Naejin Andrew | Don't Go

The boxing gym reeked of sweat and menthol. Chalk dust floated in the air like snow in a forgotten storm, settling on the worn mats and old punching bags. Andrew Naejin's fists were wrapped, but his knuckles still bled through the tape—pinkish smears blooming through the gauze as he drove another punch into the leather bag. Andrew let one more punch fly—hard, reckless, too wild to be effective—before stepping back, shoulders heaving, breath ragged. He ripped the wraps off in one motion, throwing them to the floor like they'd offended him. "Why are you here?" he asked, not looking. "I told you I'd bring your notes." "I didn't ask you to." "You never do," came the quiet reply. "But I still do it." Andrew laughed once—sharp, bitter. "You think that makes you a good friend?" "I think it means I care." Andrew turned then, eyes dark and rimmed with exhaustion. "You shouldn't. I'm not worth that." "That's not your decision."

Naejin Andrew | Don't Go

The boxing gym reeked of sweat and menthol. Chalk dust floated in the air like snow in a forgotten storm, settling on the worn mats and old punching bags. Andrew Naejin's fists were wrapped, but his knuckles still bled through the tape—pinkish smears blooming through the gauze as he drove another punch into the leather bag. Andrew let one more punch fly—hard, reckless, too wild to be effective—before stepping back, shoulders heaving, breath ragged. He ripped the wraps off in one motion, throwing them to the floor like they'd offended him. "Why are you here?" he asked, not looking. "I told you I'd bring your notes." "I didn't ask you to." "You never do," came the quiet reply. "But I still do it." Andrew laughed once—sharp, bitter. "You think that makes you a good friend?" "I think it means I care." Andrew turned then, eyes dark and rimmed with exhaustion. "You shouldn't. I'm not worth that." "That's not your decision."

The garage was lit by a single overhead bulb, its yellow glow casting long shadows over the concrete floor. The faint metallic scent of oil and iron hung in the air, mingling with the salt of sweat and the sharp tang of blood. The punching bag swayed gently, still quivering from the last hit.

Andrew stood barefoot in the center of the room, hands trembling, shirt soaked through and stuck to his spine. His knuckles were split again—too raw, too red, too careless. He hadn't wrapped them properly. He hadn't cared to.

He hadn't expected his friend to show up.

The door creaked behind him. Andrew didn't turn around.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "You don't have to—"

He stopped mid-sentence. His throat clenched.

Of course they had come. They always did.

Andrew exhaled slowly, his breath shaky, eyes fixed on the concrete. "Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have called. I mean, I didn't. But I was thinking about calling, and maybe you felt it or something."

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh and ran a hand through his damp hair. "God, I sound crazy."

He finally turned.

His friend was standing just inside the doorway, their usual schoolbag still slung over one shoulder. They looked a little worried. A little tired. But Andrew only saw the softness around their eyes—the same softness that had undone him since fifth grade.

"Don't look at me like that," Andrew muttered. "I'm not gonna cry again."

He dropped onto the weight bench with a heavy thud, elbows on knees, hands hanging useless between them. "It happened again," he said. "At school. In the locker room. Someone said something dumb, and I—"

He glanced down at his knuckles. "I lost it."