Love Railroad
—I love you.
—…Don’t do this.
—You’re letting a miracle slip away.
The actors’ voices were muffled, barely audible thanks to the lowered volume, like they were murmuring from behind a veil.
Gwak Seung-hyeon was fast asleep, slumped over in an awkward position. His head, resting on Seon-woo’s shoulder, carried an unexpected weight. Maybe it was because he harbored too many thoughts in that small face that seemed too delicate for his tall frame. Gwak Seon-woo suddenly found himself wondering what was inside that head—he wanted to pry it open and examine every single thing that filled it.
On screen, the male lead was confessing his love. He told the woman pushing him away that their meeting was a miracle. That being born in the same era by chance, living in places where they could have crossed paths, finally meeting, and then falling in love—it was all a series of unlikely miracles.
“…Director?”
At some point, Seung-hyeon mumbled in a sleepy voice. Seon-woo had tried to stay still, but maybe the subtle rise and fall of his breathing had woken him. Or maybe it was the uncomfortable position. It could’ve even been the noise from the TV.
“…Did I fall asleep…?”
His voice was thick with drowsiness. The weight that had been leaning on Seon-woo began to shift, like he was trying to sit up. Not wanting to let that warm pressure disappear, Seon-woo cupped the back of Seung-hyeon’s head to keep him close. With his other hand, he picked up the remote and lowered the already quiet volume to the bare minimum.
“Go back to sleep.”
“But Director…”
“I’m just watching the movie anyway.”
Seung-hyeon blinked slowly, lifting his head toward the TV with sleep-clouded eyes. Realizing the movie from before he’d nodded off was still playing, he seemed a little relieved. Then he closed his eyes halfway again, nestling in deeper like he wanted to burrow into Seon-woo’s chest.
Still, he looked uncomfortable.
So Seon-woo shifted his position entirely, guiding Seung-hyeon to lie down with his head on his lap instead.
Almost immediately, Seung-hyeon slipped back into steady, even breathing.
Looking down at his sleeping face, Seon-woo drifted into thought.
The days when he used to wonder, Is it okay to feel this peaceful?—those days were long gone. Still, there were moments when he tensed, half-expecting that mechanical voice to suddenly speak to him from thin air. There were nights when he shivered under cold water, turning on the shower out of old habit. Sometimes, he caught himself thinking differently, in ways he didn’t quite recognize.
But just as it had warned before disappearing, the system never came back.
Even when he found himself trembling under a freezing shower, he could snap out of it and turn off the faucet, and that was that. There was no need for forced fasting anymore, so even the brief cravings he’d once felt for food had faded away. Life was beginning to resemble the way it was before.
Though some things had changed, Gwak Seon-woo hadn’t ceased to be Gwak Seon-woo. Wasn’t that enough?
Not long ago, he finally met the father he had only ever heard about in passing. Though calling it a “meeting” might have overstated how personal or meaningful the occasion actually was. It seemed his father had returned to Korea simply because he had no choice, to discuss what came next after officially stepping down from the frontlines, just as the chairman had said he would.
The time they spent together amounted to no more than a brief moment during the shareholders’ meeting, and another brief moment over a meal. Even that was diluted—company executives had been present for the former, and Gwak Sang-hwa had tagged along for the latter. Not once did they actually meet alone.
Gwak Seon-woo’s father never noticed a thing about his son’s inner world. Not because he lacked perception, but more likely because he simply didn’t care. It was enough to make one question how such emotional distance could exist between two people bound by blood.
On the first day they met, Gwak Sang-gyeong had asked about Seon-woo’s well-being with a face that screamed he was only doing it out of social obligation. Seon-woo didn’t give a real answer.
“Do I have any reason to answer properly?”
That response, blunt and dismissive, had probably been better than offering some long-winded update. It was enough to bring a flicker of emotion to Sang-gyeong’s eyes—and to prompt a curt reply saying there was no need to answer if he didn’t want to.
“Any thoughts on marriage?”
“I don’t see any need to answer that either.”
“Is it wrong for a father to ask his child such a question?”
“Well, I suppose that depends on the father. Have you considered that maybe you’re not qualified enough to deserve an answer?”
When the sarcastic replies continued, Sang-gyeong ended the conversation with a cold smile.
“Not wrong, technically.”
He hadn’t seemed curious in the first place. He stayed one more day to discuss the company’s future direction with Gwak Sang-hwa, then left again. From what Seon-woo heard, he rarely returned to Korea—so it was unlikely they’d cross paths again anytime soon. A conclusion far more anticlimactic than Seon-woo had anticipated.
Afterward, Gwak Sang-hwa had called him “always like that.” That nothing about him had changed, not even with time. Whether it was true that he lacked basic human emotions, Seon-woo couldn’t say. But he did find it strangely fascinating—the way that man treated work not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself.
Maybe that’s why, whenever work got overwhelming, Seon-woo often recalled the face of his father—the one he saw only that single time. A face so eerily similar to his own, as if someone had overlaid the passage of time onto Seon-woo’s features. He wondered what that man thought about when he was buried in work. Would there ever come a day when he could truly understand this father of his, who looked just like him, yet remained a complete stranger?
It had been an unusually hectic day. Not just for Seon-woo, but for Seung-hyeon as well, who had said he wouldn’t be able to leave work on time because of the backlog. Normally, the two of them left together, timing their departures to match. But today, they’d agreed that whoever finished first would head home and wait for the other.
Lately, Gwak Seung-hyeon had been practically living with him. Though he still technically kept his own place, it remained vacant most of the time. He only dropped by briefly when necessary; the rest of his time was spent at Seon-woo’s apartment. With two sets of toothbrushes, bedding, and slippers kept ready at all times, calling the place a “single-person household” didn’t quite fit anymore.
By the time Seon-woo got home, Seung-hyeon was already there. He half-suspected that Seung-hyeon had lied about being late and had actually come back long before him, waiting quietly this whole time. But the moment Seung-hyeon stirred from where he was draped over the sofa and spoke, Seon-woo knew that wasn’t the case.
“You’re back?”
He must’ve been exhausted. Normally, he would’ve rushed to the door the second he heard it open. It was a relief that he’d at least come home before Seon-woo, but it also made him worry.
Seon-woo had never been someone who needed much sleep, but ever since entering this body, it had gotten even worse. Gwanggong’s body had an unhealthy habit of staying up late and rising early. Oddly enough, though, he never seemed to suffer from insomnia or sleep deprivation. For someone with a packed schedule like Gwak Seon-woo, it was almost a blessing.
In contrast, Seung-hyeon needed a fair amount of sleep—certainly more than Seon-woo. And yet, every day, he stubbornly tried to go to bed later and wake up earlier than Seon-woo. Even when told not to push himself, he refused to rest properly. So in turn, Seon-woo had started lying down earlier than usual—not because he was tired, but to help lull Seung-hyeon to sleep.
Still, his insistence on always waking up before Seon-woo hadn’t changed. With how busy things had been lately, the fatigue had no doubt been piling up.
“You could’ve just gone to sleep first.”
“I just dozed off for a bit. I’m fine.”
Did he really not know how tired he looked right now? It wasn’t convincing in the least. If Seung-hyeon had seen his own reflection, he’d understand why Seon-woo was looking at him so skeptically.
“Dinner… I put it in the fridge for now.”
He mumbled the words as he rubbed his face with his hands. Even in that state, it seemed he’d still managed to prepare something. As he turned toward the kitchen—probably to set the table—Seon-woo quickly stepped in to stop him.
“I already ate something simple.”
And that, at least, was true. The workday had been so draining that he knew his body wouldn’t make it without food, so he’d managed to grab a quick bite earlier.
Seung-hyeon slowly nodded, then spoke again.
“If you’re not going to eat, let’s watch a movie.”
A movie? Regardless of whether he liked movies or not, the first thought that popped into Seon-woo’s head as he looked at the clearly exhausted Seung-hyeon was, Shouldn’t you just sleep?
But tomorrow was finally a day off. If they were going to sleep in anyway, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go along with him for now. Without resistance, Seon-woo nodded. He was about to tell him “Don’t fall asleep before I come out from the shower,” but stopped himself.
Tonight, unlike most nights, maybe it was better to just fall asleep whenever sleep came.
