Wise Choices.

The music in the club was loud and deep, shaking the floor. The air inside felt thick and sticky, like a mix of cheap smells and sweat. Bright, flashing lights made the dancing crowd look strange and blurry. Minho stood stiffly amidst the moving bodies, his neatly pressed shirt already beginning to cling to his skin with a sheen of perspiration. He watched the chaotic scene unfold, feeling utterly detached from its energy.

His gaze, usually sharp and observant, was fixed on a point across the dance floor. He wasn't seeing the flashing lights, or the swaying bodies, or the blurred faces. He was watching him. Han Jisung. His Jisung.

The possessive pronoun felt like a phantom limb, a reminder of something lost. Jisung was there, locked in a close embrace with another figure. A man whose arm was possessively wrapped around Jisung's waist, their bodies intertwined like threads in a tapestry, their faces close.

Minho's mind flashed back eight years. To the awkward beginnings of their relationship in high school, the tentative first touches, the shy smiles exchanged across crowded hallways. He remembered their initial university days, the shared dreams and late-night study sessions that blurred into whispered confessions.

Most vividly, he recalled a high school Jisung's proposal: the nervous energy radiating off him, his cheeks flushed as he held out a single, perfect red rose. Tucked within its velvety petals was a small, folded note.

Jisung's eyes, wide and earnest, conveyed a confession more profound than any spoken words. He'd gestured to the rose, then to the note, his gaze fixed on Minho with a hopeful intensity. Minho had carefully unfolded the paper, his heart pounding, to read Jisung's carefully printed words expressing his feelings and asking Minho to be his.

The overwhelming rush of happiness that had filled Minho's chest in that silent exchange felt like a cruel taunt now, a stark reminder of the devastating betrayal unfolding before his eyes. The person who had declared his love in such a tender, unspoken way was now intimately connected to someone else.

He watched them for a long time. Jisung's smile, which used to be just for him, was now for someone else. The easy way they touched, the comfortable way they stood together – it all felt like a stab. Minho felt empty inside, a big hole that the loud music couldn't fill.

For months, a knot of suspicion had been tightening in Minho's chest. He remembered the late nights, Jisung staying up after Minho had gone to bed, his fingers flying across his phone screen, a soft, private glow illuminating his face in the darkness. Minho had often feigned sleep, his senses on high alert, and he'd heard the muffled giggles escaping Jisung's lips as he furiously typed.

There were no hushed phone calls, just the silent tapping and the occasional suppressed laugh that felt like a secret language Minho wasn't privy to. Then there were the late arrivals at their apartment, Jisung often looking flushed and distracted, his explanations vague and unconvincing.

That red heart now pulsed with a cruel irony as he watched Jisung nuzzle contentedly against the other man's arms. Eight years. Eight years dissolving into this brutal, public display.

Without saying anything, Minho put his drink down on a messy table and walked out of the club. The quiet night air felt very different from the loud music, but it didn't make him feel better.

He walked without knowing where he was going, like his feet were moving on their own. His head was down, lost in his sad thoughts. He walked through the city streets, the neon signs blurring into a meaningless wash of color. Cars honked loudly when he stumbled into the road, but he didn't really register the sounds, his mind still replaying the scene in the club.

A particularly aggressive horn cut through his daze. A car screeched to a halt beside him, and the driver, a man with a face contorted in fury, jumped out. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, you crazy bastard?!" he roared, his voice thick with anger.

Something snapped in Minho. The man's rage was a mirror to his own, a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside him. Without a word, he swung, his fist connecting with the driver's jaw. The man staggered back, surprise momentarily replacing his anger, then retaliated with a punch of his own. The world dissolved into a blur of fists and shouts. Minho fought with a desperate ferocity, each blow a release of the pain and betrayal that had been building inside him.

Passersby intervened, pulling them apart, their voices a distant hum in Minho's ears. He stood there, chest heaving, tears streaming down his face, a mixture of anger and despair. He looked at his bloodied knuckles, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil he was going through. Then, with a sob that tore from his throat, he turned and ran, leaving the bewildered driver and the concerned onlookers behind.

He ended up at the imposing structure of the city's main bridge, its dark silhouette arching against the night sky. Below, the river flowed with a deceptive stillness, its black surface reflecting the distant, hazy glow of the city lights. Minho walked slowly to the edge, his hand trailing along the cold, rough metal of the railing. He peered down at the seemingly endless drop, a dizzying emptiness that mirrored the void within him.

He tilted his head back, gazing up at the vast expanse of the night sky. The stars were distant pinpricks of light, cold and indifferent to the turmoil in his heart. A fresh wave of grief washed over him, and he began to cry again, the tears hot and stinging on his already damp cheeks. Each sob was a release of the crushing weight of his sadness, the overwhelming feeling that his existence had become utterly meaningless.

Then, a small, cheerful chime broke through his despair. He numbly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The bright screen illuminated his tear-streaked face, displaying a notification: "Happy Birthday, Minho Lee!" It was from his bank, a perky, automated message wishing him well on a day that felt like the cruelest joke the universe could play.

He laughed without any real happiness. Happy birthday. He felt so lost. This was his life, a bad joke ending on this cold bridge. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Minho closed his eyes and leaned forward, letting himself fall.

Then, there was no sound, no wind, no feeling of falling. Just a sudden quiet. He opened his eyes.

The being before him shimmered, not with a harsh, celestial glare, but with a soft, internal luminescence that seemed to hum with ancient energy. Its multiple eyes, each a kaleidoscope of swirling nebulae, regarded him with a profound sadness that felt both personal and universal. The vast, intricate wings, like spun moonlight and shadow, shifted almost imperceptibly behind it, casting fleeting patterns on the nothingness that surrounded them.

"Don't be scared, child," a voice said in his mind, not in his ears, but like a thought in his head. It sounded kind and made him feel calm. Minho could only stare, his mind trying to understand what was happening.

"Why?" the being asked, its voice in his mind sounding sad. "Why did you choose to do this?"

Minho could only stare, the sheer impossibility of the encounter still eclipsing the raw ache of his recent despair. He finally found his voice, a weak, trembling whisper. "Because... because there was nothing left---he was everything to me. And he chose someone else."

The being looked at him gently. "Do you think you were all alone? That no one cared about you?" A sigh, like the rustling of a thousand unseen leaves, echoed in his mind.

Minho gave a sad laugh. "Cared? I don't have any family. No one was waiting for me."

The angel seemed sad. "That's not completely true. But even though you were hurting, you chose to take something that wasn't yours to take. Life is a gift, Minho, made by someone bigger than us. Only that someone has the right to end it."

The being moved a little, and a feeling of great power came from it. "As someone who watches over you, I can give you a choice. Your life ended too soon. So, there are two ways you can go."

"The first way," the angel said, its voice sounding final, "is to move on. To go to the peace that waits for you."

Minho felt a little bit of calm at the thought of everything just stopping. But then he thought of Jisung smiling at someone else, and the calm feeling turned into anger.

"And the second way?" he asked, his voice quiet.

The angel's gaze held his, unwavering, filled with an ancient understanding. "Regression. A return to the moment the shadow fell upon your day. You will walk that path again, carrying the weight of your memories, the sharpness of your current pain."

The weight of the choice settled heavily in Minho's consciousness. To relive that day, to feel the fresh sting of betrayal? Yet, the image of Jisung, so happy in another's arms, fueled a dark determination. He could go back. He could see it all again. But this time... this time would be different.

"Going back," Minho said, the words a quiet, serious promise. "I choose to go back." 

Because for Minho, Jisung was everything; his happiness and pain.

__________

I changed the plot completely, hope you guys like it!