It looked like a family photo. No—it was a family photo.
The picture, likely taken years ago, featured Se-min, his late grandmother, and Cha-hyeon.
There I was, awkwardly trying to smile. Cha-hyeon, with the corners of his mouth lifted in a polite grin. And Grandma, her makeup beautifully done.
Se-min glanced back and forth between me and Grandma, then stared blankly at Cha-hyeon, who stood naturally nestled between us.
“……”
With a slight parting of his lips, Se-min lifted a hand and blocked Cha-hyeon from view.
The image of his grandmother seated on a chair and himself standing next to her felt like a natural, expected composition. But the moment his hand fell away and Cha-hyeon came back into view, a sharp wave of dissonance hit.
The nausea that had been lingering grew worse. Se-min pressed down on his pounding chest and, half-hoping, opened the back of the frame. Maybe the feeling of unease was due to the photo being pieced together or edited somehow. If he looked closely, maybe something would seem off.
But as soon as he removed the backing, his hand froze for an entirely different reason.
Written on the back in a familiar hand were the words:
Always my happy children. With my beloved Se-min and beloved Cha-hyeon.
Faced with his grandmother’s handwriting at such an unexpected moment, Se-min momentarily forgot how to breathe. Preserved inside the frame, the ink hadn’t faded. Despite how old the message might be, the black letters remained deep and vivid.
A faint walnut-shaped crease flickered on Se-min’s chin. The nausea surged again. Even on an empty stomach, it felt like he was about to throw up.
“Urgh…”
He quickly closed the backing—then hesitated, feeling as if he were turning away from Grandma—and opened it again.
Something felt deeply wrong. Chills ran down his spine, and his insides churned. Cold sweat dampened his palms, and he clenched his fists. Shaking his head slightly, Se-min muttered,
“No…”
He didn’t even know why he’d said it. Staring at his grandmother’s handwriting in stunned confusion, the phrase “beloved Cha-hyeon”—so casually placed beside his own name—suddenly felt like a deliberate lie.
Like the world itself was playing a trick on him.
That’s when Se-min finally realized what had been making him so sick.
The first time he heard that Cha-hyeon was his lover, or someone akin to family, was back in the hospital. New information delivered in an unfamiliar place.
Anyone could easily find the details online—they popped up with a few search terms. It was all public knowledge. And maybe because it was so easy to access, he’d brushed it off as nothing significant. Just accepted it at face value. As if it were merely some basic fact about the original Se-min’s life.
A Hyung who’d lived with him since childhood—practically family. Their secret relationship was known by the whole nation long before their public confession. Now, the two were even said to be engaged.
Se-min had taken it like he would a character backstory. Something to memorize—maybe even a detail that would be on a test.
Even the decision to try and raise Favorability again, without much hesitation, had come from that place. Because Cha-hyeon wanted it. And because it felt like the respectful thing to do, for a lover he couldn’t remember.
But now, faced with reality, Se-min finally understood just how lightly he’d been treating the situation.
The house where he now supposedly lived with Cha-hyeon. The slippers that, despite being unfamiliar, cradled his feet like they were made for him. The way Cha-hyeon kept trying to recreate the original Se-min through him. The unfamiliar room decorated exactly to his preferences. And now, his grandmother’s handwriting.
In his memories, it had always been just him and Grandma. But now, with Cha-hyeon inserted so naturally in between, it felt surreal. Artificial. Like a badly photoshopped image. And that was the breaking point.
What do you even call something like this? All he’d done was close his eyes for a moment—but when he opened them, it was like he’d walked onto the set of some enormous production. He hadn’t changed, but the world around him had. It was nothing like what he remembered.
It felt like someone had suddenly said, “This is your reality now,” and flung him headfirst into it. Like people were trying to project the original Se-min onto him, desperately hoping he’d fall back into that mold.
Everyone saying, “This is real. If it feels off, it’s only because of your memory loss. This world is the truth.”
…Even Grandma.
“…I’m scared…”
Se-min was terrified. The only reason the memory loss hadn’t bothered him before was because he hadn’t understood it.
He turned toward the desk and looked at the other two framed photos. One was of him as a child. The other showed a younger Cha-hyeon beside him. In that photo, the youthful Cha-hyeon had crouched down to match his height, hands resting on his tiny shoulders, his eyes rebellious and playful as he stared right through the lens—straight at the older Se-min.
There I was, my cheeks puffed up in a bright, beaming smile, half-leaning into Cha-hyeon like I belonged there.
If all his memories tied to Cha-hyeon had vanished—then where did the gaps begin? And where did they end? Just how much of his mind had been hollowed out?
When Deputy Chief Jeong had recognized him and fussed over him, it hadn’t felt like this. Jeong was just a helper, an outsider. Back then, Se-min had felt more curious than uneasy—Oh, so that person used to be in my life too.
But Cha-hyeon was different. He was the other half of this shared amnesia. Their fates tied together by a Linked Reward—inseparable until everything was resolved.
What if the memories never came back? What if he couldn’t love Cha-hyeon again? What if Favorability never rose?
Would he be trapped forever—flinching whenever he hit a mental block, unable to feel familiarity in the things that should feel familiar? Would he have to live the rest of his life like this, a stranger dropped into a world that was supposed to be his?
And how could Cha-hyeon so casually say he wouldn’t regain those memories?
“What am I supposed to do…?”
Se-min’s chin quivered, the skin bunching up in tiny creases as tears threatened to form. In the photo frame, Grandma and Cha-hyeon just smiled at him—quiet and unchanging.
***
Staring down the unfamiliar pot in the fridge wasn’t how Cha-hyeon planned to start lunch.
Inside was a pale, milky beef and radish soup. It had clearly been boiled once and left to cool—he could see how deeply the broth had soaked into the radish.
“……”
Arms crossed, he glared at the soup like it was radioactive waste.
The fridge was only lightly stocked—just a few side dishes, drinks, and some fruit. Enough for a few days. But that pot didn’t match anything he remembered.
No one had been in or out of the house over the past three days. The conclusion was obvious.
It must’ve been made during the time Future Cha-hyeon appeared—when the second Unclaimed Reward was triggered. That was the only explanation.
And yet, even with his chest brimming with jealousy, present-day Cha-hyeon hadn’t tossed the pot out. For one stupid reason:
“Was it you? Or Se-min?”
What if Se-min made it? What if this was the last dish he’d cooked before losing his memory? Throwing it out would be a monumentally dumb move.
If Future Cha-hyeon had made it—who cares. That guy was pathetic enough to scribble love notes with a Sharpie and leave leftover food labeled “for my love.” Disgusting.
But if it was Se-min—sweet, thoughtful Se-min—he might’ve cooked to be nice. Maybe he just wanted to feed Future Cha-hyeon a warm meal.
…Why would you be the one cooking for someone else’s man?
Cha-hyeon’s gaze sharpened. Just as he resolved to throw the damn thing out, a door creaked open near the front of the house. Footsteps approached the living room.
He turned quickly and, like he hadn’t just been death-glaring a pot, slipped on a pleasant smile.
Se-min entered the kitchen area, clearly not expecting to run into him. He flinched. Cha-hyeon offered him an even softer smile.
“Finished looking around?”
“…Ah, yeah. More or less.”
Still looking unwell, Se-min murmured while staring at the floor. His lips parted slightly, as if he had something to say but couldn’t quite get it out.
Cha-hyeon waited patiently for him to speak. But as the silence dragged on, he tried to ease the tension another way.
“You’re not gonna check out the other rooms?”
“…No, I’ll do that later.”
“You eaten?”
Discharge had taken longer than expected—it was already well past lunchtime. Se-min hesitated, then nodded. Cha-hyeon gently pushed the pot aside and asked,
“There’s not much in the house. Anything you’re craving? I can order something or we can eat out.”
“Ah, no… I’m fine with whatever. Anything you have is okay…”
No matter what suggestions Cha-hyeon offered—things Se-min used to love—he politely declined. In the end, Cha-hyeon just set the table with what was already there: the mystery soup, some side dishes, and a warm bowl of rice.
After refusing his offer to help, Se-min fidgeted anxiously before finally sitting down. His face was still ghostly pale, his eyes full of hesitation.
“It’s not much, but eat up.”
“Thanks for the food…”
With an awkward little bow, Se-min picked up his spoon like someone bracing to choke something down. Then—realizing belatedly—he quickly glanced to see if Cha-hyeon would eat first.
Feeling oddly bitter, Cha-hyeon picked up his chopsticks without a word. Once he did, Se-min began eating too, nervously sipping the soup.
“……”
Gulp. As he swallowed the warm, clear broth, Se-min froze mid-motion. Cha-hyeon, eyes already fixed on him, immediately sensed something was off.
Blinking slowly, Se-min stared down at the bowl.
“…It tastes just like the soup Grandma used to make…”
The words slipped from his mouth before he even knew what he was saying.
Cha-hyeon’s eyebrows rose at the unexpected response. But before he could say anything, Se-min dropped his head and let out a soft, trembling sound.
“Hh-hhh…”
