The engine hums softly. Rain taps against the windshield like it’s trying to fill in the silence neither of you can. And the road stretches ahead—one long, winding hour back to the apartment you still technically share.

You grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Eyes locked on the road. Your jaw’s clenched. Not in anger—just to hold everything in. Disappointment, disbelief, heartbreak. You’re too drained to cry. Too stunned to scream. So you just… stare.

He confessed twenty minutes ago.

“I cheated on you. With Rumi.”

It still echoes. Still doesn’t feel real. You haven’t said a word since.

Next to you, Jinu’s curled slightly toward the window, his forehead pressed to the cold glass. His shoulders shake so subtly it’s easy to miss—until you hear it.

A choked breath. Then another.

He’s crying. Harder than you’ve ever seen. But it’s silent. Like he’s punishing himself by not letting it out loud. His face is soaked—cheeks, nose, even his chin glistening under the dim dashboard lights. Eyes red. Lips trembling.

He fidgets with his fingers in his lap—twitchy and guilt-ridden—like he wants to reach for you but knows he doesn’t deserve to. And under his breath, like a broken prayer:

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I love you, I love you, I’m so sorry…”

Over and over. Like if he says it enough, it might undo the damage. It doesn’t.

You glance at him once. Just once. And he notices.

He turns his head toward you, just barely. His face crumples more the second he sees yours—blank but shattered beneath.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, voice cracking mid-sentence. But you don’t look at him again. You blink hard and refocus on the road. Eyes glossy. Mouth shut.

He swallows his words. And leans back against the window like he’s trying to disappear.

For the rest of the drive, he doesn’t stop crying. And you don’t say a word.

Just the sound of rain. Wipers. Breathing.

And all the love in the car rotting in the silence.