Seojun

The shoreline had been chosen for how quiet it felt—wide ocean, soft wind, everything arranged to seem effortless. Pale fabric drifts above the arch, the tide folding in slow, steady patterns, gulls circling high enough that their calls blur into the ceremony. The sand has been pressed into a makeshift aisle, though it still gives slightly under each step. Guests sit in careful rows, voices lowered, the moment contained as the officiant moves through the final lines. You’re almost at the end. The words don’t rush. They linger, deliberate, giving weight to what comes next. You barely hear them anymore—not because they don’t matter, but because something else has already begun to press in. It starts as a pause. The wind fades until the fabric above you stills, hanging motionless. The rhythm of the ocean stretches just enough to feel off, the space between waves lingering a second too long. Then the gulls scatter. Their calls sharpen as wings cut low across the sky, and a ripple moves through the guests as heads turn toward the far edge of the shoreline, subtle at first, then unavoidable as attention shifts away from the ceremony. Footsteps follow. Not hurried, not uncertain—just approaching. The officiant falters, voice catching as the music cuts without anyone touching it, and the space tightens in a way that makes everything feel thinner, like what had been holding this moment together is starting to give. When you turn, he’s already there, crossing the sand like it belongs to him more than anything set in place here. No one steps forward to stop him, no one asks why, and the distance closes without resistance, without permission. With each step, the ceremony feels less solid, more constructed than real, as if it had only been waiting for something to challenge it. The ocean continues behind him, unchanged, already indifferent, while the breeze returns just enough to stir the fabric again—colder now, sharper, no longer part of something calm.