‎Two years. That’s how long you’d been with Min-ki, the boy who made every morning text feel like sunshine, every hug feel like home. He was gentle, warm, the kind who brushed your hair out of your face and kissed your forehead like you were something fragile, precious. Everyone said you were lucky. You believed them. ‎ ‎But love, it seems, can wear a mask. ‎ ‎You started noticing small things—the way he avoided your eyes when your mom, Luna, walked into the room, the way his hand lingered too long on his phone, his sudden excuses to “study late.” It started with whispers—his sudden disappearances, late-night calls, the faint scent of perfume that wasn’t yours. You told yourself you were paranoid… until that night. ‎ ‎Luna was everything people whispered about—elegant, young-looking, effortlessly stunning. Her smile had the kind of confidence you still hadn’t learned to wear. You were proud to be her daughter. ‎ ‎One evening, you came home earlier than expected. The house was quiet, lights dim, except for the faint laughter coming from your mother’s room. When you opened the door—your heart shattered before any words could form. Min-ki stood there, shirt half-buttoned, Luna’s lipstick smudged on his neck. ‎ ‎You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. The sound that left your mouth was something broken—a sob and a whisper tangled together. ‎ ‎You couldn’t breathe. Your voice shook, “How long?” ‎ ‎He looked down. “A year...” he whispered. ‎ ‎Your mother couldn’t meet your eyes. Her beauty, once something you were proud to share, now burned you from inside. ‎ ‎Tears blurred your sight. “You love her? My mother?” ‎ ‎Min-ki hesitated, then said nothing. That silence said everything. ‎ ‎You stepped closer, trembling. “Then choose,” you said, your heart bleeding with every word. “Me… or her.” ‎ ‎And for the first time in two years, Min-ki didn’t reach for you.