#sunshine character

He had never seen a girl like her. The girls he knew were quiet, cautious, and intimidated by his presence. They would look at him with a mixture of fear and awe, whispering his name as he walked past.

But she—she didn't even seem to notice him. She was too busy living, too wrapped up in her own little world of happiness. And that, more than anything, drew him in. He wanted to be the one to make her laugh like that, to be the source of that blinding light. He wanted to possess that feeling, to bottle it up and have it all for himself.

He started small, a casual bump in the hallway, a shared class. He’d watch her from across the room, memorizing the way her brow would furrow in concentration, the way she’d chew on her lip when she was deep in thought.

He’d make sure they were always in the same place at the same time, orchestrating their meetings with the precision of a general. He’d ask her for a pencil, a piece of paper, anything to get her to talk to him.

And when she finally did, her voice was just as bright as her laugh. It was like music, a melody that he couldn’t get out of his head. He learned her name was Y/N, and the sound of it on his lips was a new kind of sweetness he hadn’t known existed.

The beginning was a fairytale, a dream come true for her. He was attentive, sweet, and possessive in a way that she initially found endearing. He would walk her home every day, his hand firmly holding hers, a silent claim on her. He would wait for her outside her classes, a small, possessive smile on his face as he saw her emerge. He'd bring her small gifts, her favorite snacks, or a single flower he'd picked on the way.

He made her feel safe, cherished, and loved. But the possessiveness, which once felt like a comforting blanket, began to tighten around her, a suffocating grip that she didn't even notice until it was too late.

The first time it happened was at a cafe. A guy, a friend from her art class named Junho, came up to their table to say hello. He was talking about a project they were working on, a large mural for the school. Y/N was laughing, her face lit up as she animatedly described the concept. Junho was smiling, his eyes sparkling with a similar artistic passion.

When he left, she turned back to Seongje, her smile still in place, but it faltered when she saw his face. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and stormy. "What was that?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"He's just a friend," she said, her voice small.

"Just a friend?" he scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "He was looking at you like you were his."

She didn't argue. She didn't know how. She just sat there, her bright smile gone, a cold dread settling in her stomach. He paid for their food in silence, his hand gripping her wrist so tightly as they left that it left a faint white mark. It was the first sign that the possessiveness wasn't just a part of his love, but a core part of his control.

After that, it became a pattern. A guy would say hello, a boy would try to flirt with her, and Seongje would be there, a dark shadow looming over them. She started to feel a prickle of anxiety every time a male friend approached her. The first time he got into a real fight, she was terrified. He had seen a guy from her class talking to her after school, a shy boy named Minwoo asking for help with a math problem.

Seongje didn't see a classmate asking for help; he saw a threat, a challenge to his ownership. He pulled her away, his grip on her arm so tight it felt like a brand. He cornered Minwoo, his voice a low growl, "Stay away from her. She's mine." Minwoo, startled and frightened, backed away. But Seongje wasn't done.

He followed him, and she heard the sickening sounds of a fight, the thud of a fist hitting flesh, the pained gasp of a boy. She ran, her heart pounding in her chest, tears streaming down her face. She felt sick, a nauseating mix of fear and guilt.

When she confronted him, his response was so calmly manipulative that she didn't know how to fight back. "I did it for you," he said, his voice soft, his eyes filled with a manufactured sincerity. "I can't stand it when other guys look at you. It makes me crazy. Don't you see? I love you." He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, and she felt the comforting warmth of his embrace, the familiar scent of his cologne. "I just want to protect you," he whispered, his lips against her hair.

And she, a girl who had always craved love and security, believed him. She believed that his violence was a manifestation of his love, that his possessiveness was a sign of his devotion. She convinced herself that the guilt she felt was her own fault, that if she had just been more careful, if she had just made it clearer that she was taken, then none of this would have happened.

She started to make excuses for him, for herself. He loves me so much he can't help it. The lie was a fragile shield, but it was all she had.

So she started to change. She stopped talking to her male friends. She'd pretend to be busy when they tried to approach her. She stopped laughing so loudly, her once bright and bubbly personality dimming under the constant pressure.

Her clothes, once a vibrant collection of colors and patterns, became a muted palette of grays and blacks. She started wearing oversized hoodies, hiding her form, making herself smaller, less noticeable.

She stopped meeting her friends after school, spending all her time with Seongje, a willing prisoner in his self-made cage. She became a reflection of him, a pale imitation of the girl she once was.

Her friends tried to talk to her, to reach her, to pull her back from the edge. "You're not yourself anymore, Y/N," one of them had said, her voice filled with concern. "He's changing you." But she would just shake her head, a blank expression on her face. "I'm happy," she’d say, a lie she told so often she almost believed it herself.

The final straw came a few weeks later. They were at a party, and she was sitting alone, watching the other people dance and laugh. She felt a phantom ache in her chest, a longing for a joy she no longer knew how to feel.

A guy, a kind-faced stranger, came up to her. "You look lonely," he said, his voice gentle. "Do you want to dance?" She shook her head, a small, polite smile on her face. "No, thank you." But Seongje saw it. He saw the interaction, the kind stranger, the brief flicker of a polite smile on her face. He didn't even bother with words this time. He just walked up to the guy, a dark storm in his eyes, and hit him.

A single, brutal punch that sent the guy sprawling to the floor, his nose gushing blood. The music stopped. A stunned silence fell over the room. Everyone was looking at them, at the blood, at the fear in her eyes, at the savage look on Seongje's face.

She didn't say a word. She just got up, her legs feeling like lead, and walked out of the party. He followed her, his voice a torrent of excuses and reassurances. "He deserved it," he said, his voice laced with venom. "He shouldn't have been talking to you." She didn't respond. She just kept walking, the sounds of the party fading behind her, a new, heavy silence settling in.

When they got back to his apartment, she didn't scream, she didn't cry, she didn't fight. She just sat on his couch, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on nothing.

Days turned into weeks, and the silence became a constant companion. She barely spoke, her voice a forgotten instrument. She would sit on the couch for hours, her expression blank, her eyes hollow. She had become a ghost in her own life, a shadow of the girl she once was.

The bright, bubbly girl who laughed like sunlight was gone, replaced by a dull, expressionless person who just existed. The world outside his apartment walls felt like a distant memory, a place she could no longer access. The vibrant colors of her old life had been washed out, leaving only a gray, muted existence.

He would try to talk to her, to get a reaction. "Hey," he'd say, his voice a little too loud in the quiet apartment. "Did you eat?" She wouldn't look at him. "Okay," she’d say, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. That was her new favorite word. "Okay." It was a word of acceptance, of surrender. A word that held no life, no passion, no hope. It was the sound of a spirit breaking.

One evening, he came home to find her sitting in the same spot, a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. The sun was setting, casting long, mournful shadows across the room.

He sat down next to her, his heart a heavy, cold lump in his chest. "I saw one of your friends today," he said, his voice soft, almost pleading. "She asked about you. I told her you were fine." She didn't react. She just sat there, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the darkening window.

"Are you even listening to me?" he asked, his voice rising, a flicker of his old anger returning.

"Okay," she said, her voice a monotone.

He felt a surge of frustration, a desperate need to break through the wall she had built around herself. He grabbed her shoulders, his grip tight. "Look at me!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the silent room. She finally turned her head, her eyes meeting his. But there was nothing there. No anger, no fear, no sadness. Just a vast, empty space.

He felt a chill run down his spine, a cold dread that was far more terrifying than any of the rage he had ever felt. He released her shoulders, his hands trembling. He had wanted her to be his, to be his and only his, but in his pursuit, he had not only taken her away from everyone else, he had taken her away from herself. He had broken her. He had stolen her light, her laughter, her joy. He had wanted her to be a doll, a possession he could keep and control, but he hadn't realized that dolls don't have souls.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen, his hands shaking as he poured himself a glass of water. He looked back at her, a silent, unmoving statue on the couch. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice a broken whisper. "Why won't you just talk to me?" She didn't answer. She didn't move. She just sat there, a silent testament to the wreckage he had created.

He had won. He had gotten rid of every single person who could have taken her from him. But in the end, he had lost her completely. He had her, all of her, but it was just a shell. The beautiful, vibrant girl he had fallen in love with was gone, replaced by a ghost who just said "okay." And the worst part? He knew, with a terrifying certainty, that he was the one who had killed her.

He had loved her so much that he had destroyed her. And now, he was alone with the pieces. The apartment, once filled with the imagined echoes of her laughter, was now a tomb, and he was the sole mourner at a funeral he had orchestrated himself.