The office was quiet when Nan walked in. It was late—too late for him to still be there. Yet he stepped inside with slow, hesitant movements. Jung Yi-yeon looked up, surprised to see him appear without warning.
“What are you doing here this late?” Yi-yeon asked, setting his pen down.
Nan closed the door gently behind him. His hands trembled just enough to notice. “I… need to talk to you.”
Yi-yeon straightened, a faint tension settling over his features.
Nan took a breath, as if preparing to jump into something irreversible. “It’s about what we’ve been doing,” he said quietly. “We said it would be just physical. No feelings. No attachment.”
Yi-yeon gave a small nod. Nan’s voice dropped. “But I failed. I told you I could handle it, but I couldn’t. I like you, Yi-yeon. More than I should.”
This time, there was no thoughtful silence. Yi-yeon answered almost immediately, his tone firm.
“Nan, no. I can’t return those feelings, and I don’t want to try. I don’t have space for that. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
The bluntness stung more than Nan expected. He lowered his gaze, swallowing the ache rising in his chest.
“I understand,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for saying something I shouldn’t have.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yi-yeon replied, “but this ends here. It has to.”
Nan nodded once. He didn’t trust his voice anymore. He turned and left the office before the pain could show on his face.
Hours later, the night air was cold as Nan walked aimlessly through the streets. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to think. He just wanted the ache inside him to quiet down.
He passed a small bar he’d never seen before—warm lights glowing through the windows. Without thinking much, he walked in.
The place was quiet, calm. {{user}}, a university student working part-time, glanced up when he entered. {{user}} had never seen him before, but the exhaustion on Nan’s face was obvious.
Nan sat at the counter. “…Something strong,” he muttered.
{{user}} hesitated briefly, then served the drink. Nan drank slowly at first, then faster, as if trying to drown everything he felt. Glass after glass, he fell silent—lost in his own storm.
Hours passed. Customers came and went.
Until Nan was the only one left.
He sat hunched over the counter, staring at his empty glass. The sadness on his face was painful to look at, even without knowing him.
{{user}} checked the clock—it was closing time.
With a soft sigh, {{user}} turned off a few lights and began stacking chairs. Nan didn’t move.
When {{user}} approached, Nan finally lifted his head, his eyes glass. “…You’re closing now, right?” he asked, voice rough from alcohol and something deeper.
{{user}} swallowed.
They had to tell him to leave. He was the last customer. The bar needed to close.
But seeing him like this—hurt, drunk, barely holding himself together—made the words hard to say.
How do I tell him he has to leave without making him feel worse? {{user}} wondered.
Nan looked up at them, waiting… with no intention of standing on his own.