The afternoon light had faded into the gray hush of early evening. In the quiet of her office, the city humming softly beyond the glass, Ha Yoon's legs gave way beneath her. She sank to the floor, her back pressed against the cold wood of the door. Her hands trembled as they clutched her chest, as if she could physically contain the storm inside her.
Tears spilled freely, slipping down her cheeks despite her efforts to stifle them. Her mouth was covered with her hand, muffling the sobs that threatened to escape, but the sound of her own heartbreak was deafening in the still room.
She had promised herself for years that his absence, the silence, the distance, would dull the ache. That his love, or what she had thought she understood of it, had faded into a quiet memory. But sitting there, knees bent, fingers pressed to lips, she realized the truth she had spent all these years denying: she still loved him. Every pulse of her heart, every ragged breath, whispered it.
And the cruelest part? She was the one who had been deceiving herself.
Outside, the city moved on, indifferent to her grief. The sunlight faded completely, leaving only the muted glow of office lamps and the soft, lonely thrum of her heartbeat.
Meanwhile, Seon-Woo, somewhere across the city, entered his apartment and let the door fall shut behind him. The familiar walls offered no comfort. The weight of the day, the choices, the silences he'd carried, all of it hit him at once.
He collapsed onto the floor, knees drawn up, forehead pressed against them, and let himself break.
He cried, not quiet, not polite, not the controlled kind that only trickled out. This was loud, raw, body-shaking grief. He cried for the years they had lost, for the distance he had maintained to protect them both, for the love he could no longer ignore.
For a long time, he did not even try to stop. The apartment was small, the sound of his own sobs echoing off the walls, but he did not care. The release was necessary, inevitable.
Back to 2020
The nursery room smelled faintly of fresh paint and baby powder. Ha Yoon's fingers traced the edge of the crib, lingering on the smooth wood, imagining tiny hands gripping it, imagining the soft weight of their unborn child. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the quiet hope, the tender panic of what their future might hold.
Later, back in her bedroom, she opened an old box tucked in the corner of her closet. Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunlight as her fingers brushed over its contents. And then, her hand froze.
There it was. The photograph. Seon-Woo. She hadn't thought of it in years, yet now, the image burned with the intensity of a memory that refused to fade. The edges of the photo pressed coldly into her palms. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to remember, the sound of his voice, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching, the quiet steadiness he carried like a shield around both of them.
She didn't notice him at first. Hae-Min had been standing by the door, silent, watching her with a soft, knowing expression. And then, with a calm step, he moved into the room behind her.
Startled, she spun slightly and quickly tucked the photograph back into the box, forcing a small, nervous smile.
"What are you doing?" Hae-Min's voice was gentle, teasing, but there was an edge to it, a quiet understanding that betrayed the shadow of his own emotions.
He stepped closer, placing his chin lightly on hers from behind, a careful attempt to mask the sadness in his own expression, as though pretending he hadn't seen the photograph could make the moment less fragile.
Ha Yoon laughed softly, a little too quickly, trying to cover the tight knot forming in her chest.
"Just… arranging some clothes," she lied.
Hae-Min didn't move immediately, his presence warm and steady behind her. The faint brush of his hands against her arms, the weight of him near, created a strange mixture of comfort and tension, like standing on the edge of something dangerous yet irresistible.
She closed her eyes briefly, leaning slightly into him without admitting it. She wanted to speak, to tell him everything she couldn't say aloud, the fear, the guilt, the ache that hadn't softened in the years she had spent thinking she could endure it alone.
Finally, Hae-Min whispered, voice low and soft:
"You don't have to hide it. Not from me."
Her breath hitched. The photograph, the memories, the unspoken love and longing, they all came rushing back, like water breaking through a dam.
"I… I didn't think it mattered anymore," she admitted, voice trembling.
He exhaled softly, resting his forehead briefly against hers. "It matters. Every piece of it matters."
For a long moment, they stayed like that, the past and present suspended in the small, quiet room. Outside, the world continued, unaware of the emotional storm contained within four walls. But inside, two hearts beat in careful synchrony, navigating grief, love, and longing all at once.
And somewhere, in the unspoken spaces between breaths, they both understood: some connections don't fade. Some memories refuse to die. And some love, no matter how long buried, waits quietly for the moment it can be felt again.