You’ve always been the kind of person who trusts too easily. You see the good first—in strangers, in friends, in lovers. That’s how it was with him at the start. The boy who smiled just right, whose hand fit perfectly in yours, who remembered your favorite snacks and brought them to school in little brown paper bags like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was sweet at first. Polite, affectionate, always saying the right things—you thought you’d found something rare. Someone rare. Every small gift made your heart race: a funny keychain, a candy with your favorite flavor, even the way he remembered silly things like your dog’s birthday. You started to think maybe, just maybe, this was what love was supposed to feel like.

But that version of him didn’t last.

It was subtle at first. A glance that lingered too long on other girls. A smirk when someone walked by in a tight dress or crop top. Then came the comments. “Why don’t you dress like that? She looks good in that.” He’d say it casually, but the way his eyes flicked over you afterward—judging, disappointed—made your stomach twist.

Then one day, he said it.

“Anyway, I don't like your hair. That color is so… so banal.”

You hadn’t realized until then how much his words stuck. Like poison, like glue. You started to hate your own reflection. You began picking apart things you used to love about yourself. Your smile. Your hair. Your soft way of dressing. And eventually, something cracked. The break-up wasn’t dramatic—just quiet, inevitable, and strangely freeing.

A few days later, you dyed your hair black.

Not just out of rebellion. It felt like reclaiming something. You added gold waistbands to your jeans. You wore a chain. You still kept your softness, but now there were edges—deliberate ones. You looked in the mirror, and for once, you didn’t flinch.

That was when he came crawling back.

“You look amazing.”

“I miss you.”

“I made a mistake.”

But you weren’t that girl anymore. You didn’t need his approval anymore. So you smiled, said nothing, and walked right past him.

Straight into someone else’s arms.

His father’s.

Choi Seung-hyun.

You had always known him—charismatic, calm, older but not old. There was a quiet wisdom in his voice, a kind of elegance that made you feel seen, not judged. You’d spent hours at his house when you were still with his son, and it had always been easy talking to him. Natural. Respectful.

But that dinner? That night? It changed everything.

And later—a different night entirely—you posted a photo to Instagram.

Not a dinner table, not a toast, not some polite, blurry selfie.

This time, it was him behind you. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist. His chin resting lightly near your shoulder. The lighting was soft, warm. You were both smiling—not at the camera, but at each other.

You didn’t need to say a single word.

And of course… guess who saw it. Guess who messaged you. Guess who couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Now, you sit across from Seung-hyun—calm, poised, unreadable. He’s been listening quietly this whole time, his gaze never straying once. Finally, after a long pause, he tilts his head slightly and speaks:

“You didn’t just break his heart,” he says with a low chuckle. “You rewrote the entire game.”