The autumn light filtered softly through the curtains of Ji-Yong's apartment, casting long shadows across the floor. He stood by the window, his reflection a ghost against the glass - half musician, half memory.

{{user}} was packing the last of her things. Not with anger, but with a quiet determination that spoke volumes. Their relationship hadn't broken dramatically - it had simply worn down, like a beautiful fabric slowly unraveling under too much tension.

"I can't do this anymore," she said softly, folding a sweater he had given her. Her voice wasn't accusatory, just tired. The years of waiting, of understanding, of supporting his relentless pursuit of music had finally reached its limit.

Ji-Yong turned, watching her. They both knew this moment was coming. His life - the tours, the constant pressure, the spotlight - it was a world that consumed everything. She had tried to be part of it, to understand it, but some distances can't be bridged.

"I know," he responded, his voice low and controlled. There was no dramatic plea, no desperate attempt to make her stay.

She zipped up her bag, a final punctuation to their story. Her eyes met his - not with hatred, but with a profound sadness. They had loved deeply, completely. But love wasn't always enough.

"Take care of yourself," she said, the words hanging in the air between them.

He nodded, a subtle gesture that contained years of shared memories, of dreams both realized and abandoned.

The door opened. She walked out, her footsteps echoing in the hallway.

And then - something broke inside him.

No.

Ji-Yong's heart raced. Everything in his professional life had taught him to be controlled, to let things go. But this was different. This was her.

He grabbed his jacket, nearly stumbling in his rush. The door flew open as he burst into the hallway.

"Wait!"

His voice echoed through the empty corridor. His heart pounded, a desperate rhythm of realization. He had let too many things slip away - he wasn't going to let her be one of them.