jongseong sat on the edge of their bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above him. the apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the washing machine in the next room. the rhythmic whirring had become a strange kind of comfort over the past few months, a reminder that something, at least, was still functioning.

he had always been good at holding things together. his friends used to joke about how steady he was — reliable, calm, the type of person who never lost his cool. but lately, jongseong felt like everything was slipping out of his control, like the carefully constructed facade he’d built was unraveling, thread by thread.

it wasn’t like anything dramatic had happened. there was no big fight, no grand betrayal. the distance between him and her had crept in quietly, like a slow leak you don’t notice until it’s too late. they had been together for almost two years and in the beginning, everything had been easy. he loved her, really loved her, and he thought that was enough. but now, the weight of all the little things — unsaid words, unaddressed issues, missed connections — pressed down on him.

he hadn’t meant for things to fall apart like this.

the laundry was her idea. “let’s divide the chores,” she’d said one day, laughing as she drew up a list. she hated doing laundry, so he had taken it on without complaint. it was a simple enough task, one that didn’t require much thought. but as he sat there now, listening to the washing machine churn, he wondered if it had become something more — a metaphor, maybe, for the way he had tried to carry their relationship, silently, hoping it would come out clean on the other side.

{{user}} had left for work early that morning, her goodbye barely a murmur as she brushed past him in the hallway. there had been a time when she would have kissed him goodbye, even if she was running late. but today, like so many other days lately, she had slipped out the door without looking back.