#+romance

If you were the quiet academic king, Park Sohyun and Zhou Xinyu were the reigning queens of the school's social ecosystem. They were strikingly beautiful, fiercely intelligent in their own right, and entirely intimidating. They walked the halls with a synchronized, terrifying grace that parted crowds like the Red Sea.

And for reasons you initially couldn't fathom, they had made it their personal mission to ensure your high school life was anything but peaceful.

Sohyun’s heart would hammer violently against her ribs every single time she saw you. It wasn't a gentle flutter; it was a painful, frantic beat that made her feel physically ill. From her seat in the back of the classroom, she would watch the way you meticulously organized your notes.

To her, you were brilliant. You were flawless. And you were utterly terrifying. She would sit there, her hands gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles turned white, consumed by an overwhelming, suffocating sense of inadequacy.

If she were to walk up to you and tell you how her breath hitched every time you entered the room, she was convinced you would undoubtedly look at her with those calm, analytical eyes and reject her on the spot. The very thought of your rejection felt like a physical blow, a devastating public humiliation she couldn't survive.

So, instead of confessing, she built a fortress of hostility. She masked her crippling anxiety with biting sarcasm.

It was a Tuesday afternoon in the school library when Sohyun initiated her usual routine. The library was a cavernous space, smelling of old paper and dust, illuminated by shafts of golden afternoon sunlight.

You were sitting at your preferred corner table, deeply engrossed in a thick textbook regarding green logistics and sustainable supply chains. You were completely tuned out from the world around you, marking a page with a yellow highlighter.

Sohyun forced her trembling hands to steady as she marched over. She slammed her heavy history books down on the table directly across from you. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

You flinched slightly, your eyes slowly rising from the page to meet hers. You didn't say a word, just waited for the inevitable storm.

"Are you ever going to take a break, or is staring at a textbook the only personality trait you actually possess?" Sohyun asked. Her voice dripped with a rehearsed, venomous sweetness, though her heart was pounding so hard she thought you might hear it.

"I have a presentation for Kelompok 4 tomorrow," you replied calmly, your voice a smooth, steady baseline that completely contrasted her erratic energy. "I'm just reviewing the reverse logistics framework."

Sohyun scoffed, rolling her eyes to hide the fact that she was desperately trying to memorize the exact pitch of your voice. "Kelompok 4. Right. Because carrying eight other people on your back isn't enough of a tragic martyr complex for you."

"They do their part," you said softly, looking back down at your book. "It's a group effort."

"Oh, please," Sohyun mocked, leaning across the table and invading your personal space. She reached out and snatched the yellow highlighter right out of your fingers.

Her skin brushed yours for a fraction of a second, sending a violent jolt of electricity up her arm. She prayed to every deity she could think of that you didn't notice the way her breath hitched.

"I'll be confiscating this," she declared coldly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You're ruining the curve for everyone else in the grade. Consider this an intervention."

You looked at your empty hand, then up at her. "Sohyun, I need that to color-code the operational flowcharts."

"Then you should have thought about that before you decided to be so obnoxiously perfect," she shot back, twirling the highlighter between her fingers.

Inside, Sohyun was screaming at herself. The guilt was a heavy, suffocating blanket. She wanted to hand the marker back, gently brush her fingers against yours again, and apologize for being so unbelievably cruel. She wanted to ask you to explain the flowcharts to her, just so she could sit beside you and listen.

Instead, she watched you silently, patiently pull a cheap, smudging ballpoint pen from your bag and resume your work. She tucked your highlighter into her bag like a stolen treasure, her heart aching with a toxic mix of love and profound self-loathing.

Xinyu operated differently, though her internal turmoil was identical. Where Sohyun used passive-aggressive disruption, Xinyu used overwhelming, confrontational presence. Xinyu was taller, with a sharp, piercing gaze that made most students step out of her way without a second thought.

But whenever she saw you, her commanding exterior threatened to shatter into a million fragile pieces. The fear of being a mere annoyance to you mutated into a desperate, aggressive defense mechanism. If she couldn't be your equal, she would be your obstacle.

Later that week, the cafeteria was a chaotic sea of shouting teenagers and clattering trays. Xinyu spotted you navigating the crowd, carrying your tray with a quiet, intense focus, trying to avoid the chaos.

Her heart did a painful flip in her chest. The urge to run up, link her arm through yours, and pull you to her table was almost overwhelming. Instead, she forced her expression into a hard, unforgiving glare and stepped directly into your trajectory.

"Whoa!" you gasped, stumbling backward as Xinyu intentionally bumped her shoulder sharply against yours.

You barely caught your tray, though your carton of strawberry milk toppled over, spilling slightly onto the plastic. The surrounding students gasped, the immediate vicinity falling into a tense, expectant hush.

"Watch where you're going," Xinyu spat, her voice echoing loudly, masking the severe tremor in her hands.

You looked up at her, your brow furrowing in confusion. "You stepped right into my path, Xinyu."

"Are you calling me a liar?" she demanded, taking a step closer, completely invading your space. She looked you up and down, forcing her lip to curl in feigned disgust. "Maybe if you weren't so distracted by how incredibly tragic your outfit is, you would know how to walk in a straight line."

You looked down at your slightly oversized, faded gray sweater. "It's just a sweater. It's comfortable."

"It's a crime against humanity," Xinyu fired back, her voice harsh, even as her mind screamed at her to stop. She thought you looked incredibly endearing. She wanted to bury her face in the soft fabric of that sweater.

"I'll keep that in mind," you said softly. You didn't yell. You didn't argue. You merely adjusted your grip on your tray, offered her a small, unreadable nod, and walked around her.

As soon as your back was turned, Xinyu felt the familiar, crushing weight of immense guilt crash down on her shoulders. It felt like she couldn't breathe.

"Why do you do that?" a voice whispered from behind her. Xinyu whipped around to see Sohyun standing there, looking just as miserable.

"I don't know," Xinyu whispered back, her voice cracking. "He looked right at me, Sohyun. I panicked. I just… I completely panicked."

"You spilled his milk," Sohyun muttered, looking at the retreating back of your sweater. "He loves that strawberry milk."

"I know!" Xinyu hissed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "I know I did. I'm a monster. He's going to hate me forever."

Watching this daily tragedy unfold from a completely different vantage point was Rami, a childhood friend of you and your older sister, Yooyeon. Rami was entirely detached from the school's social hierarchy, possessing a sharp, no-nonsense personality that cut through teenage drama with ease.

While visiting the school grounds one afternoon to drop off a forgotten textbook for you, she leaned against a set of blue metal lockers and observed the ecosystem of the hallway.

She saw you standing by a cork bulletin board. Within seconds, Xinyu was there, standing entirely too close to you, loudly criticizing the way your backpack was strapped. A few feet away, Sohyun was aggressively glaring at a younger freshman girl who had dared to wave at you.

Rami let out a long, heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off an incoming headache. The pathetic nature of it all was almost too much for her to bear.

She pushed off the lockers and walked right up to you, completely ignoring the immediate, territorial, hostile glares she received from both Sohyun and Xinyu.

"Here," Rami said, shoving the heavy textbook into your chest. "Yooyeon found it on the kitchen counter. Again."

"Thanks, Rami," you smiled, taking the book. "I owe you one."

Rami didn't smile back. She crossed her arms and glared over your shoulder at the two girls who were now pretending to examine the hinges of the lockers.

"Are you completely blind, or are you just a masochist?" Rami asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

You blinked, looking confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb over there," Rami said, jutting her chin toward Sohyun and Xinyu. "They are completely obsessed with you. It's actually painful to watch."

You glanced over your shoulder. Sohyun visibly flinched, and Xinyu suddenly found the floor tiles fascinating.

"They aren't obsessed with me, Rami," you said with a soft sigh. "They just enjoy making my life difficult. It's a game to them."

"It's not a game," Rami argued, grabbing your arm to pull your attention back to her. "Look at them. Really look at them. They act like rabid dogs because they're too scared to just wag their tails. You shouldn't put up with it."

"I don't mind," you replied calmly.

"You don't mind being bullied?" Rami raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think it's bullying," you corrected gently. "I think they're just… loud. They have a lot of energy."

"They're terrified of you," Rami stated bluntly. "And they're too stupid to realize that pushing you away is going to backfire permanently."

You didn't say anything to Rami's harsh assessment. You just looked back at the two girls. Sohyun was nervously chewing her bottom lip, and Xinyu looked like she was on the verge of a panic attack.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, softening your features.

"I'll see you later, Rami," you said quietly, turning away and heading toward your next class.

The high school years dragged on this way, a continuous, exhausting, emotionally draining dance of harsh words, stolen glances, and a love so deeply buried under paralyzing fear that it threatened to suffocate all three of you.

The transition from the rigid, structured hallways of your high school to the sprawling, vibrant campus of the university didn't break the intense gravitational pull between the three of you. If anything, the expansive grounds of the Faculty of Business and Economics only provided Sohyun and Xinyu with a much larger stage to act out their agonizing, complicated dynamic.

You had enrolled as a Business Networking major, your academic life consumed by the intricate complexities of Operations Management, supply chains, and your overarching thesis on Green and Reverse Logistics. You were, as you had always been, at the very top of your cohort. Your mind was a brilliant, analytical engine, constantly reading systems, predicting outcomes, and understanding human operational behavior.

Because of this, you were anything but oblivious.

You knew exactly how Sohyun and Xinyu felt about you. You had known for years. You didn't need a dramatic confession under a cherry blossom tree to understand the truth; you saw it in the data of their everyday actions.

You noticed how Sohyun would aggressively critique the formatting of your proposals for the Dewan Perwakilan Mahasiswa (DPM), only to secretly email you a flawlessly edited version at two in the morning so you wouldn't stress over it. You noticed how Xinyu ruthlessly maneuvered her way into "Kelompok 4" for your massive MIS project, aggressively managing the schedules to ensure absolutely no other girls in the group had the opportunity to sit next to you during late-night study sessions.

Their fear of rejection was incredibly loud, masked by layers of biting sarcasm and confrontational glares. But their profound, overwhelming care for you was even louder, provided you knew how to listen for it. You were simply waiting. You were a patient man, willing to let them fight their internal battles until they were finally brave enough to drop the armor.

However, that delicate, frustrating stalemate was entirely shattered on a sweltering Thursday afternoon.

You were sitting at a shaded outdoor table near the faculty lounge, trying to escape the midday Surabaya heat. You had a stack of journals on sustainable supply chain models spread out before you, deeply engrossed in your research.

Suddenly, your focus was broken by a pair of cool, familiar hands slipping over your eyes from behind.

"Guess who, genius?" a playful, melodic voice chirped right next to your ear.

You couldn't help but smile, reaching up to gently pry the hands away. "You're supposed to be in Jakarta, Rami."

Rami let out a bright, ringing laugh, stepping around the table and immediately dropping into the empty chair right beside you. She was your childhood friend, practically a second sister, and she operated with a complete disregard for personal space when it came to you. She slung an arm casually around your shoulders, leaning her head against yours as she peered down at your dense academic papers.

"My classes got canceled for the rest of the week, so I took the first train down to bother you and Yooyeon," Rami said, reaching over to blatantly steal a sip from your iced coffee without asking. "God, I missed you. Have you been doing nothing but reading about recycled cardboard since I left?"

"It's reverse logistics, Rami, and it's important," you chuckled, gently nudging her shoulder. "It's good to see you."

Rami grinned, leaning in closer, her face mere inches from yours as she animatedly began telling you a story about her chaotic train ride. To any outside observer, the sheer physical comfort and easy intimacy between the two of you painted a very specific, very romantic picture.

And unfortunately for Sohyun and Xinyu, they were currently acting as outside observers.

About fifty feet away, partially concealed behind one of the large concrete pillars of the faculty building, the two reigning queens of the university's social ecosystem were currently experiencing a catastrophic, system-wide mental breakdown.

Sohyun’s heart was hammering so violently against her ribs that she felt physically nauseous. Her manicured nails were digging painfully into the rough concrete of the pillar as she stared at the scene unfolding at your table.

Who is she? Sohyun's internal monologue was shrieking in pure, unadulterated panic. Why is she sitting so close to him? Why is she touching his shoulder? He never lets anyone touch his shoulder! Why is he smiling at her like that? He never smiles like that when I'm around. I usually just get the polite nod. Oh my god, she's gorgeous. Is she his girlfriend? Did he get a girlfriend?

Beside her, Xinyu was vibrating with a terrifying mix of profound jealousy and sheer terror. Her sharp, imposing gaze was fixed entirely on Rami, mentally dissecting this sudden, beautiful threat to her entire world.

I will completely destroy her, Xinyu thought wildly, her breathing shallow and erratic. No, wait, I can't do that, Y/N would hate me. But look at them! She just drank from his cup! Indirect kiss! They just shared an indirect kiss right in the middle of the campus courtyard! This is a disaster. This is an absolute, code-red emergency.

"Sohyun," Xinyu hissed, her voice trembling as she grabbed her friend's arm in a vice grip. "We have to do something. Right now. We have to go over there."

"And do what?!" Sohyun hissed back, her eyes wide with panic. "What if they're dating, Xinyu? What if we walk over there and he introduces her as the love of his life? I will literally throw myself into the campus fountain and drown."

"If we don't go over there, she's going to steal him completely!" Xinyu argued desperately, logic completely abandoning her. "We can't just stand here and let some random girl take the only guy we've ever cared about because we're too cowardly to act. We have to intervene. We'll march over there, assert dominance, and… and demand his attention for a DPM project!"

"I'm not even in the DPM!" Sohyun pointed out frantically.

"It doesn't matter! Just follow my lead!"

Fueled by a volatile cocktail of pure adrenaline, territorial jealousy, and the terrifying realization that they might actually lose you, the two girls stepped out from behind the pillar. They marched across the courtyard toward your table, their heels clicking aggressively against the pavement, looking like they were preparing for a war.

But as the physical distance between you closed, the adrenaline rapidly began to evaporate, entirely replaced by their deeply ingrained, paralyzing fear of your judgment.

By the time they reached your table, they had completely run out of steam.

You looked up from Rami's animated story, your calm, analytical eyes landing on the two girls standing awkwardly by your table. You raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Sohyun opened her mouth, fully intending to say something witty and sharp to demand your attention. She meant to ask you a complex question about operations management. Instead, her brain entirely blue-screened under the weight of your gaze.

"We…" Sohyun started, her voice cracking embarrassingly. She felt the heat violently rush to her cheeks, turning her entire face a brilliant, glowing shade of crimson. "The… the cardboard. For the… things."

Xinyu internally screamed at her friend's complete failure and stepped forward to take charge. She pointed a finger at your table, but her hand was shaking so badly she quickly dropped it.

"Y/N," Xinyu stated loudly, trying to summon her usual commanding presence, but it came out sounding breathless and panicked. "We need to… we have to discuss the schedule for the… the breathing. I mean, the meeting. The DPM meeting about the… the green leaves. Logistics. Green logistics."

You blinked, leaning back in your chair. "The DPM meeting about green logistics isn't for another three weeks, Xinyu. And Sohyun, you aren't on that committee."

Xinyu's face went from pale to a deep, agonizing red in less than a second. Her sharp mind went completely blank. She had absolutely no idea what to say next. She just stood there, her mouth slightly open, completely flustered, radiating a chaotic, terrified energy. Sohyun looked like she was actively praying for a sinkhole to open up beneath the courtyard and swallow her whole.

Rami, who had stopped her story mid-sentence, was currently staring at Sohyun and Xinyu with an expression of pure, unfiltered bewilderment. She looked from the two blushing, stammering girls, to you, and then back to the girls.

Rami leaned closer to you, not bothering to lower her voice. "Y/N, who are these creeps? Are they stalking you? Because I will happily call campus security right now. They look like they're about to have a synchronized stroke."

Sohyun let out a tiny, mortified squeak, burying her burning face in her hands. Xinyu looked completely paralyzed, her eyes darting frantically between you and Rami, completely unable to defend herself against the accusation.

You let out a soft, warm chuckle, the sound instantly defusing the heavy tension in the air. You reached over, gently patting Rami's arm to calm her down.

"It's okay, Rami. Stand down," you said smoothly. You gestured toward the two petrified girls. "Rami, these are my classmates. Park Sohyun and Zhou Xinyu. They can be a little intense when it comes to academics, but they aren't stalkers."

You shifted your gaze to the two girls, your eyes softening. "Sohyun, Xinyu, this is Rami. She's my childhood friend. She basically grew up in my house alongside my older sister, Yooyeon."

The words childhood friend echoed in Sohyun and Xinyu's minds like a chorus of angels singing.

The profound, crushing weight of their jealousy vanished in an instant, leaving behind only the sheer, embarrassing reality of their current behavior. They weren't losing you to a beautiful stranger; they had just aggressively marched up to your closest family friend and completely made fools of themselves.

"Oh," Xinyu breathed out, the tension leaving her shoulders so fast she almost sagged. "Childhood friend. Right."

"Nice to meet you," Sohyun managed to squeak from behind her hands, still refusing to show her incredibly flushed face.

Rami narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying their sudden, awkward submissiveness, but she leaned back in her chair. "Right. Well. Nice to meet you too, I guess."

You looked at the two girls standing awkwardly in the heat, clearly miserable and entirely unsure of what to do next. They looked like they wanted to bolt, to run away and hide from the immense embarrassment of the situation. But you weren't going to let them run away this time. It was time to break the cycle.

"Actually," you started, closing your textbook and neatly stacking your journals. "Rami and I were just about to head off campus to get some lunch. I know a quiet spot that serves incredible seafood just a few blocks from here. Why don't you two join us?"

Sohyun finally lowered her hands, staring at you in utter disbelief. "You… you want us to come with you?"

"I don't think we can," Xinyu added quickly, her defensive instincts kicking in to protect her from this incredibly vulnerable situation. "We don't want to intrude on your reunion. Plus, I'm sure you have… things to catch up on."

"It's not an intrusion," you replied firmly, offering them a small, encouraging smile. "I'm inviting you. I'd like it if you came. Both of you."

Sohyun and Xinyu exchanged a wide-eyed, panicked glance. You had never explicitly invited them to do anything outside of mandatory group projects. This was unprecedented territory. But the gentle, genuine warmth in your eyes was a magnetic force they simply couldn't resist.

"Okay," Sohyun whispered softly. "We'd like that."

Twenty minutes later, the four of you were seated in a cool, dimly lit restaurant known for its phenomenal grilled fish and spicy sambal. The air conditioning was a welcome relief from the Surabaya heat, but the atmosphere at the table was incredibly thick with awkward tension.

You and Rami sat on one side of the booth, while Sohyun and Xinyu sat stiffly on the opposite side, keeping a perfectly measured six inches of space between them. They both looked like they were bracing for an execution rather than waiting for an appetizer.

Rami was thoroughly enjoying the situation. She methodically peeled a shrimp, chewing it slowly as she locked her sharp gaze on the two girls across from her.

"So," Rami started, wiping her fingers on a napkin. "Let me get this straight. You two saw Y/N sitting with a girl you didn't recognize, and your immediate instinct was to sprint across the courtyard, completely red in the face, to aggressively demand to talk about… cardboard?"

Sohyun closed her eyes, letting out a pained sigh. "Please, just let me die in peace."

Xinyu crossed her arms, her defensive walls instinctively snapping back into place. "We had a legitimate academic inquiry. Y/N is a vital part of our group projects. His focus is important."

"Right. Very convincing," Rami scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You know, for two people who supposedly just care about his grades, you both looked like you were ready to commit murder when you saw me touching his arm. It's honestly hilarious."

"Rami," you warned gently, placing a hand over hers on the table. "That's enough. Be nice."

Rami sighed, leaning back against the booth. "I'm just saying, Y/N. They act like absolute terrors. I've heard the stories from Yooyeon. They steal your stuff, they insult your clothes, they completely monopolize your time… and then they stand in a courtyard looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars. It's exhausting just watching it."

The table plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Sohyun stared down at her untouched glass of iced tea, the condensation pooling at the base. Xinyu's jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in her cheek. Rami had just taken a sledgehammer to the very fragile glass house they had been hiding in for years.

You looked at them, seeing the very real, very raw distress in their eyes. They were cornered.

"Rami is very blunt," you said softly, breaking the silence. You kept your voice low, steady, and entirely free of judgment. "She doesn't mean to be cruel. But… she isn't entirely wrong."

Sohyun and Xinyu both snapped their heads up to look at you, panic flaring in their eyes.

"I know I haven't said anything about it," you continued, leaning forward slightly, resting your forearms on the table. "But I'm not blind to the way things have been between us. The teasing, the arguments, the hostility. It's been going on since high school."

"Y/N, we—" Xinyu started, her voice panicked, but you gently raised a hand to pause her.

"I've always known it wasn't because you actually hated me," you said, your eyes moving between them, making sure they understood the absolute sincerity in your words. "I've always known there was a different reason behind it. I just… I didn't want to push you until you were ready."

Sohyun’s lower lip trembled. She reached down, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her skirt under the table. The fear of rejection was screaming at her to stand up, to make a sarcastic comment, and walk out of the restaurant.

But then she looked at you. She looked at the immense patience in your eyes, the quiet strength that had drawn her to you in the first place. You weren't attacking them. You were offering them a bridge.

Sohyun took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing herself to maintain eye contact with you.

"I'm sorry," Sohyun whispered, her voice cracking under the emotional weight of the words. "I am so, incredibly sorry, Y/N."

You tilted your head slightly. "For what, Sohyun?"

"For being so awful to you," she confessed, a single tear escaping and sliding down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away. "For stealing your things. For saying cruel things about your studying. I was just… I was so intimidated by you. You were always so perfect, so brilliant, and I felt so small compared to you. I didn't know how to talk to you like a normal person. I was terrified that if I was just nice to you, you would see right through me and realize I wasn't good enough. So I acted like a monster to protect myself. And it was stupid. And it was mean. And I'm sorry."

The absolute vulnerability in Sohyun's confession hung in the air, raw and undeniable.

Xinyu swallowed hard, her throat thick with emotion. Seeing her friend break down her walls gave her the final push she needed to shatter her own.

"She's right," Xinyu said, her voice unusually soft, stripped entirely of its commanding edge. She looked at you, her sharp eyes swimming with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, too. For everything. For bumping into you in the halls, for insulting your clothes, for being so impossibly demanding during our projects. I used my anger because I was too cowardly to use anything else."

Xinyu reached out, tentatively resting her hand on the edge of the table, just inches from yours. "I didn't hate you, Y/N. I have never hated you. I just… I didn't know how to handle the fact that I cared so much about what you thought of me. And seeing you with Rami today… seeing how easy it was for her to just sit next to you and make you smile… it made me realize how much time I've wasted being angry instead of just being honest."

You looked at the two women sitting across from you. The masks were gone. The hostility had completely evaporated. They were terrified, yes, but they were finally, beautifully honest.

You reached across the table, your large hand covering Xinyu's trembling fingers, while your other hand reached out to gently grasp Sohyun's hand where it rested near her glass.

They both gasped softly at the physical contact, their eyes snapping to yours.

"Thank you," you said, your voice a warm, comforting rumble that sent a wave of profound relief crashing over them both. "It takes a lot of courage to say that. I accept your apologies. Both of them."

Sohyun let out a wet, breathless laugh, squeezing your fingers tightly. "You're not mad? You're not going to tell us to leave?"

"I invited you to lunch, didn't I?" you smiled, your thumbs gently rubbing against their knuckles. "I don't hold grudges. I just wanted us to finally be able to sit at a table together without someone threatening to confiscate my highlighters or rewrite my flowcharts."

Xinyu let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, wiping at her eyes with her free hand. "I can't promise I won't still critique your flowcharts. They really can be quite messy."

"I'll take the constructive criticism over the yelling any day," you replied smoothly.

Rami, who had been sitting quietly watching the entire exchange, finally let out a loud, dramatic sigh, picking up her chopsticks again.

"Well, thank God that's over," Rami muttered, though there was a distinct, approving smile playing on her lips. "I thought I was going to have to physically shake the truth out of you two. Now that we've established that you aren't actually rabid stalkers and just emotionally stunted idiots, can we please eat? I'm starving."

The heavy, suffocating tension that had defined your relationship for years finally broke, shattering into a million pieces.

Sohyun and Xinyu didn't immediately confess their undying, romantic love. The fear of that final, ultimate rejection was still a small, lingering shadow in the back of their minds. But the massive, impenetrable wall of hostility was entirely gone.

As the waiter brought out the plates of fragrant, steaming food, the atmosphere at the table shifted into something completely new.

For the first time in your lives, you sat together not as a target and his tormentors, but as friends. Sohyun cautiously asked Rami about her life in Jakarta, genuinely engaging in the conversation without a hint of sarcasm. Xinyu, while still maintaining her confident posture, asked you a genuine question about your thesis, actively listening to your response without preparing an insult to tear it down.

You sat there, surrounded by the lively chatter, feeling a profound sense of peace settle over you.

It was just a meal. It was just an apology. But as you caught Xinyu's eye across the table, watching her offer you a small, completely genuine smile, and felt Sohyun 'accidentally' brush her knee against yours under the table without pulling away in panic, you knew everything had changed.

The morning after the burial arrives with sunlight. You hate it immediately. For five days the world had seemed willing to grieve alongside all of you. Rain had fallen against funeral home windows. Gray clouds had covered the city. The air had felt heavy enough to match the ache sitting inside your chest. But this morning the sky outside your apartment is painfully blue. Sunlight spills across the floorboards. Somewhere below your building, a delivery truck unloads crates. A child laughs while walking to school. The café across the street opens exactly at seven. The world has already resumed.

Mina has been buried for less than twenty-four hours. You stand in your kitchen holding a mug of coffee that has long gone cold. You barely slept. The wedding video still sits paused on your laptop from the night before, frozen on a frame of Mina laughing while Jungkook looks at her as if he has forgotten the rest of the room exists. You eventually closed the computer sometime before dawn. You could not keep looking at them.

The apartment feels hollow this morning. Even your own belongings appear unfamiliar. Your shoes by the door. The books stacked beside the couch. The blanket thrown across the armrest. Everything belongs to a woman who still lived in a world where Mina existed.

You shower quietly. You choose simple clothes. A cream sweater, blue jeans, comfortable shoes. Nothing black. You cannot wear mourning forever.

Before leaving, you stand by your front door for several moments with your hand resting on the knob. You do not understand why your heart feels nervous. You have been entering Jungkook’s house for almost four years. You celebrated birthdays there. Watched movies there. Held Hana for the first time inside that living room. You know where every light switch is. You know which cabinet contains the tea. You know where Mina keeps extra blankets. And yet this morning feels different.

The house you are about to enter is no longer the house you remember. Something vital has disappeared. The drive passes quietly. The city appears almost offensive in its normalcy. People stand in line for coffee. Office workers wait for buses. Mothers walk children toward school. You stop at a red light and suddenly remember the cemetery. Jungkook standing beside the grave. Hana sleeping against his shoulder. The sound of earth falling. You grip the steering wheel tighter.

By the time you reach the neighborhood, your chest hurts. Jungkook’s house stands exactly as it always has.

The white fence, the flower boxes Mina planted every spring, the small swing Hana loved, the ceramic welcome sign hanging beside the porch, nothing has moved.

Several funeral arrangements still stand near the entrance. White lilies have begun curling at the edges. Some petals have turned brown beneath the morning sun. The ribbons attached to them move gently in the wind. You suddenly hate flowers. They are beautiful at funerals. Afterward they simply become evidence that time continues.

You ring the bell. The front door opens. Jungkook stands there. Your heart sinks.

He has not slept. Anyone can see it. His hair is damp as though he showered during the night simply because he could not remain in bed any longer. He wears gray sweatpants and an old black shirt. His eyes are swollen. His face looks pale. For several seconds he simply stares at you. Almost as if he forgot you said you would come. “You really came.”

His voice sounds rough. You offer a small smile. “I told you I would.”

He steps aside. The silence inside the house nearly overwhelms you. The refrigerator hums softly. A clock ticks somewhere. Wind brushes against the windows. The house sounds exactly the same. Only one voice is missing.

The living room remains untouched after the funeral. Empty water bottles sit on the coffee table. Sympathy cards remain stacked beside framed photographs. White flowers surround Mina’s picture. You look away quickly.

Jungkook closes the door. “I made coffee.”

You follow him into the kitchen and immediately stop. Two mugs sit beside the sink, one black, one yellow. Mina’s mug. Tiny painted flowers decorate the ceramic. A faint pink lipstick mark remains along the edge.

Jungkook notices your eyes. He lowers his gaze. “She used it before she left.”

His voice almost disappears. “I can’t wash it yet.”

You do not answer, because you understand. Grief does not live inside cemeteries, it lives inside dishes, inside unfinished laundry, inside shoes beside the front door, inside coffee cups. Jungkook pours coffee into a mug. His hands shake slightly.

“Did Hana sleep?”

“Eventually.”

“And you?”

He gives a small laugh that contains no humor. “I don’t think so.”

The floor above creaks. Small footsteps. Hana appears at the top of the stairs holding her rabbit. Her hair is tangled from sleep. Her pajamas are wrinkled. Her eyes search the room immediately. When she sees you, her face brightens slightly.

“Y/N."

You smile. “Good morning.”

She walks downstairs. Her eyes move behind you. The question arrives. “Where’s Mommy?”

The room falls silent. Jungkook lowers his head. You kneel before her. Your hands touch her small shoulders. “Mommy loves you very much.”

Hana frowned, and your chest tightened. Children noticed patterns. They understood when adults avoided answering their questions, even if they couldn’t explain why. Without another word, she climbed into your lap, wrapped her little arms around you, and whispered, “I want Mommy.”

You held her close, your arms tightening around her small frame, but no words came. For the first time, you didn’t know what to say.

Breakfast becomes an hour-long negotiation. Hana refuses toast, refuses eggs, refuses fruit. Eventually she agrees to strawberries because Mina used to cut them into heart shapes.

Jungkook sat at the table, absentmindedly drinking coffee that had long since gone cold, his gaze fixed on a place far beyond the room. You watched him in silence. This wasn’t the Jungkook you had spent your life loving. The man before you looked exhausted, hollowed out, as though grief had stripped away every unnecessary part of him, leaving behind nothing but responsibility.

After breakfast, Hana falls asleep on the couch beside her stuffed rabbit. Jungkook finally stands.

“I should clean.”

“I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to.”

You look at him. “I want to.”

The laundry basket waited upstairs, and you carried it into the laundry room. Morning sunlight streamed through the small window above the washing machine, illuminating tiny specks of dust that drifted lazily through the air. Inside the basket were towels, Hana’s tiny clothes, pajamas… and Mina’s. You began folding everything with quiet care, a cream blouse, a blue cardigan, a tailored business jacket. Then your hands stilled. Something caught your attention.

A scent lingered, faint, almost gone. You lifted the jacket slightly and inhaled. Men’s cologne. You frowned. The explanation came almost immediately. Jungkook, of course. Married couples shared closets. They embraced in passing. Scents clung to fabric without anyone noticing. It was nothing.

But something feels strange. You have known Jungkook for fifteen years. You know his cologne. He has worn the same one since college. You carry the folded clothes downstairs. Jungkook stands near the kitchen counter. His cologne bottle rests beside his keys. Without thinking, you pick it up. You spray a small amount onto your wrist. The scent fills the air.

Clean. Fresh. Cedar. Citrus. Familiar.

The jacket smells different.

Warmer. Heavier. Older somehow.

Your eyes move toward the folded clothing. Perhaps it belonged to a coworker. Perhaps she borrowed someone’s coat. Perhaps it came from an airport.

Your mind offers explanations. Your chest remains uneasy.

Jungkook notices. “What is it?”

You look up. The morning light falls across his face. He looks exhausted. A man who buried his wife yesterday. A father who has not slept.

You fold the jacket carefully. “Nothing.”

He watches you another moment, then nods.

Nothing. You tell yourself the same thing. Nothing.

The afternoon settles quietly around the house.

Hana sleeps. The television plays cartoons nobody watches. Jungkook sits at the dining table staring into a cup of coffee. The clock continues ticking.

Outside, wind moves through the trees. Inside, the house waits for someone who is never coming home.

Eventually he speaks. “I don’t know what to do.”

You look at him. His eyes remain lowered. “Everyone left.”

His fingers trace the edge of his cup. “I thought after the funeral things would make sense.”

You wait.

“But the house is still empty.”

The honesty in his voice hurts. You look toward the living room. Toward Hana sleeping peacefully. Toward Mina’s photograph.

“It’s going to stay empty for a while.”

His eyes become red. “Hana keeps asking.”

You nod. “She’ll keep asking.”

He laughs softly. “I don’t know how to answer.”

“You don’t have to answer perfectly.”

He looks at you. “What if I do everything wrong?”

You think about the cemetery. His speech. The way he held his daughter. The way he worried about her before himself. “You won’t.”

He remains quiet. Then he says something so softly you almost miss it. “I missed having you here.”

The words lingered in the space between you, carrying the weight of years, distance, marriage, work, and everything life had placed between the two of you.

You look toward the window. “I never really left.”

His eyes lower. “No.”

His voice is quiet. “You didn’t.”

Outside, evening slowly approaches. Inside the laundry room upstairs, Mina’s folded jacket waits among ordinary clothes. And somewhere within the fabric remains a scent that does not belong to her husband.

You tell yourself it means nothing. You tell yourself grief makes people notice strange things. You tell yourself to forget. But as sunlight slowly disappears from the house and shadows begin filling the corners of the room, you realize that one small question has already taken root inside your mind. And questions, once they begin growing, rarely stay small for very long.

By evening, the house had become tired. The dishes had been washed. The laundry sat folded in neat piles. Hana’s toys had returned to their basket. The funeral flowers near the entrance had begun bowing beneath their own weight, their petals slowly losing the brightness they carried only yesterday. The house no longer looked like the place where people had gathered to mourn. It looked like a home trying to survive.

You stood in the kitchen stirring soup while the soft sound of boiling water filled the quiet room. Outside, the neighborhood settled into evening. Porch lights flickered on one by one. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. The smell of rice and garlic slowly spread through the house.

Jungkook sat at the dining table. Most of the day had passed with him sitting exactly there. Sometimes he watched Hana. Sometimes he stared out the window. Sometimes he simply sat with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long since turned cold. Grief had not made him cry all day. It had simply made him disappear a little.

Hana sat beside him coloring on scrap paper with three broken crayons. Every few minutes she looked toward the front door. Every single time. As though she expected somebody to walk inside. As though mothers always came home.

Dinner happened quietly. Hana refused vegetables. She pushed away her rice. She asked for strawberries. You cut them into small pieces while Jungkook watched his daughter with tired eyes. Suddenly Hana looked toward the hallway. “Mommy eat?”

The spoon stopped in Jungkook’s hand. You looked down. “Mommy isn’t home tonight, sweetheart.”

The little girl frowned. “Work?”

Jungkook lowered his eyes. His voice sounded gentle. “Mommy is resting.”

Hana seemed to think about that. Then she nodded. Two-year-olds often accept answers adults wish they could believe themselves.

Later, after dishes were finished and the sky outside had turned completely dark, Hana climbed onto the couch carrying her rabbit. She rubbed her eyes.“Daddy.”

Jungkook looked up. “What is it, baby?”

She held her rabbit tightly. “Mommy story.”

The room became quiet. Jungkook looked at you. You looked at him. The lamp beside the couch cast warm light across the room while darkness gathered against the windows. Hana patted the empty space beside her. “Story.”

You sat first. Jungkook sat beside you. Hana climbed between both of you. The little girl leaned against your shoulder while holding her rabbit.

You realized something then. She was not asking about death. She was asking for her mother. And perhaps those things were different.

You smiled softly. “Once upon a time there was a girl named Mommy.”

Hana looked up. “Mommy.”

“Yes. When Mommy was little, she had a yellow raincoat.”

Hana listened carefully. “And Mommy loved ducks.”

“Ducks?”

You nodded. “Very much. Every time she saw ducks, she talked to them.”

Jungkook smiled faintly. Because it was true. Mina had always loved ducks. You continued. “One day Mommy saw a duck at the park and gave the duck her crackers.”

Hana giggled. “Duck eat crackers.”

“Yes.”

“And Mommy laughed.”

Hana looked satisfied. “Again.”

Jungkook spoke next. “When Mommy was pregnant with you, she wanted strawberries every day.”

Hana’s eyes widened. “Strawberries?”

“Every day.”

You smiled. “Your daddy had to buy them.”

Jungkook looked down. “Even during winter.”

Hana laughed. “Mommy silly.”

“Very silly.”

The stories became smaller after that. The kind of memories a child could understand. How Mommy danced while cooking. How Mommy sang the wrong words to songs. How Mommy always put too much syrup on pancakes. How Mommy cried during cartoons. How Mommy loved yellow flowers. How Mommy called Hana her little bunny.

Sometimes Hana laughed. Sometimes she repeated the words. Sometimes she simply listened. At one point she looked toward the ceiling. “Mommy hear?”

Jungkook became very still. You could see him trying to answer. Trying to find words that a father could give his daughter. His hand moved gently through Hana’s hair. “I think Mommy likes hearing stories.”

Hana nodded. Children ask the hardest questions. And somehow accept the smallest answers.

The little girl eventually became sleepy. Her eyes closed and opened. Closed and opened. She leaned against her father.

“Daddy.”

“Yes?”

“Mommy hug?”

Jungkook kissed her forehead. “Mommy loved hugging you.”

She touched her rabbit. “Bunny too.”

“Very much.”

Ten minutes later she had fallen asleep against his chest. Jungkook remained still. As though moving would somehow break the moment.

You watched him. The lamp illuminated one side of his face. The exhaustion. The sadness. The father trying desperately to protect his daughter from something he could not protect himself from.

Eventually he carried her upstairs. The house became quiet again. You stood in the laundry room folding the final load of clothing while the washing machine clicked softly beside you.

Jungkook came in a few minutes later, his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, exhaustion still lingering in his eyes. He reached for the stack of freshly folded clothes without a word. Neither of you spoke. The silence between you felt strangely familiar, older than grief itself. It was the quiet shared by two people who had long ago learned they didn’t need to fill every moment with words.

Then his hand paused on the cream business jacket, the one you had noticed earlier. He held it for a few long seconds, his brows slowly knitting together. “I don’t remember this.”

You looked up. “What?”

He turned the jacket slightly. “I’ve never seen her wear this.”

You tried to sound casual. “Maybe for work?”

“Maybe.”

There was uncertainty in his voice. He studied the label, his fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve before lifting the jacket for a closer look. A faint crease formed between his brows, and something in his expression shifted. “That’s strange.”

Your stomach tightened. “What is?”

He looked down. “It doesn’t smell like her.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. The dryer hummed softly in the background while water rushed through the pipes, the ordinary sounds suddenly louder in the stillness.

Outside, the wind stirred gently through the trees. Jungkook lifted the jacket once more, inhaling quietly. A flicker of confusion crossed his face as his brows drew together. “I don’t know.”

He folded the jacket carefully. Placed it on the pile. Neither of you spoke about it afterward. Some questions arrive quietly. Too quietly to notice the damage they might eventually cause.

By ten o’clock the house was finally clean. The dishes had dried. The toys had been put away. The lights downstairs had been turned off. Only the kitchen remained illuminated.

You picked up your bag. Jungkook walked you toward the front door. The porch light cast soft shadows across the yard. The night felt cool.

You looked at him. “You should try sleeping.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll try.”

“Call me if Hana wakes up.”

He nodded.

“Call me if you need anything.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The silence between you felt ancient, worn smooth by years neither of you could ever get back. You remembered him at sixteen, at twenty, at twenty-five, every version of Jungkook somehow standing before you at once. And now there was this version: a grieving husband, an exhausted father, a man carrying more than anyone should have to bear.

You spoke softly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

He lowered his eyes. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

You looked toward the dark house. Toward Hana sleeping upstairs. Toward the empty bedroom. “Yes,” you said quietly. “I do.”

His eyes glistened, but he only gave a small nod. Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. The hug was brief, gentle, and over almost as soon as it began. Two people standing in the ruins of someone they both loved. When you stepped away, he said: “Drive safely.”

You walked toward your car. The porch light remained behind him. He stayed standing there until your headlights disappeared from the street. Only then did he go back inside.

Hours later, your apartment was quiet. Your laptop sat open on the table, its screen filled with unread emails, unfinished documents, and deadlines waiting patiently for your attention.

Your fingers moved across the keyboard, but your mind was somewhere else. The jacket. The unfamiliar scent. Jungkook insisting he had never seen it before. You told yourself it meant nothing, that you were overthinking it. You tried to let it go. You couldn’t.

Across the city, Jungkook climbed the stairs slowly. For the first time since Mina died, he entered their bedroom alone. The room remained exactly as she had left it. Her book sat beside the bed. Her hair tie rested on the nightstand. Her lotion remained beside the mirror.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the silence in the room pressing against him from every side. His eyes drifted to the evidence bag resting on the dresser. The police had returned Mina’s belongings earlier that afternoon, a wallet, her passport, keys, and phone. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch any of it. Until now.

He carefully took out the phone. The battery was dead. After a moment, he found the charger, plugged it in, and waited. For several long seconds, the screen remained dark.

He lay down beside the empty pillow. Outside, the wind moved through the trees. Downstairs, the clock continued ticking. Beside the bed, Mina’s phone slowly began charging. And somewhere across the city, while you stared at your laptop unable to focus, a question neither of you were ready to ask quietly waited for morning.

The house was quiet when Jungkook woke. For several moments he remained caught somewhere between sleep and grief, unable to remember where he was or why his chest felt so heavy. Rain had begun sometime after midnight. The soft sound of water against the windows filled the bedroom, blending with the distant hum of traffic beyond the neighborhood. The digital clock beside the bed read 2:34 a.m.

He had slept for perhaps an hour. Maybe less. The other side of the bed remained untouched. Mina’s pillow still carried the faint indentation of her head. Her favorite book rested beside the lamp, a bookmark tucked carefully between pages she would never finish. Her hand cream sat exactly where she had left it before leaving for what she called another business trip, another conference, another flight, another promise that she would return home on Friday.

A soft vibration broke the silence, and Jungkook sat upright, his heart leaping into his throat. For one impossible, terrible second, he thought it was Mina. The sound came again. Her phone, resting beside the lamp, glowed softly in the darkness before the screen lit up with nothing more than a promotional notification. It was insignificant, yet the simple sight of her phone coming to life unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain. Everything about death felt wrong. Her body had been buried. Her clothes still hung inside the closet. Her toothbrush remained beside his. And her phone continued receiving notifications as though she were merely asleep.

He picked up the phone and was met with a password screen. He entered Hana’s birthday. Incorrect. Their wedding anniversary. Incorrect. His birthday. Nothing. Mina’s birthday. Nothing. A frown settled on his face as he tried the day they started dating, the day he proposed, then the day Hana was born. Each attempt was rejected until the phone temporarily locked him out. Jungkook stared at the screen, unease settling deep in his chest. Three years together. A marriage. A child. A home. And yet, he didn’t know the password to his wife’s phone. The realization settled heavily inside him. He looked toward the empty pillow. Toward the darkness. And another date entered his mind.

Your birthday. He did not understand why. Perhaps because Mina always remembered it. Perhaps because all of you celebrated together every year. Perhaps because grief reaches for familiar things.

His fingers hesitated before entering the numbers. The phone unlocked. Jungkook went completely still as the home screen appeared before him. Your birthday. He stared at the screen, a strange feeling settling deep inside him. Something about it didn’t sit right, though he couldn’t explain why. But he was too exhausted to linger on the thought.

Notifications flooded the screen, work emails, missed calls, promotional alerts, and unread messages. He opened the message list, his eyes scanning absentmindedly until they stopped near the top. One name caught his attention.

Mr. Yun.

He knew that name. He had known it for years. Mr. Yun was Mina’s supervisor, the one who approved business trips, organized overseas meetings, scheduled conferences, and so often required her to work late. Jungkook had heard the name countless times. Sometimes jokingly. Sometimes with irritation. He remembered saying once: “Your boss works you too much.”

Mina had laughed. “He works everyone too much.”

Mr. Yun.

The man Jungkook had always believed was nothing more than a senior executive. He opened the conversation. At first, everything seemed ordinary, flight details, hotel confirmations, meeting schedules, conference locations. Then his eyes caught on a single message.

Room 1812.

I’ll check in first. You can come up later.

His fingers became cold. He continued reading.

I told Jungkook the meeting was extended.

My wife thinks I’m staying in Busan.

I miss you already.

Only three more days.

He stared at the words, then slowly began to scroll. His eyes moved upward through months of conversations, then an entire year, then another. Two years. Two years of messages. Two years of lies. Hotel reservations. Private photographs. Flight itineraries. Restaurant bookings. Weekend trips. Different cities. Messages sent long after midnight. Others exchanged before sunrise. Jungkook read each one in stunned silence, as though he were trying to understand a language he had never known. One message made him stop completely.

You know he still thinks you’re my boss.

A laughing emoji followed. Mr. Yun replied:

And my wife still thinks you work with me.

Jungkook’s breathing grew unnaturally slow as his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. There was no boss. Mr. Yun had never been Mina’s supervisor. The truth revealed itself in old conversations, in forgotten details, in explanations he had never thought to question. Mina had built the story years ago. Jungkook lowered the phone. The rain outside seemed louder. His entire body felt numb. Memories began arriving.

Mina apologizing for another delayed flight. Mina missing anniversaries. Mina leaving before sunrise. Mina returning exhausted. Mina answering work calls during dinner. Mina crying because she had to leave Hana. He remembered comforting her. He remembered telling her to quit. He remembered saying: “We’ll manage somehow.”

She had smiled. “It’s only temporary.”

Two years. Temporary had lasted two years.

He opened another photograph. Mina sat across from Mr. Yun in a restaurant. She smiled. The same smile she wore in family photographs. The same smile from their wedding. The same smile resting now inside the frame downstairs.

His eyes burned. He stood and walked downstairs. The house was dark. Hana’s rabbit rested on the couch. One tiny sock lay beside the stairs. The blanket you used earlier remained folded neatly. Pieces of ordinary life surrounded him.

He sat on the living room floor. Exactly where he sat the night Namjoon called. The same place. The same silence. Only now grief had changed shape.

He looked toward Mina’s photograph. White funeral flowers surrounded the frame. The woman smiling there had died six days ago. The woman inside the phone had died only tonight. He whispered into the darkness. “Who were you?”

No answer came. The only two people who could answer him were buried. Mr. Yun. Mina. Both gone. Both silent. Both had carried their secrets with them into the grave.

Upstairs, Hana slept peacefully. The little girl who had spent the evening asking for stories about her mother. The daughter who believed her mother was still resting somewhere.

Jungkook covered his face, and for the first time since the funeral, he cried without restraint. Not for the woman he had lost, but for the marriage he had believed in. He mourned every airport goodbye, every business trip, every anniversary postponed, every apology he had accepted without question, and every lie he had trusted as the truth.

Across the city, you sat alone at your dining table. Your laptop remained open. The cursor blinked against an unfinished document. Your thoughts continued returning to the cream-colored jacket. The unfamiliar scent. You eventually closed the laptop. Rain fell quietly outside your window. You had no idea that only a few miles away the man you had loved since middle school sat alone on his living room floor. And while the city slept, Jungkook buried his wife for the second time.

The phone call came at 5:42 in the morning. You had not slept much. The rain had continued long after midnight, tapping against your windows while your laptop remained open on the dining table. You had attempted to work. You had answered emails. You had written half a paragraph before deleting every word.

Your thoughts kept returning to Jungkook’s house. The dying flowers. Hana asking for her mother. The unfamiliar scent lingering inside the cream-colored jacket. Jungkook standing beneath the porch light after you left.

When your phone rang, the sky outside remained dark blue. You sat upright immediately.

Jungkook. Your stomach dropped.

You answered almost instantly. “Jungkook?”

For several seconds, there was only silence. The silence of someone trying to remember how to speak.

Rainwater dripped somewhere in the background. You heard him breathe. Once. Twice. Then very quietly he said your name.

You sat on the edge of your bed. “What happened?”

His voice sounded unfamiliar. As though every emotion had been removed during the night. “Can you come over?”

You stood before he finished speaking. “Is Hana okay?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Did something happen?”

Another silence. When he finally spoke, his voice almost disappeared. “Please come.”

The call ended. The city had not fully awakened yet. Streetlights still glowed against wet roads. Convenience stores remained open. Delivery trucks moved through empty streets while the sky slowly turned pale above the buildings.

You drove with both hands gripping the steering wheel. Your thoughts raced.

Was Hana sick? Had Jungkook broken down? Had the police called?

The neighborhood appeared exactly the same. The same houses. The same trees. The same quiet streets. Only now every familiar place felt altered. The funeral flowers outside the entrance had already begun to wilt.

You knocked, and the door opened almost immediately. Jungkook stood on the other side, and your heart sank. His eyes were swollen, his hair was uncombed, and he was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, as though he hadn’t slept, or even noticed the passage of time.

You stepped inside. “Jungkook?”

He closed the door quietly behind you. The house felt different. There was no television playing, no coffee brewing in the kitchen, no ordinary sounds to soften the stillness. Only silence, the kind that settles in the wake of a disaster.

Mina’s phone rested on the dining table, still connected to its charging cable. Beside it lay several printed screenshots and a glass of water that had gone untouched. Jungkook stood across from you. For several moments neither of you spoke. Then he said: “The person driving the car wasn’t an Uber driver.”

You frowned. “The police said—”

“He wasn’t a coworker either.”

The room suddenly felt colder. You looked at him, but his gaze remained fixed somewhere near the table, not on you, not on the phone, but somewhere in between, as though the truth had become too heavy to look at directly. His voice cracked slightly. “Mina was having an affair.”

The words hung heavily between you. The refrigerator hummed quietly in the background. A car passed outside. Somewhere upstairs, Hana shifted in her sleep. You opened your mouth, but your mind refused to accept what you had just heard.

“No.”

At last, he looked at you, and the expression on his face made your heart lurch. There was no anger. No rage. Only quiet devastation, as though something inside him had finally broken beyond repair.

“I thought he was her boss.”

He sat down slowly. “You remember Mr. Yun?”

Of course you remembered. Everyone did. For years, Mina had spoken about him, the demanding supervisor who always needed her to work late, the reason for countless business trips, endless meetings that stretched into the evening, postponed anniversaries, and family vacations that were constantly rescheduled. You had heard the name for years. Jungkook laughed softly. The sound almost broke your heart. “He wasn’t her boss.”

His hands trembled. “He was married.”

He swallowed. “He has children.”

Your chest tightened. “No.”

“They were together for two years.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Outside, dawn slowly crept through the kitchen windows, washing the floor in soft gray light. Somewhere nearby, birds began to sing as the city stirred awake. The world kept moving, indifferent to the devastation inside the house. Your gaze drifted to the phone. Jungkook noticed. He reached for it, his fingers hovering for a brief moment before he quietly unlocked the screen.

“I kept thinking there was some mistake.”

His voice became quieter. “I thought maybe I misunderstood.”

He opened the conversation, and the moment your eyes fell on the screen, you wished they hadn’t. Hotel reservations. Flight itineraries. Messages. Photographs. Different cities. Private jokes. Plans made together. The evidence was painfully ordinary, and somehow, that made it even worse.

Affairs in movies were always dramatic, passionate, reckless, chaotic. This wasn’t. It looked painfully ordinary. Two people talking about flights, dinner reservations, traffic, missing each other… and lying to the people waiting for them at home.

One message sat open.

I told Jungkook my conference was extended.

Another.

My wife thinks I’m still in Busan.

Another.

Only two more days.

I miss you.

You lowered your gaze, your throat tightening with every passing second. Neither of you spoke for a long while. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the silence, Jungkook asked,

“How do you bury someone twice?”

Your eyes filled with tears as you looked at him. He seemed so exhausted, so broken, so painfully small. You had spent half your life loving him. You had imagined him heartbroken before, imagined him rejected, imagined him sad. But you had never imagined this.

You sat across from him. Very softly you asked:

“When did you find out?”

“Around two.”

“You’ve been awake all night?”

He nodded. “I kept reading.”

His eyes became distant. “I thought if I kept reading eventually there would be an explanation.”

He laughed again, only this time tears appeared. “I kept thinking maybe there was something I missed.”

His voice shook. “Maybe they were just close.”

Another tear fell. “Maybe I was stupid.”

You reached for his hand, and he didn’t pull away. His skin was cold beneath your fingers. He lowered his gaze to your joined hands, and after a long silence, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

“I drove her to airports.”

The tears finally came. “I packed her luggage.”

His shoulders trembled. “I stayed home with Hana.”

His breathing became uneven. “And every time she left, I felt guilty because she looked tired.”

The grief inside the room changed. Until now both of you had been mourning Mina. Now you were mourning the version of her that existed inside your memories.

Memories came rushing back, her laughter, movie nights, birthdays, sleepovers, late-night study sessions. The girl who helped you write your first résumé. The girl who stayed beside you through your first heartbreak. The girl who knew every secret you had ever trusted her with. How could she be that person… and this one, too?

Your best friend. His wife. The woman who lived inside those messages.

You spoke carefully. “Jungkook.”

He looked at you. Your voice trembled.

“I don’t know what happened.”

Neither did he. You could see it in his eyes. Part of him still wanted to defend her, still wanted to understand, still wanted her to walk into the kitchen and explain everything. Grief was cruel like that. Sometimes, even betrayal wasn’t enough to make love disappear overnight.

He lowered his eyes. “I still love her.”

Your heart broke, because that was the truth neither of you could escape. He still loved her. Even now. Even after this. Even after two years of lies.

Upstairs, small footsteps suddenly sounded. Both of you looked toward the stairs. Hana appeared wearing pink pajamas. Her hair was messy. She rubbed her eyes. “Daddy?”

Jungkook immediately stood. The phone stayed on the table, the messages still open, the truth still exposed. Yet none of it mattered in that moment, because his daughter needed him.

He knelt. Hana walked into his arms. She touched his cheek. “Daddy crying?”

Jungkook kissed her forehead. “No, baby.”

She looked around. Her eyes found you. She smiled sleepily. “Y/N.”

You smiled through tears. She wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. “Breakfast?”

Jungkook closed his eyes for only a moment before pulling her closer into his arms. Perhaps this was the only truth he had left, the little girl clinging to him, the daughter he loved more than anything, the child who still believed her mother would come home. A few feet away, Mina’s phone remained illuminated on the dining table, its screen still glowing like a wound neither of you yet knew how to touch.

“I don’t know who I’m grieving now.”

His voice sounded worn thin. You looked at him. He continued quietly. “I keep looking at her pictures and I still see my wife.”

His eyes remained fixed on the table. “Then I read those messages and suddenly I don’t know who she was.”

He swallowed. “I don’t know which one is real.”

Your throat hurt. Because the answer was cruel. The woman who packed Hana’s lunches. The woman who kissed Jungkook goodbye before work. The woman who cried after difficult flights. The woman who spent two years lying. People were rarely one thing. Sometimes they carried entire lives inside them that nobody else ever saw.

Jungkook finally looked at you. “They should know.”

You understood immediately, the others. Namjoon, Seokjin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin. The six people who had spent almost two decades loving Mina like family.

You hesitated. “Jungkook…”

He interrupted softly. “They carried her coffin.”

His eyes became red again. “They cried for her.”

He looked toward the staircase where Hana slept “They deserve the truth.”

The messages were sent shortly afterward. Nobody asked questions. Perhaps everyone had become accustomed to emergencies.

Namjoon arrived first, his expression shifting the moment he saw Jungkook. Hoseok came in next, followed by Jimin, then Taehyung. Seokjin followed after, and Yoongi arrived last, still carrying food no one would end up touching. Slowly, the house filled with familiar voices and familiar footsteps.

The same people who had once crowded school libraries, graduation ceremonies, birthdays, and wedding receptions. The same people who sat together during Mina’s wake only days earlier. Only now something felt different. The walls seemed smaller. The silence heavier.

Nobody noticed the phone. Namjoon asked if Jungkook had eaten. Hoseok checked on Hana. Jimin made coffee. Taehyung sat quietly beside the window. Seokjin stood near the kitchen speaking softly with you. Yoongi watched everyone.

Eventually Hana fell asleep upstairs. The television went silent. The house settled. And Jungkook finally spoke. “Can everyone sit down?”

Something in his voice immediately shifted the room. People exchanged glances, but no one argued. One by one, they sat down. The phone remained on the table. Jungkook stood beside it, his hands trembling faintly. You had never seen him look this exhausted, like a man who had aged years in a single night.

For several seconds, he said nothing. His gaze moved slowly across every face in the room, his family, his brothers, the people who had grown up beside him.

“The man in the accident wasn’t Mina’s coworker.”

Confusion appeared immediately. Hoseok frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Jungkook looked down. “He wasn’t her boss.”

Namjoon sat forward. “What are you saying?”

Jungkook’s voice nearly disappeared. “Mina was having an affair.”

The house became quiet after the truth was spoken. No one moved. The phone remained in the center of the coffee table, its dark screen reflecting the faces surrounding it. Eight people sat inside the same living room where birthdays had been celebrated, where movie nights had stretched until dawn, where Mina had once fallen asleep against Jungkook’s shoulder while everyone argued over which takeout restaurant to order from.

The room still held traces of her. The entire house still believed she lived there. Only the people inside it had begun to understand that perhaps they never fully knew her.

Jungkook remained standing. His face looked pale beneath the afternoon light. The exhaustion from the previous night had settled deeply into him. His eyes were swollen. His voice sounded worn thin.

“Mina was having an affair.”

Nobody answered. The question seemed impossible inside this house, inside this family.

Jimin stared down at his hands. Taehyung looked toward the floor. Hoseok sat motionless beside the couch. Namjoon removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Yoongi remained silent. And Seokjin slowly stood. “No.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. Jungkook looked at him. “The messages are there.”

“No.”

Seokjin repeated the word more firmly. The room immediately became uncomfortable. You felt your heartbeat quicken.

Jungkook reached toward the phone. “I saw everything.”

“And you haven’t slept.”

Seokjin’s voice finally rose. “You buried your wife three days ago.”

Jungkook stared at him. “You think I want this?”

Seokjin looked at the phone. “I think you’re grieving.”

“I am grieving.”

“No, Jungkook.”

Seokjin’s eyes had become red. “I mean grieving.”

He pointed toward the table. “You found messages from a dead woman who can’t explain anything.”

The words landed heavily. Because they were true. Mina could not speak. She could not defend herself. She could not answer questions. She could not tell anyone whether the messages represented two years of her life or only the worst parts of it.

Seokjin continued. “You found conversations.”

Jungkook’s hands trembled. “I found hotel reservations.”

“You found private messages.”

“I found lies.”

Seokjin stepped closer. “You found one side.”

Jungkook laughed quietly, a painful sound. “One side?”

His voice shook. “My wife spent two years sleeping with another man.”

“We don’t know that.”

Jungkook stared at him, his eyes widened. The room became even quieter. “We don’t know that?” he repeated.

Seokjin’s voice softened. “We don’t know everything.”

Jungkook pointed toward the phone. “Read it.”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

The word echoed sharply.

Seokjin’s tears finally appeared.

“I am not reading the phone of my dead friend.”

Nobody moved.

Because suddenly this was no longer about the affair.

This was about grief.

Two different kinds of grief.

Seokjin looked at Jungkook.

“I carried her coffin.”

His voice cracked.

“I stood beside her mother.”

His breathing became uneven.

“I watched Hana asking for her.”

His eyes filled completely.

“And now, three days later, we’re sitting here discussing whether she was a liar?”

Jungkook finally exploded.

“Because she was.”

The entire room froze.

Even Jungkook seemed startled by his own voice.

His breathing became heavy.

His eyes filled.

“I didn’t make these messages.”

He grabbed the phone.

His hands shook violently.

“I didn’t write these.”

His voice broke.

“I didn’t book these hotels.”

Tears finally spilled.

Jungkook looked at every person inside the room.

His family.

His brothers.

The people who loved him.

The people who loved Mina.

And suddenly he realized he was standing alone.

His voice became smaller.

“I’m the one she lied to.”

No one spoke.

“I waited for her.”

He swallowed.

“I packed her luggage.”

His eyes became red.

“I stayed home with Hana.”

He looked at Seokjin.

“I believed every single thing she told me.”

The silence hurt.

Because his pain had become visible.

Raw.

Open.

He looked around the room.

“You all lost your friend.”

His voice shook.

“I lost my wife.”

Nobody moved.

“You buried Mina.”

Another tear fell.

“I buried my entire life.”

The room became still.

Seokjin lowered his eyes.

But he wasn’t finished.

His voice sounded quieter now.

“You think I don’t understand?”

Jungkook looked at him.

Seokjin’s tears continued falling.

“I loved her too.”

He laughed softly.

The sound was heartbreaking.

“She called me when she fought with you.”

Jungkook became still.

“She called me when Hana was born because she was scared.”

His breathing became uneven.

His eyes filled.

“I watched her become a mother.”

He looked directly at Jungkook.

“So forgive me if I need more than three days to believe she’s capable of this.”

Nobody spoke.

Because Seokjin’s pain was real.

His grief was real.

His love for Mina was real.

And Jungkook’s pain was equally real.

Two people grieving the same woman.

Two completely different funerals.

Jungkook lowered himself into the chair.

Suddenly exhausted.

His voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I wish you were right.”

Seokjin’s face changed.

Jungkook stared at the floor.

“I wish all of you were right.”

His tears fell quietly now.

“I wish I was crazy.”

The room blurred.

You covered your mouth.

Because for the first time since the accident, Jungkook looked small.

Not a husband.

Not a father.

Not the boy who protected everyone.

Just a man who wanted someone to tell him his life had not been a lie.

“I spent all night trying to prove myself wrong.”

Nobody moved.

“I kept reading because I thought eventually I’d find a mistake.”

His voice trembled.

“I wanted one of the messages to say it wasn’t real.”

He looked at the phone.

“It never happened.”

Seokjin wiped his face.

His anger had disappeared.

Only sadness remained.

The house became quiet.

The clock ticked.

Footsteps upstairs.

Hana turning in her sleep.

Life continuing.

And suddenly you began crying.

Years of friendship suddenly stood before you.

The nine of you promising to remain together forever.

And now one person was buried.

One person was broken.

One person was being defended.

One person was being mourned.

And the family all of you built was beginning to split apart.

Yoongi quietly moved beside you.

Your shoulders shook.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”

Your voice cracked.

“How do we miss her and hate this?”

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

Seokjin finally walked toward the door.

He stopped.

His hand rested against the handle.

Without turning around he said:

“I can’t do this today.”

His voice broke.

“I can’t lose her twice.”

Then he left.

The front door closed.

And everyone felt it.

Because for the first time in fifteen years, one of the nine had walked away.

The room remained silent.

Jungkook stared at the closed door.

His eyes empty.

His voice barely audible.

“I think I lost everyone.”

And sitting only a few feet away, you realized that grief had finally done what time, distance, adulthood, and life never could.

It had broken the family Mina spent fifteen years building.

Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you for reading this chapter. This was one of the most emotionally heavy parts to write, and I really hope it made you feel everything the characters are going through. I would love to hear your thoughts, please leave a comment and let me know what you think. I read everything and appreciate your reactions so much!🥹

For those who want early access, Chapter 9 is already available on Ko-fi. Chapter 4 will be posted here on Tumblr on July 11.