nana

He cuts you off, his smirk deepening. “Why don’t you just get over it, Y/n? It’s not like it matters. You’re always making a scene. So dramatic.”

You freeze, that same sinking feeling creeping into your chest. Dramatic. Is that what you are to him? But before you can say anything else, his hands are suddenly on you, pulling you toward him roughly. You gasp as his lips meet yours, almost violently at first, but then he softens, the old Nagumo you used to know taking over in the kiss.

Your mind screams at you to pull away. To push him off. Don’t do this, don’t forgive him again, you tell yourself. But your heart is weak, and that same feeling, the one you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try, surges to the surface.

It’s the same Nagumo, the one who made your chest tighten with every laugh, every word. The one you couldn’t resist.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and something softer—something almost apologetic, but you're not sure if it's real. “Are you gonna make me say sorry for it now?” he asks, his voice low, almost teasing.

You can't meet his eyes. “I don’t know what to feel anymore,” you whisper. "Maybe I'm a fool for forgiving you again, huh?"

He tilts his head, watching you with that familiar intensity. "Maybe... but you're the only one who can decide that."

You don’t know if it’s the right decision, but you also can’t deny how you still feel. Was I wrong to forgive him again? You don’t even know what’s right anymore. The fight you’re having with him isn’t just about what he’s done, but about everything you two had. Everything that still lingers between you.

You swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in your throat. The weight of his words presses against you, and it's like a thousand different emotions are pulling you in every direction. You want to hate him. You want to tell him to leave you alone, to walk away and never look back. But something in the way he looks at you—the same old, frustrating, magnetic way—keeps you rooted to the spot.

“You can’t just do that to me,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the noise around you. You don’t even know who’s watching anymore. “You can’t just kiss me and expect everything to go back to how it was.”

Nagumo’s smirk falters, just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say anything so… real. But his gaze doesn’t soften. Instead, he steps closer, the distance between you shrinking even more. His hand moves to your cheek, brushing against your skin in a way that almost feels like a plea.

“Why not?” he asks, his voice so quiet, it almost seems like he’s asking himself more than you. “You know I’ve always been this way. You know I can’t change. So why do you keep pretending you don’t want this?”

His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you’re fighting so hard not to lean into it. You hate how familiar this feels. How, despite everything, a part of you still wants him.

“Because I’m tired,” you finally say, the words slipping out, raw and unfiltered. “I’m tired of always forgiving you. I’m tired of pretending that things will get better just because you look at me that way.”

You shake your head, the tears threatening to spill over but you refuse to let them.

Nagumo’s face hardens, but there’s something flickering behind his eyes, regret, or something else. He steps back, his hand falling to his side. “So, that’s it, huh? You’re just gonna walk away? You’re just gonna throw everything we’ve had away?”

The words sting, and you can see how much it affects him, how much it cuts him deep. But you can’t back down now. You can’t let yourself fall into this again.

“I don’t know if I even want us anymore,” you say, voice shaking, but this time with more conviction. “I don’t know if I’m even the person I used to be when I was with you.”

There’s a long pause. It’s like the world is holding its breath, the silence stretching between you both, so thick you can almost feel the weight of all the things unsaid. Nagumo doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there, eyes locked on yours, as if he’s trying to figure out if you're really serious. But deep down, you know he’s trying to hold onto the last sliver of you that’s left.

“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through you like a knife. “You think I haven’t spent every day wondering if I’m the one who’s wrong? Wondering if it’s me that’s the problem?”

You don’t know how to respond. You can feel the weight of the words he’s saying, but it doesn’t change anything. You can’t keep doing this. Not with him. Not with someone who drags you through the same emotional mess every time.

“I’m done, Nagumo,” you say, finally forcing the words out. “I can’t keep doing this to myself. I can’t keep letting you tear me apart and then fix it with one look, one kiss. It’s not enough anymore.”

His expression falters. He blinks, as if you just slapped him across the face. But then, it’s like the mask drops. For a moment, he looks so vulnerable. So human. And that’s what hurts the most. Because deep down, you know he’s not the monster you want him to be.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper, but it’s there. A crack in his armor. “But I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

Your chest aches. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to feel the sting of his words, but you do. You always do.

“I wish you did,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you turn away, walking away from the person you’ve always known—the person you’ve always loved—but can’t love anymore.

He’d often buy you gifts or pastries and just watch as you ate them. It felt too perfect, too much. You didn’t understand why he was doing all of this for you.

One day, you decided to go to a bar with your classmate. You two weren’t super close, but you got along well enough. You had a couple of drinks and laughed about your past dating experiences. But what you didn’t know was that Inho was sitting right beside you, listening to everything. He felt a wave of anger every time you mentioned how badly your ex had treated you. It made him furious. No one should hurt you.

As the night went on, your friend’s boyfriend picked her up, and you were left alone. You didn’t want to bother them, so you decided to get an Uber. But you were starting to feel off. Your head spun, and your hands didn’t seem to work right. Everything was blurry.

And there he was again—Inho, watching you from the next seat over. He noticed how you were struggling. He could tell something wasn’t right. His worry took over.

“Y/N, are you alright? Do you need me to take you home?” His voice was filled with concern as he scanned the bar for anyone suspicious. But everything seemed normal.

You tried to focus on him, but your words were slurred. “Inho? What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?”

Inho’s face tightened. He didn’t want to scare you, but he couldn’t let you go home alone like this. He quickly stood up and moved to your side.

“You’re not safe like this,” he said softly. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You didn’t argue. You were too out of it, and the way he spoke made you feel strangely reassured, though you couldn’t fully understand why.

He helped you out of the bar and into his car. On the ride back, he kept glancing over at you, making sure you were okay. He was careful not to touch you too much, but his concern was clear. When you got to his apartment, he helped you inside, making sure you didn’t stumble.

“Sit down here,” Inho said, guiding you to the couch. “I’ll get you some water.”

You barely had the energy to protest, your head still spinning. He returned quickly with a glass of water and a few painkillers.

“You should drink this,” he said gently, handing you the glass.

You took a sip, your vision blurry as you stared up at him. He was acting so calm, so protective.

“Why are you doing all this?” you mumbled.

Inho’s expression softened. “Because no one else is taking care of you the way you deserve.”

He stayed with you for the next few hours, watching over you, making sure you didn’t fall asleep too soon. He was always there—caring, watching, even when you didn’t realize it.

When you finally drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t help but feel like there was more to him than you had thought. But for now, you were too exhausted to question it. You let him take care of you, unsure of what would happen next.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, pulling you out of a deep, groggy sleep. Your head throbbed with a dull ache, and your mind felt foggy as you tried to make sense of where you were. The room around you didn’t look familiar. You blinked a few times, disoriented, as you took in the modern, minimalistic decor—nothing like your apartment.

You sat up, your body feeling heavy, like it was made of lead. Your legs were weak, and for a moment, you just sat there, trying to piece together how you ended up here. Then you remembered the bar and Inho. But the rest of the night was blurry.

You glanced around again. This isn’t your place. A wave of unease crept over you. Where was he?

As if a coincidence, you heard footsteps approaching. The door to the room opened, and there he was, carrying a tray with coffee and water, looking like he’d been awake for a while. He froze when he saw you sitting up.

“Good morning,” he said, voice soft, a hint of relief in his eyes. He walked toward you slowly, placing the tray down on the coffee table. “How are you feeling?”

You blinked a few times, still trying to shake the fog from your brain. “Where am I?” Your voice came out hoarse, and you cleared your throat. “I… I don’t remember coming here.”

Inho hesitated for a second, then sat down across from you, his gaze steady but concerned. “You don’t remember?”

You shook your head slowly, trying to recall anything about last night. The bar, the drinks, the laughter with your friend, and then Inho—but after that, it was all a haze. “I don’t remember how I got here. I was at the bar with my friend, and then… nothing. It’s all blurry.”

Inho sighed, a slight frown tugging at his lips. “You were really drunk last night, Y/N. I didn’t want to leave you alone like that, so I brought you here to make sure you were okay.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you processed his words. “Brought me here?” you asked, feeling a mix of confusion and surprise. “But… why didn’t you just let me get an Uber home?”

He looked at you with an almost gentle intensity. “I couldn’t just let you go home by yourself like that. You weren’t in any condition to be alone, and I didn’t want anything to happen to you.” He paused, his voice softening. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe. That’s all.”

You blinked at him, still processing, your confusion turning into something more akin to uncertainty. You were starting to realize there was more to his actions than just a simple favor. His concern felt… different, deeper.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I didn’t even think about what might’ve happened.”

Inho gave you a small smile, a little relieved. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You hesitated for a moment, looking at him closely. Why would he do all this for you? There was something undeniably genuine in his actions. The way he’d taken care of you without hesitation, without expectation.

“I guess I wasn’t thinking straight last night,” you murmured, your voice soft, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t even know I’d gotten this bad.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured you. “You’re here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You met his gaze, the tension in your chest starting to ease. There was something so steady in the way he looked at you. No judgment, no ulterior motive, just care. It felt strange, but in the best way. Slowly, you began to understand what he meant.

“I didn’t… I didn’t expect you to be so... kind,” you said quietly, almost shy. “You’ve always been there for me, but I didn’t see it until now.”

Inho’s eyes softened, and he reached out, placing a hand gently on the armrest near you. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I care about you. I’ve been looking out for you for a long time. I want you to be happy, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re okay.”

Your heart skipped again, this time in a different way. You hadn’t expected to feel so… safe. Inho wasn’t forcing anything on you; he was just there, looking out for you without asking for anything in return. The realization hit you harder than you expected. He cared. He really cared.

“I don’t really know what to say,” you said, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “I’ve never had anyone look after me like this.”

Inho gave a small, understanding smile. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just glad you’re here, and I’ll be here whenever you need me. No pressure.”

You met his gaze again, and this time, the tension in your chest was gone. There was still a lot you didn’t understand, but somehow, you felt like it would be okay.

“I’ll try to trust you,” you said softly, your voice almost a whisper. “I’m not sure what this is yet, but… I’ll let you take care of me.”

Inho’s smile grew wider, and he nodded. “That’s all I need.”

You shoved more things into your bag, trying to leave. But Inho wasn’t giving up.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna run away?” He scoffed, his voice mocking. "You're acting like a child, Y/n. Always running from your problems."

You could feel the tears starting to fall, but you wiped them away quickly. How could he be so cold? So ruthless?

"I'm not running away!" Your voice cracked, breaking under the weight of everything. "I'm just done."

Inho softened his tone, his voice desperate. "Then talk to me, Y/n. Please. I love you so much. Just talk."

You froze, looking at him. His words hit you like a punch, making you second-guess everything. He cheated on you, and yet here he was, begging for you to listen. Maybe he didn’t mean it, maybe it was a mistake…

His hand grabbed yours, pulling you to a stop. You didn't want to move.

Was this manipulation?

He looked deep into your eyes, his gaze full of need. You saw the sincerity, but you also saw the anger behind it. You wanted to pull away, but you couldn’t.

Before you could say anything, he leaned in and kissed you. It was wrong. Everything about it felt wrong. You pushed against his chest, trying to break free, but he held on tighter.

He then pulled, realistically forced, you into a kiss. It felt gross. It didn’t feel genuine at all. For the first time in a while.

"Get off me!" you shouted, panic flooding your voice.

He pulled back, his face twisted in anger. "So that's how it's gonna be, huh?" he sneered. "You think you're so much better than me?"

You stood there, shaking. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t care. He walked away with that smirk on his face.

This is who he was. A monster.

You just laughed and turned back to the counter. “You look great in pink, Yuta. Just admit it.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile creeping onto his face. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

-

The dishes were all done, the kitchen was finally spotless, and you both collapsed into the lounge. Yuta threw himself back onto the couch, stretching out dramatically, his face showing how exhausted he was.

“Man... I’m so exhausted,” he sighed, letting his arms flop down over the edge of the couch.

You sat beside him, feeling just as tired but content with how much you’d gotten done. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks, Yuta.”

He smiled at you, still lying back with his eyes half-closed. “Don’t mention it. I like helping you... even if it means wearing ridiculous aprons.” He stretched and yawned, his arm lazily reaching over to pull you closer. His fingers grazed your waist, and you felt his touch linger.

You tilted your head to look at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “You’re lucky you helped. Now, you’re getting me all cozy... and I might just take advantage of that.”

Yuta’s grin grew wider as he tugged you even closer, his gaze locked with yours. “You take advantage of me all the time,” he teased. “Maybe I should just fill out as your husband then, huh? That way, I get to be spoiled all the time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Spoiled, huh? You think being married to me would be that easy?”

“I mean,” he said, smirking and giving a little shrug, “I think I could handle it. I’d get to wear cute aprons, get all your attention, and maybe... steal your last slice of pizza every time.”

You playfully slapped his chest. “You would steal the last slice. But fine, maybe I’ll think about it...”

Yuta leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly as he inched closer to your ear. “You’d think about marrying me just for pizza?”

You turned to face him fully, your eyes searching his face. “I’d marry you for a lot more than just pizza, you know?”

He stopped, eyes softening as he studied you. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like because you make me laugh... and you actually help me without complaining too much.” You grinned, nudging him with your shoulder. “And maybe... because I kind of like having you around.”

Yuta’s expression softened further, and he let out a quiet chuckle. “I like having you around too, y/n. And for the record...” He paused, looking into your eyes with a mischievous glint. “You look way too cute to be single.”

You rolled your eyes, a warm feeling spreading through you. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He raised his eyebrows, leaning back on the couch, his arm still around you. “Good. Because I’ve got more where that came from.”

The two of you relaxed in a comfortable silence for a while, the atmosphere easy and warm. Every so often, Yuta would say something cheesy, and you’d both burst out laughing. Despite the teasing and banter, there was a deeper comfort between the two of you, an unspoken connection that had grown over time.

After a few minutes, Yuta sat up and looked at you seriously. “You know... I was half-joking earlier about the husband thing. But, if I really had to choose, I think I’d be okay with being yours. Just saying.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, trying to seem casual, but you could tell he meant every word. “I mean... I’ve never been the ‘marriage’ type, but with you? Yeah, I think I could make an exception.”

You blinked again, your heart racing a little faster. “That’s... that’s kind of sweet, Yuta.”

He grinned and nudged you with his elbow. “Well, it’s true. But no pressure, though. We’ve got time... right?”

You leaned back against him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Yeah. We’ve got time.”

Your heart dropped. You could hear the desperation in his words. “Junho, where are you? What’s going on?” You stood up, looking over at your husband, still asleep in bed. For a moment, you just stared. But then you kissed his forehead, instinctively, and walked out of the room.

You grabbed your keys. The worry inside you was growing. “Junho, are you still there? Where are you? What happened?”

“I’m at the beach... at the dock we used to go to.”

You felt your pulse quicken. The dock? Why was he there, at that place? What was going on? But all you could think was, I need to be there for him.

You started the car and drove off into the night, unsure of what you’d find, but knowing you couldn’t leave him alone.

Your hands gripped the steering wheel as you followed the winding road to the beach. It was quiet now—Junho hadn’t said anything since his last words, but that heaviness hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. You tried not to think too much about what you’d find when you got there. All you knew was that you had to be with him. He needed you.

The headlights of your car bounced off the sand as you finally reached the dock. You parked, your breath shallow. There, sitting alone in the dark, was Junho. His shoulders were slumped, his head down. He seemed so small, so fragile. In his hands, he was holding a crumpled paper, staring at it as if it were his only lifeline.

“Junho?” you called softly, stepping out of the car, your voice trembling.

At the sound of your voice, he slowly lifted his head. His eyes were red and puffy, tears still glistening on his lashes, and in that moment, it hit you. This wasn’t just about a late-night breakdown. This was something deeper.

Before you could take another step, Junho looked at you with such raw vulnerability that it made your heart ache. Without thinking, you rushed over to him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight, desperate hug.

“I’m here. I’m right here, Junho,” you whispered, trying to steady your breathing, but felt your own tears beginning to well up.

Junho didn’t pull away. He let you hold him, his body shaking slightly. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you pulled back slightly, cupping his face with your hands, looking at him with worried eyes.

“What’s going on? What’s making you feel like this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid of what you might hear.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he handed you the paper he had been clutching, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. You unfolded it, your heart sinking when you saw the familiar handwriting. It was both of yours handwriting. From when you both were younger, back when everything felt so simple.

You read it aloud, your voice thick with emotion, “We’ll stay together forever. We’ll get married. We’ll have two dogs, and one baby girl…” You voice faltered, and the tears you’d been holding back came pouring down your face. “Junho… why are you showing me this?” you choked out, your hands trembling as you held the paper.

Junho swallowed hard, looking down at the sand between them. “Because I... I need you to know. I never stopped feeling this way about you, Y/n. I never stopped loving you.”

Your chest tightened, a wave of confusion and sorrow washing over her. You tried to speak, but the words got caught in your throat.

“I didn’t mean to ruin anything,” Junho continued, his voice quieter now, but still laced with raw honesty. “I’ve watched you be happy with him, and I didn’t want to mess that up. I didn’t want to be the one who told you this and make you question everything. But I can’t keep pretending that this—” He gestured between them, his hand trembling, “—is nothing.”

Everything you thought you knew, everything you had felt in your heart, was suddenly unraveling before you. “Junho… I—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head, trying to process his confession, his words.

Junho looked at you with that same broken expression. “I don’t want to make you choose. I just... I need you to know how I feel. And if that means letting you go, then I’ll let you go. I’ll stay in the background, like I’ve always done.”

But you couldn’t even think about that. You couldn’t think about choosing. How could you, when everything inside you felt torn between loyalty and this pull to Junho that you had been running from for so long?

“Junho, I... I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your heart shattering. “I’m married. I love him. I love my life with him. But you… You’re a part of me, too. I never thought—” your voice cracked, “I never thought you felt this way.”

Junho nodded, his face unreadable. “I never wanted to make things harder for you. But I also couldn’t live in the shadow of what we used to be without telling you.”

You stared out at the water. “What are we supposed to do now?” you murmured, tears slipping down your face, feeling like the weight of everything was too much to bear.

For a long time, Junho didn’t answer. He just sat there, beside you, the two of you facing the endless horizon, lost in the silence between them.

Junho shifted beside you, his eyes still on the sand, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. Neither of you spoke, as if you were both trying to piece together everything that had been said, everything that had been hidden for so long.

And then, without a word, Junho turned to you. He reached out, his fingers brushing gently along your cheek, wiping away the tears you hadn't even realized had fallen. His touch felt like fire, soft and burning at the same time. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding as he slowly leaned in.

Before you could process it, Junho’s lips were on yours. It was tender at first, as if testing the waters, as if asking for permission. You froze, your mind screaming at you to pull away, to stop this from happening. But then you felt it—the warmth of him, the closeness, the years of friendship and longing that suddenly rushed forward all at once. Your hands moved on their own, reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss.

Junho’s lips were desperate now, as if he had been waiting for this moment, this feeling. And you, lost in the emotions, lost in everything that was happening—responded just as fervently.

When you both finally broke apart, both breathless, Junho’s eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite describe. “I don’t regret it,” he said softly, his voice hoarse.

Your heart hammered in your chest. You could barely process the words, but in that moment, you didn’t need to. You were overwhelmed, but in the best possible way.

For a split second, you just stared at him, your lips still tingling from the kiss, your mind racing with a thousand questions. And then, before you could stop yourself, you leaned in again, this time more certain. You kissed him back, slowly, but with a deeper hunger, as if the kiss itself was an apology, a confession, and an answer all at once.

When you both pulled away again, you looked at him, your eyes filled with emotion. You didn’t regret it either.

꒰ LEE BYUNGHUN

⊹ ANHEDONIA

⊹ LIGHTER

⊹ OFF YOUR FACE

⊹ NEVER MEANT

꒰ THE SALESMAN

⊹ LONELY STAR

⊹ SALESWOMAN

꒰ NANAMI KENTO

⊹ LET THE LIGHT IN

⊹ UNTIL YOU’RE TWENTY

꒰ WI HAJOON

⊹ TO NOT REGRET

꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU

⊹ FLATTERY WILL GET YOU EVERYWHERE

꒰ NAGUMO YOICHI

"Mm-hmm. Sure you do." You slid across the room, making sure he saw you do it with a bit of a deliberate slowness. You knew he’d be uncomfortable. He was already a little jumpy. It was cute. Almost as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to sit next to you or keep his distance.

Another hiccup escaped from him.

"Do you have a pack on you right now?" You raised an eyebrow, almost daring him to admit he didn’t.

You handed him the lighter, your fingers brushing his for a moment. You watched his reaction closely. He didn’t take it right away, as if unsure, until he reached for it hesitantly.

"Uh, yeah... I have one," he said, his voice wavering a bit, but his hand shaking slightly as he pulled the pack from his jacket pocket. He held it in front of you like it was some kind of fragile treasure, his gaze flickering between you and the pack.

The pack of cigarettes were soaked, due to us running in the rain earlier.

"Well, go ahead," you said, your voice a little more coaxing now. "Light one up."

He opened the pack with a snap, pulling a cigarette free with his fingers. He was so careful about it, like he was afraid he might do something wrong. His fingers trembled slightly as he raised the cigarette to his lips.

"Need help?" you teased, though there was a little more warmth in your voice now.

He glanced at you, clearly embarrassed. "I… I got it." He tried to flick the lighter, but it took a couple of attempts.

You leaned back on the couch, watching him struggle for a second, before your patience wore thin. You moved closer, gently taking the lighter from his hand, your fingers brushing his again. You lit the cigarette for him, watching the flame catch on the tip.

He exhaled sharply, almost choking on the smoke, his face scrunching up in surprise.

"See? Not so bad, right?" you teased, a smile playing on your lips as you leaned in just a bit closer. "Though, you’re supposed to inhale."

His face turned an even deeper shade of red, and he tried again, this time with more success, though still a little awkward. You could tell he was trying to impress you. It was kind of cute. He wasn’t quite there yet, but you didn’t mind. You liked the effort. You liked him.

"So," you started, sitting down next to him finally, watching him blow out another plume of smoke. "How long have you been smoking, exactly?" You couldn’t help but ask, eyes glinting mischievously. "You know, you don’t really look like the type."

He chuckled nervously, still avoiding direct eye contact. "Uh, not long. I just started... last week."

You raised an eyebrow, taking the cigarette from his fingers and inhaling a drag yourself. "Really? Last week? That’s a bold move, considering you’ve never even touched a cigarette before today."

He shrugged awkwardly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to impress you."

You gave him a look, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "Mission accomplished," you said, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise, before he let out a nervous laugh, his hiccuping now replaced with a small, shy grin.

You both sat there in the quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft crackle of the burning cigarette between your fingers, and the occasional hitch in his breath. You liked this. The tension between you, the way his nervousness somehow made everything feel... real. You leaned in, letting the space between you shrink even more.

You hadn’t meant to lie about your age. At least, not at first. It just happened when you were caught up in the excitement. The moment you saw his message—a polite, calm introduction that immediately drew you in—you got nervous. Your hands shook as you responded. And when he asked for your age, you felt that familiar knot in your stomach tighten.

"I'm seventeen," you typed, hovering over the "send" button. But then you stopped. You knew it was technically against the rules of the app, but you also knew that if you told him the truth, he would definitely lose interest, maybe even report you.

Your best friend, of course, was no help.

"Just tell him you're older. Who would really care? It’s not like you’re 13," she argued, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Plus, older men are hot. He’ll think you’re mature for your age."

You hesitated, but her words worked on you. After all, what was the harm?

So you told him you were 20.

That small lie spiraled, and now you were about to meet him in person. And there was no going back.

You paced around your room, feeling that familiar wave of panic wash over you. "What if he finds out? What if this goes terribly wrong?" you fretted, throwing yourself onto your bed.

Your phone buzzed. It was a message from Nanami: "I’m looking forward to meeting you tonight, Y/n. 7 PM at La Bonne Cuisine, okay?"

You stared at the message, a mixture of excitement and dread bubbling up inside of you.

"Oh my god, you’re actually meeting him," your friend texted back almost immediately, her enthusiasm practically leaping off the screen. "It’s going to be perfect. Older men have their life together, you know? Trust me, he’s going to love you."

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the rising panic.

The night came faster than you anticipated. After an hour of trying to figure out what to wear, you opted for something simple but elegant—a flowy dress, a bolero over your shoulders, and just a hint of makeup. You wanted to look good, but not like you were trying too hard.

You took a deep breath before heading out the door, the cool evening air filling your lungs. The restaurant was fancy, tucked away in the heart of the city. It had a warm, intimate atmosphere, candlelight flickering on every table.

When you stepped inside, your heart began to race. Was he already there? Was he expecting you to look older? You scanned the room for him. And then, you saw him. Nanami Kento.

He was standing near the entrance, tall and composed as always, his sharp suit hugging his broad frame perfectly. His blonde hair was neatly styled, and his sharp eyes were scanning the room for you. When they landed on you, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Y/n?” he said in a deep voice, smooth and steady.

Your heart skipped a beat. He was even more handsome in person.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat. "Hi. Nanami?" You felt awkward, like you were about to be exposed, but you tried to keep your cool.

He stepped forward, extending a hand. "It’s nice to finally meet you in person."

You shook his hand, the warmth of his touch sending an unexpected shock through your system. "It’s nice to meet you, too."

He led you to a table, pulling out a chair for you. The small gesture made you feel a little more at ease, and you sat down, trying to keep your nervous energy under control.

“So, what’s been keeping you busy lately?” he asked, once the waiter had taken your drink orders and left you two alone.

You blinked at him, unsure of what to say. "Uh… just school and, you know, life in general."

Nanami’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips curling into a slight smile. "School? I thought you mentioned you were done with that?"

You froze, your thoughts racing. Did he remember what you told him? Or was he just making conversation? You quickly covered, laughing a little too nervously.

"Oh, yeah, I just meant, like, my high school days. You know, the stuff that stays with you."

His smile deepened, and you swore you saw a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly you weren’t sure.

"High school, huh?" He leaned back in his chair slightly, studying you intently. "You don’t seem like a typical high schooler."

A strange chill ran down your spine at the words. He was picking up on something. Was it your appearance? The way you spoke? Or was it just a gut feeling?

"So, tell me about your job," you quickly changed the subject. "You mentioned you work as an accountant, right?"

His face softened slightly. “Yes, it’s not the most exciting work, but I do enjoy it. I find it fulfilling in its own way.”

You nodded, listening intently as he described his work. But your thoughts kept drifting. What if he found out the truth? What if he confronted you in the middle of the dinner? You’d be exposed, and your whole life would come crashing down.

"Y/n?" Nanami’s voice brought you back to the present. "Is everything alright?"

You blinked at him, startled. His eyes were soft with concern, but the tension in your chest only grew.

"Yeah," you said quickly, forcing a smile. "Sorry, just... thinking."

Nanami nodded, clearly not buying it, but he let it slide. "Well, I’m glad we’re able to meet.”

His smile was warm, but there was something behind it that made your heart race even faster. You couldn’t help but feel like he was onto you.

You spent the next hour talking, but the entire time, the question lingered in the back of your mind: How long could you keep up this lie?

When dinner was finished and the bill came, Nanami insisted on paying. You couldn’t bring yourself to protest, feeling that familiar sense of guilt settle in your stomach.

“Let me walk you to your car,” he offered as the two of you stepped out into the crisp night air. “I’d hate to leave you to walk alone.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to smile again. “That would be nice, thank you.”

As you walked side by side, the tension between you was palpable. The weight of the secret you were carrying was becoming unbearable.

And when you reached your car, Nanami stopped and turned to face you. His gaze was intense, his expression unreadable.

“Y/n,” he began slowly, his voice softer than before. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like I’m missing something.”

Your heart stopped. Oh no. He knows.

"Can we talk tomorrow?" he asked, his tone kind but serious. "There’s something I want to discuss with you."

You swallowed hard, feeling like the ground beneath you was crumbling.

"Of course," you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

As he walked away, you couldn’t help but feel that tonight had just been the beginning of something much bigger—and much more dangerous—than you ever expected.

It had been two weeks since that dinner. The night you’d nervously sat across from Nanami, trying to keep up a lie that felt bigger with each passing moment. You had been spending your days second-guessing every text, every word, every gesture between you two. But in truth, things had been surprisingly... normal.

Maybe even more than that. Comfortable.

Despite the awkwardness of your initial meeting, Nanami had been nothing but kind and understanding. Every time you hung out, it felt more like hanging out with a good friend rather than a man who might have been a little too old for you. You'd met a few more times for coffee, your conversations slowly moving from the surface to something deeper, more real. He wasn’t someone who treated you like a child, but rather, someone who valued you as an individual.

But the weight of the lie still lingered. Every time he complimented you, made you laugh, or listened to you vent about your life, you couldn’t help but feel guilty. You were so close to telling him the truth, but you kept holding back. What if he didn’t want to be friends anymore? What if, after everything, he thought you were a fraud?

One evening, after a particularly long chat about your future careers, you found yourself pacing around your apartment, your phone in your hand, wondering if this was the right moment.

And then the message came.

“We need to talk, Y/n.”

Your stomach did a flip. You read the message three times, your mind racing. Was it happening? Was he about to confront you about your age?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed your jacket and headed out the door, the chill of the night air hitting you with every step as you made your way to the café where you always met.

The moment you saw him, standing near the window of your usual spot, looking out at the street, you felt both relieved and terrified. Nanami’s calm demeanor was almost soothing, yet there was something about his posture that told you this was going to be a big conversation.

"Hey," you said softly, walking toward him.

He turned, his gaze locking with yours, and for a moment, he just studied you, like he was waiting for something.

"Hey," he finally replied, his voice as steady as always. "Come sit down."

You did, nervously adjusting your seat. Nanami didn’t waste any time, his eyes never leaving you.

"I need to tell you something," you said, your hands shaking slightly. "I’ve been lying to you."

His brow furrowed, but he remained quiet, waiting for you to continue.

“I’m seventeen,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out of you like you were confessing to a crime.

For a long moment, he just stared at you. You half expected him to be furious, to stand up and storm off, to tell you how wrong this whole situation was. But instead, Nanami… laughed.

You blinked, completely thrown off by his response. “What?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I had a feeling. You’re acted too mature for your age. And the way you carry yourself… It never quite added up."

You felt a flush creep up your neck, not from embarrassment but from the realization that he had known all along, and yet, hadn’t said a word.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. I was just scared. I really liked talking to you, and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Nanami leaned back in his chair, studying you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Honestly, I’m not mad at you. I should’ve figured it out earlier. I mean, you do have this air of maturity about you that’s kind of… intimidating. But I’m glad you told me.”

You blinked, surprised. "You’re not mad?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. I actually feel like I messed up for not catching on sooner. But, I’m glad we’re still good. You’ve become someone I really enjoy spending time with.”

A weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying lifted from your chest. You were still sitting there, staring at him in disbelief.

Nanami smiled gently, reaching across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. "It’s okay, Y/n. We’re still friends. And honestly? I value your company too much to let that ruin things."

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "So... we’re good?"

“We’re more than good,” he said, his voice warm. "But here’s the thing: I can’t... I can’t date you right now. I want to, but you’re too young. I don’t want to take advantage of that. Let’s keep things as friends for now, okay?"

You nodded, though a small part of you felt disappointed. "Yeah, I understand. I don’t want to rush anything either."

Nanami smiled, a hint of affection in his eyes. “When you turn twenty… we’ll talk about it again. Until then, I’m happy to just have you in my life as a friend.”

You smiled back, even though a part of you was itching to say, But I want to date now. But you respected him too much to push it.

“Deal,” you said, letting out a contented sigh. “I’ll wait.”

-

Your twentieth birthday arrived slowly, but with it, a sense of anticipation you hadn’t been able to shake for the past few months. The countdown had started the moment you’d agreed to keep things platonic with Nanami. But now, you were finally twenty. And you couldn’t wait to see where things would go.

You had a quiet celebration with friends and family at your apartment, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Nanami. You’d texted him earlier, thanking him for being such a good friend and promising to catch up soon. But that evening, as you were cleaning up from the party, something unexpected happened.

Your doorbell rang.

You opened the door to find a gift box at your feet, addressed to you with the words "From Nanami" written in neat, careful script. There was even a small heart next to his name.

Your heart skipped a beat as you picked it up, barely able to contain your excitement. You hurried inside, setting the box down on your coffee table.

“Open it! Open it!” your best friend, who had been staying over to celebrate with you, squealed, practically bouncing with excitement. “What is it? Is it a birthday gift?”

You nodded, your hands shaking as you untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside, you found a sleek, sexy dress—a deep red number with delicate lace details and a low back, something you would never have expected from Nanami.

And there was a letter next to it.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling as you read the words:

“You’re twenty now. I thought you might like this.”

The words sent a jolt of electricity through your body. You looked up at your best friend, who was grinning from ear to ear. You couldn’t even form words; your mind was spinning.

“What does this mean?” you whispered, barely able to comprehend what was happening.

“Oh my God, Y/n!” your friend shrieked, jumping up and down. “He’s finally ready! This is it! He’s saying he wants to date you now!”

You sat down on the couch, staring at the dress and the letter in shock. The realization hit you like a tidal wave.

This was the moment you’d been waiting for.

And it had finally arrived.

Nanami was silent on the other end, but you could almost feel him processing. He always did that—took his time, calculating what he should say. But this time, he didn’t sound measured. He sounded… lost. "I know, and I’m sorry. I keep pressuring you to take care of him, and I haven’t been the best towards you. I… I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

"Ya think?" Your words came out sharper than you intended, and the bitterness you couldn’t suppress seeped into your voice. You regretted it immediately but didn’t apologize. You didn’t have the energy to.

There was a pause. The silence was thick, heavy with unsaid things, with the weight of too many responsibilities falling on your shoulders.

"Listen, I… I don’t have a problem with taking care of him. I don’t. I love him, you know that. He makes my day with that cute little smile of his, and I’m so grateful for him. But… when he’s constantly begging for his dad, it breaks me. It’s like I can’t even be enough for him, and it’s only been getting worse. You need to understand that I can’t do this alone. You need to find some time, any time, to give him your full attention. To be present with him."

He felt the sting of your words, the guilt settling deep inside him. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to help.

"Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?" Nanami’s voice rose, cracking at the edges with a mixture of anger and helplessness. "You don’t get it. You’ll never get it. Ever since his mom died, I’ve been terrified. Terrified of how this will affect him when he’s older. I know it doesn’t show much now, but you have no idea what kind of pressure that puts on me. I need him to grow up with a mother. He needs you. He needs your love, your presence. I can't do this by myself, and you keep—.

He stopped himself, as though realizing he was on the edge of saying something he couldn’t take back. The anger that had been bubbling beneath the surface deflated, and what replaced it was exhaustion.

"I don’t know how much longer I can do this, alone." His voice was barely a whisper now, but it cut through the line with the clarity of a dagger.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. The emotion in his voice, the rawness of his fear, caught you off guard. For the first time, you realized just how deeply he was struggling. You had always known he was carrying a heavy burden, but it hadn’t truly hit you until now.

"I—" You started, but your throat tightened. What could you say? The truth? Or something that wouldn’t hurt him further? You swallowed hard, fighting the lump in your throat.

"I don’t want to be the one who breaks him, you know?" Nanami’s words came through quietly, but the impact of them hit you with the force of a thousand unspoken thoughts. "I don’t want to be the one who lets him down. You can’t be afraid of him growing up with a hole in his heart, because I’m scared too. I’m so scared."

The phone line went silent, the kind of silence that felt deafening. No words came. You could feel the space between the two of you expanding, stretching into something cold and distant.

You leaned back in your chair, your gaze wandering absentmindedly to the bed beside you.

The room was dim, the soft light casting a peaceful glow on the little boy curled up under a blanket. His tiny chest rose and fell gently with each breath, his face peaceful in sleep, the innocence of his expression pulling at something deep inside of you.

Without thinking, you walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers brushing through his dark hair. It was soft and silky, like the softest thread of silk between your fingers. As you ran your hand through it, you felt the tenderness inside your chest grow.

You had never once realized it, but you had come to see him as your own. Not just someone else's child, but someone you wanted to protect, to love, to care for. A child who had lost so much—who still needed so much. The thought that you could somehow replace the love his mother gave him seemed impossible. But the truth was, you couldn’t ignore the bond that had grown between you. And that bond, no matter how complicated, was something you weren’t willing to walk away from

Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe there was room in your life, in your heart, for him. And maybe, just maybe, was right. Maybe it was time to take a step back and re-evaluate what you could offer, what you both needed.

You watched him sleep for a while longer, thinking of all the things you’d never said out loud. And in that quiet moment, with the soft glow of the night settling around the room, a thought emerged: You were more than willing to try. For him. For Nanami. Maybe you could be the one to fill that gap, even if you didn’t know how.

“Yeah… but why does that matter?” You frowned, crossing your arms, already feeling a bit uneasy.

Inho didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared into the distance for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the porcelain cup, then set it down. The small action, deliberate as ever, caught your attention more than you expected.

“Have you ever thought that he might be cheating on you?” he asked, his voice low but direct. “I’m not suggesting that you should act on it, but… have you?”

You blinked. The question didn’t sit right with you—not because it was unexpected, but because it stirred something deep within you, something you didn’t want to face. Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

You didn’t want to think about it. It shouldn’t even be something you considered. But Inho had planted the thought in your mind, and now, you couldn’t shake it.

“I… I don’t know,” you muttered, trying to push away the sudden storm of emotions that threatened to break through. "Is this some kind of trick?"

Inho’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes, something that felt different—almost… tender? His gaze lingered on you a beat too long, and then he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly as he pushed away from his chair.

“Come here,” he said, his voice quiet but commanding. He didn’t ask; it was more of a request you couldn’t refuse, though you didn’t know why.

Your heart raced as you stood, unable to avoid the strange pull in his voice. The click of your heels against the floor seemed to echo, filling the room as you made your way over to him. You stopped just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly in front of you as you waited for him to speak again.

He stood by the window, looking out over the rain-soaked world beyond. The glass was misted with droplets, the sound of the rain adding an eerie soundtrack to the moment. Inho didn’t immediately acknowledge your presence, and the silence between you felt heavy.

Finally, he spoke.

“Do you see her?” he asked, his voice suddenly softer, almost gentle. “The girl with the brown umbrella?”

You turned your head to look outside, following his gaze. You saw a woman, standing alone under an umbrella, her face beaming with happiness, completely unaware of the storm around her. Her smile, so untainted by the weather, made something inside you twist.

But it wasn’t the woman that caught your attention. It was the man standing beside her—someone familiar, but blurry at first. You squinted. Could it be? Was that…?

You froze. The world seemed to collapse around you as you recognized him. Your husband.

Why aren’t I…

You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel. You should’ve been angry. You should’ve felt betrayed. You should’ve lost it. But instead, there was nothing—just a numb, hollow sensation deep inside your chest.

You should have been crying. Screaming. Doing something. But you were just… standing there.

“I’m not… I’m not upset,” you murmured, almost to yourself, your voice cracking at the edges. “Why am I not upset? Why am I just… blank?” You turned to face Inho, desperation rising in your chest. “I should be crying, but I’m not. I’m just… empty.”

His eyes softened, and he stepped toward you slowly, as if afraid to close the gap completely. His expression was calm, yet there was something else in it now—something more than just professional concern. His lips parted as if to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

“Y/n…” he said softly. “This… numbness you’re feeling—it’s more than just a reaction. It’s a wall you’ve built to protect yourself, but it’s keeping everything out. Even your pain. I’m not saying it’s easy, but you have to feel something. Even if it’s pain, it’s better than this.”

His voice was gentle but insistent, and it made something inside you tremble. You wanted to push back, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, you knew he was right. You could feel that wall, solid and impenetrable, and it terrified you.

“I don’t want to feel this way,” you whispered, your voice breaking as your hands clenched into fists. “I don’t want to be numb anymore, but I don’t know how to feel anything else. I don’t know how.”

Inho took another step forward, his gaze softening further as he looked at you. His presence was overwhelming now, and it was hard to focus on anything else. The space between you seemed to close in on itself, and before you could even comprehend what was happening, he said the words that would change everything.

“I need you, Y/n.” His voice was barely audible, but it hit you like a physical blow.

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribcage. The world seemed to tilt, as if everything was shifting around you. Inho… your psychiatrist… saying he needed you? The words didn’t make sense.

But the way he said it, so raw and unguarded, stirred something deep inside you. It was a feeling you didn’t recognize—a pull, a desperate longing you didn’t know you were capable of.

You blinked, trying to force yourself to respond, to regain control, but all you could do was stare at him in shock. His eyes were locked on yours, and for the first time, there was no professional distance. No walls. Just him. Just you.

"Inho…" you whispered, your voice trembling. "You can’t… We can’t do this. You’re my psychiatrist…"

The words fell from your lips, but they felt hollow. Because deep down, something inside you wanted this—wanted him. And you didn’t know what that meant.

But Inho just stared at you, his expression darkening with regret, and yet… there was something else. Something that made your heart beat faster, even as you told yourself you couldn’t go there.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice full of regret. “But it’s not easy to watch you suffer like this. It’s not easy to watch you pretend you’re okay when I can see the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension between you was palpable, almost suffocating.

-

It had been two years. Two endless years that felt as though they were slipping away from you without a trace. And yet, you weren’t upset. It felt… normal. Too normal.

You found yourself sitting in the same office, the one that had been a constant for you. The same walls, the same sterile lighting, the same chair, the same soft rustle of the paper between your fingers. The same man across from you. Inho. Still the same Inho.

The man who had once been your psychiatrist, who had peeled back layers of your life you never knew existed. The man who had made you question everything you thought you knew. But now, it was all too familiar. Too comfortable. Too routine. The only difference now was the way the clipboard in his hands seemed to be withering, its edges curled, the paper within frayed at the corners. Why didn’t he just buy a new one?

“Y/n?” Inho’s voice broke through your thoughts, calm but a little too sharp, as if he’d been waiting for your attention. “Are you able to focus, or do you need some more time to think?”

Think? You weren’t thinking about anything at all. Your mind was a blur—full of static, of memories that didn’t quite fit together anymore.

“Can I have one more minute, please?” you asked, your voice coming out softer than you’d intended. You gave him a smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Inho nodded, his face unreadable. He stood up, and you watched him move—watched him walk across the room with his usual composed steps. But this time, you felt a strange disconnect. Where was he going? Why was he walking around like this, as though he didn’t care that you were still sitting there, waiting for him to give you something—anything—new?

You stared at his back, confused.

“Inho?” You called out, and he stopped, turning his head slightly toward you, but not fully meeting your gaze. His hands lingered along the edge of the room’s counters, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it still managed to sound desperate in the quiet.

Inho sighed. He sighed. The sound was too heavy. Why did he sigh like that? Was he tired of you? Tired of this? Tired of the sessions that were no longer getting anywhere? You couldn’t tell. His face was unreadable, but his shoulders seemed to carry something—a weight he wasn’t willing to share.

“Do you know why I hate the rain?” he asked suddenly, his voice sharp with an edge of frustration, almost as if he was challenging you.

Your chest tightened. “Inho, these questions… what are they supposed to mean?” You stood up then, your mind swirling with confusion. What is happening?

“Inho, I…” You wanted to finish the sentence, but it was as though the words were stuck in your throat.

He cut you off. His voice had changed, becoming pointed. “Y/n. You’ve been avoiding everything I’ve been asking you. What is going on? Why do you still come here?”

You recoiled at his words. His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was a pressure behind it, a demand for an answer that you didn’t have. You tried to speak, but your voice faltered, cracking in a way that scared you.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. You hadn’t even realized how badly you were trembling until you looked down and saw your hands shaking uncontrollably in your lap. Your body felt like it was unraveling. What was this?

Your chest felt tight, suffocating. Your breathing, shallow and uneven, left you feeling dizzy and unsteady. The weight of something you couldn’t name pressed down on you from every angle. You wanted to scream, to ask him why, but instead, all you could do was feel your heart race faster, faster, faster—

This feeling.

It was horrible. The kind of horrible that made you want to run away, to escape from yourself. But there was something else there, too. Something underneath the horror. Relief.

Relief. Was this the first real emotion you’d felt in… years? Was this the closest thing to living that you’d experienced in such a long time?

Your eyes met Inho’s again, but now, they were filled with something he hadn’t seen before. Anger. Frustration. And maybe something more—something darker. You didn’t know why, but his face, the way he looked at you now, suddenly filled you with rage.

Why was he looking at you like that?

Why did his eyes seem to pierce through you, as though he were studying you like an experiment? His expression was too calm. Too detached. It made you feel exposed, as though all the parts of you he had uncovered were now his to keep, his to judge.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You stood up, brushing your hands against your dress as if trying to shake off the remnants of everything that had built up inside of you over the years. You walked toward him, feeling the silence press in on you, but only your footsteps—the steady click, clack, click of your heels against the floor—accompanied you as you crossed the space between you.

When you were two steps away from him, you stopped. You looked at his face, and your stomach churned.

His face. You hated it. You hated it so much.

“Inho,” you spat out, your voice trembling with the weight of everything that had been building inside of you. “I fucking hate your face.”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t a warm laugh—it was almost like a knowing laugh. As if he had anticipated this moment. As if he had been waiting for it all along.

And then, with a strange sense of acceptance, Inho opened his arms wide, inviting you into them.

You stared at him for a moment longer, your chest heaving with emotion you didn’t know how to deal with. Your hands were shaking harder now, and the tears that had been threatening to fall finally broke free, hot and sticky down your cheeks. Without a word, you stepped into his arms.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself fall into the vulnerability that had been hiding beneath your cold exterior. You didn’t care that your tears stained his white coat, that your mascara smeared across his chest. You didn’t care that crying felt so disgusting, that it made you feel like something broken, something filthy.

But at the same time, you felt… relieved.

For the first time in years, you felt. All of it. The pain, the anger, the relief. You cried, and it wasn’t easy, but it was something you’d missed. Something you hadn’t known you needed until now.

“I hate seeing your face too, Y/n,” Inho murmured softly, his voice full of something that almost sounded like sorrow. But then, just as you thought the moment might change, he added, “Stop coming here all the time. This... this isn’t helping you anymore.”

The words felt like a slap to the face. They hurt, but in a way that almost felt right. Because deep down, you knew he was right. The sessions, the routine, it had all become a cage. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to leave it behind. To stop coming here.

Just pity.

He looked at me, frowning, but nodded slightly. "Yeah. I guess."

"Well, maybe I can help," I said, still in that soft, reassuring tone. "How about a game? It’s a simple one, and maybe it’ll help take your mind off things."

I reached into my bag and pulled out a folded square of paper and a small stone. Ddakji. The game was as old as time in this city, and I was its undisputed champion. I flicked the paper into the air, a perfect fold each time. It was an art I’d mastered, just like everything else in my life.

His eyes were wary, but curiosity won out. "Sure," he said, shrugging. "Why not?"

We sat down, the noise of the train station buzzing around us. I flipped my piece with practiced precision. It landed perfectly. "You go first," I said, handing him the other piece. He hesitated, but I could see he was too tired to turn down the distraction.

We played. The first round, I let him win. It was a small gesture, just enough to make him feel like he had a shot. But that’s the thing with people like him: they never see it coming. By the third round, I could see the little glint of hope in his eyes. The first crack in his armor. He smiled a bit. I hated that smile. It felt like a victory he didn’t deserve.

By the fifth round, I was starting to feel a little... annoyed. I had let him win a couple to boost his morale, but he had beaten me every single time since. Each loss felt like a little slice of my own dignity being chipped away.

"What the hell?" I muttered, flicking my piece to the side. "How are you so damn good at this?"

He didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled a small, almost embarrassed smile. "I guess I’ve got nothing but time," he said quietly, looking down at his hands, and for a second I could see it—this man was living the kind of life I had avoided. He had no choice but to become good at this. No other option.

I clenched my jaw, staring at the game pieces in front of me. "Alright, fine," I said, standing up suddenly. "Maybe you’re good at this game, but you wouldn’t last in a real challenge."

He looked up at me, confused. "What do you mean?"

I felt that familiar sharp edge in my voice. The one I reserved for moments like this—when the act wasn’t enough. When I had to push, to provoke.

"How about we make this interesting? Ever heard of Russian Roulette?" I asked, my smile just barely hiding the venom in it.

He frowned, clearly not understanding. "Russian Roulette?"

I nodded, pulling out a small black card from my coat pocket. "Yeah. One bullet. One chance. You pick a card, and you might walk away alive, or not. Your choice."

He looked at the card, then back at me. Something shifted in his eyes, but he didn’t flinch. "That’s… that’s insane," he muttered. But there was a flicker of curiosity there, like he wanted to know. Maybe he wanted to test himself.

I slid the card across the table, my smile unwavering. "You don’t get to decide how life treats you," I said softly, almost pityingly. "But you do get to decide how you respond to it."

For a moment, I thought he might just walk away, but then he picked up the card. He glanced at it and looked up at me, still unsure, but determined.

"I’ll take my chances," he said, his voice steady now. There was no fear, just a grim acceptance.

I nodded, satisfied. "Good. Hold onto that card. If you want to know what happens next, just follow the instructions."

With that, I stood up, adjusted my jacket, and gave him one last glance. My fake smile returned, the one I had perfected over the years. The same one I wore every damn day.

"Take care," I said, my voice as smooth as ever, and I turned, making my way out of the train station.

The noise, the crowd, the rush of the city—it all swallowed me up, just another face in the crowd. But as I left, I couldn’t help but wonder: would he follow through? Would he even make it out alive?

I didn’t care. Not really.

I just liked the idea of someone being desperate enough to play the game.

-

Two weeks had passed since that encounter at the train station. The man had done exactly what I thought he would: he followed the instructions on the card. Curiosity, desperation, or maybe something darker—he didn’t waste any time. I received a call that night, a hoarse voice on the other end asking to meet.

I knew he would call. They always do, eventually.

I agreed, of course, the same smile plastered on my face as I hung up the phone. This was how it always went, a dance of twisted fate. They never learn. They always think they can win.

We met in an old, abandoned hotel at the edge of the city. The building was crumbling, its walls sagging, but it served its purpose.

The atmosphere was perfect for what was about to unfold. I had set up a small, isolated room, dimly lit by a single bulb swinging from the ceiling. Dust hung in the air, thick and oppressive. The only sounds were the creaks of the dilapidated floorboards beneath our feet.

When he entered the room, he was almost unrecognizable. There was a strange stillness to him now, a kind of hollow resolve. His eyes, though—those tired eyes that had once reflected defeat—now had a fire behind them. But there was something else, too. Something fragile.

"You came," I said, my voice as smooth and controlled as always, though the darkness behind my words was now more palpable, more dangerous. I didn’t need to ask him why he was there. I already knew.

"Yeah," he said, his voice steady, but with an edge. "You said you had a game for me."

I nodded and motioned for him to sit at the small table where I had already prepared the setup. "The rules haven’t changed. You pick a card. There’s one bullet, one chance. If you make it through, you win. If not… well, you lose. It's as simple as that."

I didn’t smile this time. My face was hard, colder than it had ever been, and my eyes were sharp. The air in the room seemed to tighten around us, thick with the weight of what was about to happen.

He sat across from me, his eyes locked onto the cards on the table, the same worn, beaten deck that had made so many people like him test their limits.

"Now," I said, my tone shifting, becoming sharper, "You remember the stakes. This time… it’s real. And no one walks away without paying the price."

He nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the cards. I watched him closely. He was playing the game, but I could see the hopelessness still clinging to him. It was in the way his jaw clenched, the way his gaze darted to the door, wondering if there was any chance of escape.

But he wasn’t escaping. Not this time. Not with me.

As he selected his card, I felt the excitement stirring inside me, that thrill of control. I kept my face carefully neutral, though my pulse quickened. There was nothing like watching someone teeter on the edge of their own mortality, all for a game. I wasn’t about to let him off easy, though.

I leaned forward, letting the silence stretch. Then, my voice, cold and calculating, broke it.

"Why do you want to die?" I asked, staring him down, my eyes narrowing. My smile was gone, replaced by something more sinister. "What’s so bad about living that you’re willing to risk everything on a stupid game?"

He paused, his fingers still clutching the card. He looked up at me, his eyes dead, hollow in the way that only someone who had seen too much could manage.

"I don’t want to die," he said, his voice low, filled with a bitterness I hadn’t expected. "I want to beat you."

My eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Beat me?"

"Yeah," he continued, his words sharp. "Your smile. It disgusts me."

I blinked, taken aback for a second. It was the last thing I had expected to hear. Most people either begged for mercy, or acted like they wanted to escape, but this man—this man wanted to beat me. Wanted to strip away that part of me, that fake smile I wore so well.

It was almost laughable. Almost.

I let out a small, cruel chuckle. "I see," I said, my tone cold and venomous. "You want to destroy what I’ve worked so hard to create. How cute."

I watched as he drew the card and placed it face down on the table. His hands were steady now. He was no longer shaking with fear. There was a different kind of determination in his eyes. I could see it—he wanted to win. But he wouldn’t.

I picked up my own card, feeling the familiar weight in my fingers. The bullet was in place. I knew the rules. I had played this game countless times, and this time, it would be no different.

The first round passed. We both pulled the trigger. Click. Empty. He didn’t flinch. Neither did I. The tension in the air thickened, like a storm was brewing.

The second round. Again, no bullet.

The third. The fourth. The fifth. We kept playing, each time the tension building, the clicks echoing in the silence.

And then, it was my turn.

I smiled—a real smile, twisted, sharp, full of malice. There was a part of me that was enjoying this far too much. There was something deeply satisfying in watching him squirm, knowing he couldn’t stop it. That he would fail, just like all the others before him.

I placed my card on the table, my hand steady. I stared at him, daring him to look away.

He didn’t.

I held his gaze as I lifted the gun, clicking it against the side of my head, the barrel cold and metallic. There was no fear in my eyes, only a cold thrill, a feeling of power that pulsed through me.

"You know," I said, almost tenderly, "It’s always the ones who think they have control who end up losing it all. You should have known that from the start."

I squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Nothing.

I let out a small laugh, more out of exhilaration than anything else. "See? I’m still here. Just like I always will be."

His expression hadn’t changed. He was staring at me, eyes emotionless. His hand was still on the card, waiting. His pulse was steady. It was as if nothing in the world could move him now. He had been so focused on defeating me, but in the end, it was clear—he had already lost.

I looked at him one last time before standing up, smoothing my coat. "It’s over now. You know the truth. This game… it never really had a winner."

I walked to the door, the faintest smile returning to my lips as I opened it.

As I left the room, I didn’t look back. But I could feel his presence, still there, waiting in that dark, dusty room, trapped by his own disgust and desperation.

Bang.

Some people never learn.

if the roles were reversed…

Round after round. We both went through the motions like we’d done a thousand times before. But the more we played, the more I felt the walls closing in.

My confidence, my carefully constructed demeanor, was starting to crumble. Something was slipping through my fingers, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.

I didn’t expect it to happen this way. I didn’t expect him to be the one to win.

The fifth round came. He pulled the card and placed it on the table. This time, the gun was in his hand. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, calculating, cold. No emotion, just a kind of quiet certainty. He had stopped trying to win.

Now, he just wanted to watch me lose.

He lifted the gun, and for the first time, I couldn’t look him in the eye. My breath caught in my throat, and a cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck.

"I told you I didn’t want to die," he said softly, his voice calm but sharp with conviction. "I just wanted to beat you. Because your smile… it disgusts me."

I wanted to speak, to shout, to remind him that I was the one who controlled the game. But I couldn’t. The words were stuck in my throat. I didn’t even see him pull the trigger.

The shot rang out.

Pain exploded in my chest, and for the first time in years, I felt something real—a rush of panic, a heat flooding through me. I collapsed to the ground, my vision blurring as I gasped for air.

He stood over me, his face still unreadable, but there was something in his eyes now. A kind of satisfaction. But it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t a celebration. It was... quiet.

"I said I wanted to beat you," he repeated, stepping back as I struggled to breathe. The blood was hot on my skin, spreading across my shirt, staining everything. "And I did. Your smile isn’t so damn important anymore."

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even move. My body was heavy, the weight of defeat sinking into me, thick and suffocating.

And then everything went black.

-

A year passed.

The city hadn’t changed. The skyline still towered over the streets, the same cold, metallic heart that kept the gears turning. The people were still just as greedy, just as hungry for whatever scraps they could get. And somewhere in the midst of all that noise, he had risen.

He wasn’t the man I had once met, the defeated soul who’d been desperate enough to take a chance with a game of Russian Roulette. No, now he was a shadow of the woman I had been. He had taken over my place, the reins of the game. He was the salesman now.

He moved through the streets like a phantom, dressed in the same cold, efficient attire I had worn, his briefcase clicking sharply against the pavement. His smile—the same twisted, controlled smile—was already perfected, a mask he wore so effortlessly that nobody could tell it was fake. But underneath it, there was something else—something darker.

He had learned all the rules. He understood the game better than I ever did, and in the end, he had done exactly what I couldn’t: he had beaten me at my own game. And now, he was taking my place.

A year later, when he walked into a new train station—his first stop as the new salesman—he caught the eyes of every passerby with that same twisted grin. His hands were steady as he approached a stranger, someone who would be his next victim.

"Would you like to play a game?" he asked, his voice smooth, his smile sharp. "You seem unfortunate. Having a bad day?"

And in the back of his mind, there was a quiet satisfaction. Because he wasn’t just offering a game anymore. He was offering the same thing he had taken from me—a chance, a risk, a taste of something more.

But he knew the truth.

It was a quarter past seven. The street lights were on, and you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. You ignored it, knowing that would cause bigger problems later but that hasn't occurred to you at the moment.

Your attention was on him. He was walking his dog near the park. His face was so arrogant, you knew that you hated it. He should be happy when he's with his dog. He should put that cigarette out.

You unknowingly walked towards him. He didn't pay much mind to you. As if you weren't there. How could he act like that?

"Hey! I know you see me here. You know smoking isn't good for the dog."

"Mhm."

Your jaw dropped. You couldn't even feel embarrased for yourself. Instead, you were enraged. Not because of the way he responded, but because of the way he looked when he responded. He didn't look at you, nor try to engage in your presence.

"Tch... whatever. What's it's name? Or are you going to ignore me again?"

Silence. You scoffed again as you looked at the pretty dog in front of you. You decided to follow him until he decided to get his head out of the clouds. The more you two walked, the darker it got. He stopped. Right in front of an apartment. You guessed it was his home and you turned away.

Facing the thick air of your parent's presence. You bravely started walking home.

"Mona."

You whipped your head back and scrunched your eyebrows. Who's Mona?

"The dog... her name's Mona."

With that, he closed the door. You swore you could see a slight smile when he vanished. But that should be nearly impossible coming from that man.

You checked the time. It was a quarter till eight. The sun was nearly impossible to see. At this point, the last thing you were scared of was the dark. But there was still an eery feeling lingering in the dark. You decided it was best to rush home.

-

It's been a week since you've seen him. Not that you haven't tried to look for him. It was something that couldn't have been bothered. Your parents took every single source of communication from you. They cut the time you're allowed to be outside to five sharp.

It felt like you were a princess aching to be rescued. You found yourself to be outside. Outside of his apartment in fact. It wasn't anything to fancy. It did have security sitting near the front desk. He kept giving you a weird, pervy look.

Why were you there? There's no way you're that insane to wait for him to leave or enter. But that's exactly what you did.

"Miss? Are you waiting for someone?"

"Oh! Umm... I think so?"

You chuckled awkwardly. He wasn't phased and told you to leave if you weren't going to call the person you're visiting down. Here you were, sitting with your legs crossed outside of his apartment building. It's been an hour, and you felt hopeless. You felt your eyes get heavy.

Little did you know, he was standing in front of you as you rested on your arm. You felt a dog licking at your leg. As you slowly opened your eyes, you saw a dog similar to Mona.

"Huh? Oh, Mona! Wait, if you're here then..."

You blinked a few times, rubbing your eyes, unsure if you were still dreaming. The dog, Mona, was sitting at your feet, wagging her tail enthusiastically, and the man—him—stood there, leaning against the pillar of the apartment building’s entrance. He had changed into a crisp business suit, looking even more out of place than he did that evening you first saw him, but somehow, still the same in a way you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You straightened up, scrambling to get to your feet. The awkwardness you felt was palpable, but there was also something else—relief. You hadn’t been thinking about much of anything other than that feeling of waiting. Now that you saw him, you weren’t sure what to say, what to feel.

"Didn’t expect to see you again,” he said, his voice not a hint warmer than before, but somehow still pulling you in. “What’s your name?”

It wasn’t a request; it felt more like an observation. You hesitated, unsure how to answer. What were you doing here anyway? You could leave. It wasn’t too late. But his presence anchored you, made you feel strange and reckless and young.

"Mona’s a good girl, huh?" You finally blurted out, trying to stall for time, or maybe to sound more like you knew what you were talking about.

He looked down at his dog, a brief moment of softness crossing his face before it vanished behind that usual detached look. "Yeah, she is. Better than I deserve, probably."

His tone was flat, almost self-deprecating, but you noticed the hint of vulnerability beneath it. You couldn’t quite understand why someone who clearly had it all together—suit, apartment, dog—would talk like that. The mystery of him, the small cracks in his armor, it made you feel strangely drawn to him, like a magnet pulling you in despite the warnings screaming in your head.

"Why are you here?" he asked, stepping closer. "You know it’s not exactly safe to sit around this late at night, right?"

You felt your heart pound. "I don’t know," you admitted. "I guess... I guess I just wanted to know who you are."

The words were out before you could stop them, and in that moment, you realized you were telling the truth. You did want to know who he was—who the man behind the arrogance was, what made him tick, why he acted the way he did.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, but not dismissive. "You really think you can just sit here waiting for me? I could’ve been anyone."

"Yeah, but you’re not anyone, are you?" You didn’t know where the words were coming from, but they felt right, like a spark that lit the match inside you.

He chuckled, but it was low, almost begrudgingly. "Guess not. But I’m not exactly the guy you think I am either."

That stopped you cold. You stared up at him, watching the way his expression shifted. There was something almost... sad in his eyes. Mona nudged her nose against your leg, and you scratched behind her ears, trying to compose yourself.

“I don’t get it," you said after a beat. "You seem like you don’t care about anything, but then Mona... she’s here. You brought her out to me.”

He shifted his weight, glancing down at Mona as if the dog were the only thing holding him together. "I’m not sure what to say to you, but if you're really that curious, you can stop waiting and just... ask."

You had never been this bold in your life. But something about this whole night made you forget to be cautious. “Why don’t you ever talk to anyone? You just seem so... detached, like you’re above it all. But Mona? She’s different. She makes you seem... human.”

There was a long pause. Mona whimpered, almost as if waiting for him to answer. When he did, his voice was quieter, less guarded.

"You think I'm above it all because I don’t talk to people. Maybe I just don’t have anything to say." He shrugged, as if brushing off the gravity of the words he was choosing. "People don’t care enough to really listen. And I... I can’t really care enough for them. But Mona?" He paused, looking at his dog fondly. "She listens."

You felt a pang in your chest at that, something that felt close to understanding. Everyone wants someone who listens.

Before you could respond, he held out his hand, not in an overly grand gesture, but as if offering something more simple. "You could walk with us. We could talk, or not talk. Your choice."

You stared at his hand for a long moment, your pulse quickening. This was insane. This was stupid. You were about to follow a stranger, someone you barely knew, because something inside you told you it was worth it.

You put your hand in his.

It wasn’t a grand moment. It didn’t feel like the beginning of some great love story. But it was the beginning of something real. Something messy. Maybe you were naive, maybe you were reckless, but in that moment, the quiet of the night and the low hum of the city faded away, leaving just the three of you—Mona, him, and you—walking together under the fading streetlights.

And for once, it felt like you weren’t just waiting for something to happen. You were making it happen.

-

After that night, everything shifted.

The days blurred together, and you couldn't stop thinking about him—the way he spoke, the way Mona had nudged you like she somehow understood. You wondered if you had imagined it all, but deep down, you knew that moment had been real, something that couldn’t be brushed aside.

But, of course, you didn’t see him again.

Your parents, sharp-eyed as always, noticed the change in you. The late-night walks, the restless way you lingered at the window waiting for him. And when they found out just how late you’d been outside that night—how you’d waited around his apartment like some lovesick fool—they were furious.

The punishment was swift and suffocating: no phone, no friends, no time outside. Your world narrowed down to the four walls of your room, your every move watched. You’d never felt so small, so trapped. The days bled into each other. You were grounded for a month, the consequences of your reckless desire to feel something real.

A month without seeing him. Without any word from him.

You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be free—to be outside and to breathe without someone else’s rules pressing against your chest. But that’s when it started.

It was subtle at first—just fleeting glimpses of him at the edge of your vision. A figure in the distance, walking past your house late at night. You could never be sure if it was him, but you felt the familiar rush of adrenaline each time you saw him. His presence in the shadows made you question everything. Was it a coincidence? Or was he really out there, watching?

One evening, as you sat by the window—silent, staring into the dark street—you saw him again. Just standing there. Staring up at your window. His figure was obscured by the dim glow of the streetlights, but you knew it was him. The same tall frame, the same casual stance. Mona was nowhere in sight, but you were certain it was him.

Your breath hitched. The strange mix of fear and curiosity welled up in your chest. Was he waiting for you to come outside? Did he even care? You had no idea why he was there, but the thought of him being out there—of him waiting—set your heart racing.

You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t go out. Your parents were still awake. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was out there for a reason.

That night, you tried to ignore the strange feeling that clung to you like a fog. But the next few days were no better. The glimpses kept coming—always late, always when you least expected it. And then, one night, you saw something that made your heart stop.

He was there again, but this time, he wasn’t just standing at the edge of the street. He was right outside your house, hidden in the shadows beneath the trees. You caught his eyes, and for a moment, everything else faded. You felt the magnetic pull, the unspoken connection between you both, but there was no way to cross the distance.

You couldn’t understand it. Why was he watching? Why didn’t he just come to the door? Was this his idea of some twisted game? Or was it something else entirely.

That night, you sent a message to a friend—a desperate cry for normalcy, a way to pull yourself out of the strange web you’d found yourself in. You’re still grounded, remember?

But when you looked back out the window, he was gone.

A part of you wanted to scream. To run out the door, to confront him, to finally get some kind of answer. But you were still stuck in the prison your parents had built for you. And somehow, that felt like the real punishment.

You spent the next week in a haze, constantly looking for him but never finding him. And then, one morning, you saw him again. Not outside your window, but across the street. He was walking his dog, Mona trotting beside him. His eyes met yours for just a moment before he quickly looked away.

There was something strange about the way he did it. Like he had been expecting you to look. Like he wanted you to see him.

You felt the tension between you, the electricity in the air. Your heart pounded in your chest. Maybe he was still curious. Maybe he was still waiting. But as he turned the corner, disappearing from your sight, you realized something: he had no intention of making this easy.

You wanted to call out to him, but you couldn't. You had nothing—no way to reach him, no number to text, no way to make sense of what was happening. But as the weeks dragged on, and the silence between you grew louder, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were the one keeping the distance.

Was he stalking you, or were you just drawn to him? Could you be the one following him?