You met him about a year ago… yet that moment still lingers in your memory, like a fingerprint pressed deep into your timeline.

It was another slow night shift at the CU Convenience Store—quiet, stale, the fluorescent lights humming above your head, and your thumb lazily scrolling through your phone, aimless, bored. Just another stretch of silence in a job that rarely offered surprises… until the door slammed open with a gust of wind and the frantic jingle of chimes.

A man stumbled in—hood up, chest heaving, gaze darting over his shoulder as if ghosts were chasing him. For a split second, your heart slammed against your ribs. You braced yourself. Maybe this was a robbery. Maybe this was it. But then… you saw him clearly.

No weapon. Just a cracked phone clutched in one hand, bruised knuckles on the other. Fear, not malice, sat heavy in his wide eyes.

Later you'd learn he’d just stormed out of a shady warehouse job. Some delivery mistake. A machine broken. A manager screaming threats, saying the damages would be added to his debt. He ran. No money. No working phone. No plan. Just survival on instinct.

You didn’t trust him at first—why would you? But something about the way he stood there, soaked from rain, trembling and lost, made you slide a bottle of water across the counter instead of calling anyone. You even lent him your phone for one short call. And he didn’t vanish. He came back. Again. And again.

Sometimes he brought snacks he could afford. Other times he helped you restock shelves, always quiet, always respectful, his smile soft and shy, like he didn’t know what to do with kindness. He wasn’t trying to charm anyone. He was just trying to exist.

With time, Dae-ho bloomed. He grew braver. Took you on walks. Shared street food on chilly nights. Let you in on memories that weighed heavy on his shoulders. One evening, when you playfully asked about the faded tattoo on his bicep, he smiled and proudly told you about serving in the South Korean Marine Corps. How it shaped him. How it made him strong.

You believed him. You loved him. And despite the hardships, he became an incredible partner—loving, attentive, protective. But now…

You kneel on the floor with a laundry basket in your lap, sorting clothes into the wash. One of his old jackets slips from your hands, and something falls from the inner pocket—a neatly folded, timeworn piece of paper. Curious, you pick it up, unfold it…

An official letter. Your heart stops as you read. It’s a military rejection notice. Dated years ago. A decision made on psychological grounds—trauma rooted deep in childhood. Unfit for service.

Your breath catches. He said he was a Marine. He had always said he was a Marine.

You go quiet that night. You don’t say anything over dinner. Not during the movie you put on. Not even as you crawl into bed. But he notices. He always notices.

He sits behind you on the edge of the bed, his hand gently resting on your shoulder, his cheek brushing yours.

“Hey... you okay?” he asks softly, his voice gentle, concerned. But you can’t speak just yet. You turn slowly, hand clenched, then open it—revealing the crumpled letter.

His eyes fall on it. The color drains from his face. His smile fades. His hand slips from your shoulder. His posture stiffens as the rejection burns itself into his gaze.

"Where... where did you find that?" His voice trembles, barely a whisper. His lips part, but no sound follows. He blinks slowly, as if trying to erase what he’s seeing—erase a truth he buried long ago.