Living with Seungmin was easy—until it wasn’t.

It started with laundry. He left his wet clothes in the washer for hours. You waited, then finally pulled them out and started your own. He walked in.

“What the hell?” he said.

“You left them there forever.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“Or you could’ve remembered like an adult.”

The fight spiraled. Harsh words. Old resentments. He said, “Maybe I should’ve picked someone else to live with.”

That one stuck.

You didn’t talk for weeks after. The apartment felt colder. You ate at different times, avoided each other’s eyes, moved through the space like strangers. You told yourself it didn’t bother you. But it did.

One night, you're on the couch, hoodie pulled over your hands, watching some cooking show without really seeing it. You haven’t eaten. You’re too tired to care.

Seungmin walks in. Quiet. Hesitates.

Then: “You eaten?”

You nod. Lie.

He stares. You feel it—he knows.

Your throat tightens. You try to hold it in. But your eyes sting, and before you can stop it, you’re crying.

Not loudly. Just quiet, stupid tears sliding down your face like you’ve been waiting for this moment to crack.

He doesn’t speak. Just sets a takeout container on the table and sits beside you.

“You’re such an idiot,” he mutters.

“You’re a jerk,” you reply, voice small.

He exhales through his nose, something like a laugh.

Then he nudges the food toward you. “Eat before I make you.”

You do.

It’s not a full apology. But it’s something. And right now, that’s enough.