Just for a little while.”
And Dokja—who had already decided to end whatever strange, fragile thing they had—agreed.
If he was going to leave, he wanted to do it on his own terms. He wanted to step away before Joonghyuk inevitably grew tired of him.
The island was magical.
From the bustling fish markets to the quiet beaches, every shared laugh, every meal, every fleeting moment of warmth—Dokja burned them into his memory. He wanted to remember it all.
Especially the night he left Joonghyuk.
He doesn’t remember his exact words. It was all a blur of emotions, tangled in hesitation and fear. But he remembers Joonghyuk’s face.
The way he looked at him—like something had shattered inside him.
And that was the part Dokja never understood.
How could I have broken his heart if he was never supposed to be attached to me? If only—if only, for a moment—he had loved me, I would have stayed.
After that night, they went their separate ways.
Neither of them reached out. Maybe Joonghyuk was too prideful. Maybe Dokja was too afraid.
Or maybe, deep down, they both knew that if they tried, they would never let go.
So, they drifted apart.
Dokja moved on—or at least, he convinced himself he had. He built a successful career in art, filled his days with color and creation.
And Joonghyuk?
He never let himself find out.
Because reopening that wound meant acknowledging that it had never really healed in the first place.
But that fragile facade of closure shattered with a single song.
Dokja had been painting, barely listening to the radio playing in the background. The soft hum of music was nothing more than white noise—until it wasn’t.
At first, it was just a melody. A familiar pull in his chest, a whisper of something he couldn’t quite place. Then, as the song unfolded, his hands stilled. His heart ached.
The more he listened, the more the past came rushing back—the first time he met Joonghyuk, the sound of his voice, the way his presence filled a room. Memories crashed over him, relentless and sharp.
A drop of something wet splattered onto the canvas. Tears.He hadn’t even realized he was crying.
The song ended, and the radio host’s voice cut through the haze: "And that was rising star Yoo Joonghyuk’s hit single, ‘Motion,’ now with over two million streams! Up next—”
The rest of the words faded into static as Dokja stared blankly ahead.
No way. It’s just a song. It has nothing to do with me.
But the lyrics—the melody—it was too much like them. Too much like that day.
No. Please, let it just be a coincidence. Just another song for the charts. A money grab. Please.
He knew better.Denial clung to him desperately, but deep down, something in him had already unraveled.
The stool scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly, knocking it over. The sudden noise startled his manager, Yoo Sangah, who had been immersed in paperwork. She looked up just in time to see him rush out of the studio, his face streaked with tears.
Dokja barely noticed where he was going until he found himself standing in the middle of the gallery—his own gallery.
And suddenly, it hit him.
Every painting, every brushstroke—Joonghyuk was there. The hands reaching for scattered stars, the faceless figures bathed in glowing light, the quiet scenes of late nights and sunlit mornings.
All of them.
Every piece of him was still here. Dokja let out a choked, breathless laugh. I thought I let him go. But I’ve been carrying him with me all along.
Footsteps echoed behind him, and moments later, Sangah appeared in the doorway, concern etched into her features.
“Dokja—what happened? The second that song played, you just—” She trailed off, taking in the sight of him crumpled on the floor.
Dokja wiped at his face, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” he said, voice hoarse. “Just… nostalgia.”
He exhaled shakily.
“I think I just need some fresh air.”
As Dokja stepped out onto the balcony, a cool spring breeze greeted him, carrying the soft scent of cherry blossoms through the air. He inhaled deeply, letting it wash over him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to drift back—to a spring afternoon during junior year.
He had been sitting on the campus lawn, completely absorbed in a web novel, when Joonghyuk had snuck up behind him. A sudden touch, fingers ghosting over his ribs—Dokja had yelped, startled, as Joonghyuk tickled him, laughter bubbling from his throat before he could stop it.
He exhaled, glancing back at the gallery behind him. His gaze landed on a painting—a soft pink landscape, cherry blossom petals swirling across the canvas like memories caught in the wind.
"I thought I let you go," he whispered to himself. "But I’ve woven you into every fiber of my being."
Months passed, and Joonghyuk’s name became impossible to ignore.
His music was everywhere. Every song, every melody—Dokja couldn’t escape it. He tried not to listen, tried to drown it out, but the notes always found their way to him.
And the worst part?
He knew.
From the first kiss to the quiet nights spent together, from the echo of shared laughter to the pain of their parting—he could hear it all. Every single song sounded like a piece of their past, a story only the two of them knew.
Late one restless night, Dokja found himself in his studio, unable to sleep, unable to escape the ache gnawing at his chest. He sat before a massive blank canvas, brush poised in his hand, and let himself create.
His hands moved on their own, his heart guiding every stroke.
By the time he was finished, his breath caught in his throat.
Before him was Jeju Island.
The colors of the sunset bled together in shades of orange, pink, and deep blue—just as he remembered it. The sea breeze, the warmth of sand between his toes, the salty air that clung to his skin.
It was just a landscape.
And yet, as he stared at it, his mind filled in the rest.
The memory of that night—the night he walked away. The tremble in Joonghyuk’s voice. The way his expression had shattered when Dokja told him it was over.
He hadn’t painted Joonghyuk’s face into the scene, yet the moment was still there, imprinted in his mind, refusing to fade.
Dokja’s hands trembled as he reached for a white cloth, throwing it over the painting. No one can see this.
But the painting haunted him.
Sangah noticed his distraction, her growing frustration evident as he ignored his gallery shows, as he failed to create anything else. The weight of the painting pressed against his mind, refusing to be ignored.
So he made a decision.
He listed it for sale under an anonymous name, but before parting with it completely, he signed the back—just in case. It should have taken weeks, months even, for a painting like this to sell. It wasn’t the kind of work that typically thrived in high-end auctions.
Yet within the hour, it was gone. Sold to a buyer under the name Yoo__1864. Dokja sucked in a sharp breath. Yoo was a common surname. It’s just a coincidence. But deep down, he knew A painting like this—their painting—was never meant to linger in the hands of just anyone.
Joonghyuk had found it.
Dokja panicked.
Out of all the possible buyers, why did it have to be him?
He hadn’t wanted Joonghyuk to see it—let alone own it. But there was nothing he could do now. He had to honor the contract. With a sigh, he carefully packed the painting, making sure it would arrive undamaged.
As he handed it off for delivery, relief began to settle in—until a thought hit him like a punch to the gut.
His signature.
Joonghyuk would recognize it. Without a doubt. They had worked on that signature together back in school, perfecting the curves and strokes until it looked just right.
Dokja let out a frustrated groan, dragging his hands down his face. It was already sent. He couldn’t take it back.
Exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day, he collapsed onto his bed.
"It’ll be fine," he told himself. "As long as he doesn’t reach out. As long as he keeps doing his own thing. As long as he forgets about me… I’ll be able to move on."
But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple.
The next few weeks passed in a blur.
He drowned himself in work, catching up on missed projects, attending gallery showings, and sitting through award ceremonies he had no real interest in. It was exhausting, but at least it kept his mind busy.
One evening, after a long day, he peeled off his clothes and sank into a steaming bath. The warmth seeped into his skin, loosening the tension in his muscles.
He needed a distraction.
Reaching for the radio, he turned it on, letting the familiar hum of static fill the silence.
Then, the host’s voice cut through.
“And now, here’s the latest release from Yoo Joonghyuk—‘Words Are Futile.’”
Dokja froze.
Soft waves lapped at the shore.
Crickets chirped in the quiet of the night.
Then—shaky breaths. A quiet, intimate moan.
A choked sob.
And finally, a plea.
The song ended like an outstretched hand—reaching, waiting.
Dokja’s heart clenched.
Joonghyuk was looking for him. Reaching for him through his music.
Or maybe… maybe he was simply reminiscing, lost in the past just as much as Dokja was.
The thought made his chest ache. He wanted to reach back, to tell Joonghyuk he was listening, that he remembered. But fear held him back.
I can’t do this again. I won’t survive another heartbreak.
So he kept his silence.
Months passed.
Each new song felt more desperate, more raw, more like a hand grasping for something just out of reach.
And every time, Dokja listened.
Joonghyuk’s violin music filled his home, his studio, his mind—until he stopped fighting it.
He painted.
Piece by piece, he poured his emotions onto the canvas. A collection of memories—soft, gentle moments intertwined with rough, painful ones. A series of paintings that slowly, intentionally, began to form a picture of him.
Bits and pieces of Joonghyuk’s face surfaced in the brushstrokes, as if no matter how hard he tried, Dokja could never truly forget him.
And maybe… maybe he didn’t want to.
As he stood before the finished collection, he realized something.
For the first time, he wasn’t afraid to admit the truth.
He had never stopped loving Yoo Joonghyuk.
And now, he was finally ready to show it.
Dokja sighed in relief as he completed the final piece in his series—a small, intimate painting depicting Joonghyuk holding him in a gentle embrace under messy sheets, his fingers softly twirling Dokja’s hair as he slept. It was a moment frozen in time, one that Dokja had tried so hard to forget yet had unknowingly immortalized in his art.
“Wow…” came a soft exclamation from behind him. Sangah had entered the studio, her gaze sweeping over the paintings. “Who is he?”
Dokja’s voice barely wavered. “He was somebody I used to know.”
Sangah didn’t press, sensing the weight of his words. Instead, she offered a distraction, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “You know what? I got two tickets to the last showing of Yoo Joonghyuk’s concert!”
Dokja’s heart lurched. He had seen Joonghyuk in fleeting glimpses—on magazine covers, in music articles, through songs that felt like memories set to melody—but never in person. Not since that night. Not since Jeju.
Still, he went.
The concert venue was overwhelming, the sheer mass of people pressing in on all sides, but Sangah had secured seats so close to the front that hope stirred in his chest despite himself. Maybe… just maybe, Joonghyuk would see him
As the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed with anticipation. Then, Joonghyuk stepped onto the stage, and for a moment, Dokja forgot how to breathe.
He was as beautiful as the day Dokja had left him. But there was something in his expression—something worn, something hollow. It looked as if Joonghyuk had spent years searching for something he had finally given up on finding.
Then, he lifted his violin. The first note rang out, and Dokja swayed as if struck.
Even in the most joyful melodies, there was an undercurrent of sorrow. A lingering ache in every bow stroke, a whisper of longing in each lingering note. This wasn’t just music—it was mourning.
No, no… please don’t. Please don’t give up on me.
When Joonghyuk reached the final note of the final song, he let it hang in the air, his eyes still closed. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, but all Dokja could do was stare, willing him to look.
And then he did.
Joonghyuk opened his eyes—those black-gold eyes that had once been filled with endless determination. They swept over the crowd, unfocused, resigned—until they landed on him.
Time stilled.
The dullness in Joonghyuk’s gaze shattered, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. His lips parted slightly, as if he were seeing a ghost. As if time had never moved forward at all. Then, his fingers tightened around the mic, and in a voice barely steady, he spoke:
"I'm sorry. Every single song is about you."
Dokja’s breath caught, his heart hammering against his ribs as Joonghyuk played one last song. A song of loss, of longing. A song of reaching out, of unanswered prayers, of a future he still dared to hope for.
Then, Joonghyuk stopped playing. The silence was deafening.
He lifted the mic once more.
"Tell me, you fool—if I keep making music for you, will I see you again?"
Dokja crumpled.
His knees hit the ground, body wracked with silent sobs as the truth crashed over him. Joonghyuk had never stopped thinking of him. He had never moved on. Every song, every desperate note—this entire time, Joonghyuk had been calling for him.
Before he could do anything, Joonghyuk was ushered off stage. Sangah’s frantic voice barely registered. Dokja barely registered anything at all—until the realization hit him like a freight train.
He had to go to him.
His legs moved before his mind caught up, pushing through the sea of bodies, stumbling toward the backstage entrance.
"Please—please, I need to see him," he begged the security guards, desperation leaking into every syllable.
"I'm sorry, sir," one of them said firmly. "If you do not leave, we will have to use force."
Then—
"Let him through."
Joonghyuk’s voice.
The guards hesitated before stepping aside, and then—
Time stopped.
Joonghyuk stood there, eyes locked onto Dokja as if afraid he might disappear again. He looked exhausted. Heartbroken. Beautiful.
And then he moved.
He closed the distance in two strides, grabbing Dokja and pulling him into a searing, desperate kiss.
Dokja gasped into it but melted instantly, hands fisting in Joonghyuk’s jacket, clinging as if to anchor himself to reality. As if letting go would make Joonghyuk vanish like a cruel dream.
When they finally parted, Joonghyuk's forehead rested against his. His voice was barely a whisper.
"You are as beautiful as the day you left me."
Something inside Dokja broke. His breath hitched as he choked out, "I'm sorry—I never meant to leave you the way I did."
Joonghyuk's grip on him tightened. "Oh, Dokja," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Nothing will ever make me hate you."
A shuddering sob escaped Dokja’s lips. He had thought time had stolen Joonghyuk from him. That he had burned the bridge between them. But here they were, standing in the wreckage of what once was—aching, yearning, alive.
And for the first time in years, Dokja allowed himself to believe.