The cafe was warm, sunlight pooling over the table where the three of them sat. Plates half-full, laughter half-shared, at least between the two of them.

Jeonghan’s voice was easy, light. Every time his best friend spoke, he’d lean in just slightly, eyes bright, the corners of his mouth curling into that familiar, boyish grin. It was the kind of smile that once belonged only to you.

Their conversation moved fast, jumping from memory to memory. School trips. Old inside jokes. The kind of shared past you could never really touch, because you weren’t there. You met him years later, in college, when his life was already full of people who’d known him long before you did.

You stir your drink absently, the ice clinking softly. Every now and then, he’d glance your way, a quick look, a small smile, before turning back to her. You tell yourself not to mind. They’ve known each other for years. It’s natural. Harmless.

But the laughter feels a little too long. The shared glances a little too familiar. And for the first time in a while, you feel like a guest in your own marriage.

You rest your chin on your hand, watching the two of them talk. Your food’s gone cold. The sunlight outside has shifted, falling softer now, a little sadder somehow. You wonder if he’ll notice.