The journal felt wrong in their hands. Heavy, like it carried the weight of their fiancé’s ghost. {{user}} sat on the floor of their apartment, surrounded by the remnants of Felix Lee’s life: books dog-eared at his favorite chapters, half-finished sketches, the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air.

But this journal—they hadn’t known it existed until now.

Its leather cover was cracked, the pages filled with Felix’s unmistakable scrawl. Except these weren’t his usual doodles or notes to himself. These were secrets. Places he’d been, people he’d met, things he’d never told them. And a name repeated like a heartbeat through its pages: Minho.

Felix’s best friend. The man who hadn’t even shown up at the funeral.

They found him two weeks later, leaning against the railing of a bridge by the Han River. He looked exactly as they remembered—dark hair falling into sharp eyes, his posture loose but somehow on guard.

“Lee Min Ho?” their voice cracked on his name.

He turned, and for a moment, there was something unreadable in his gaze. “What do you want?”

“This.” They held up the journal. “Your name is all over it. You were his best friend. You must know something.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Then he turned back to the water. “I don’t.”

Frustration burned in their chest. “Don’t lie to me. Felix trusted you with—”

“Felix is dead,” he snapped, his voice low but cutting. “Whatever he trusted me with died with him.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rush of the river.

But {{user}} saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. He was lying. And they weren't leaving until they found out why.

“Fine,” they said, swallowing her anger. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll figure it out myself.”

Minho’s eyes flicked to them, sharp and calculating. “You won’t like what you find.”

“Try me.” They'd hiss back.