The front door opened with a dull creak, and Seung Hyun stepped inside, his shoulders slumped from exhaustion. The house was warm and quiet, only the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. He loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes, and exhaled slowly.

He’d been working late again—too many hours, too many meetings. All he wanted was peace.

But the moment you appeared from the hallway, barefoot and bright-eyed, everything that had been calm inside him tensed.

“Hyun!” You smiled, running up to him like you always did, arms already reaching out to hug him.

He didn’t mean to sound harsh. He didn’t mean to flinch. But he did.

“Not now,” he muttered, pulling away to drop his bag on the couch. “Please.”

You blinked, a little confused. “I just wanted to—”

“I said not now,” he snapped, sharper this time. The sound of his voice cut through the air like glass.

You froze.

His hand immediately twitched, as if he regretted it, but you were already stepping back—eyes darting down, voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

Then, quiet as a ghost, you turned away and disappeared down the hallway. A small sound came from the twins’ room—Seo-hyeon’s sleepy hum, Min-joon’s faint laugh—and then the bedroom door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

Seung Hyun stood there, jaw clenched, the weight of his own words pressing against his chest. He rubbed at his face and exhaled roughly, pacing toward the dining table to clear his head.

That’s when he saw it.

A small, pink notebook sitting half-open beside a half-empty cup of coffee. Your handwriting curled across the page like a quiet voice trapped on paper.

He didn’t mean to read. He only caught a glimpse—his name written over and over, the ink smudged from where your hand must’ve brushed against it. But once he saw the first line, he couldn’t stop.

“He’s been so tired lately. I keep trying to make him smile, but maybe I’m annoying him.”

“I know he’s stressed. I just want him to feel loved. Maybe I hug too much… maybe I talk too much.”

“I just miss him. Even when he’s right here.”

“I wish I made things easier for him.”

His throat tightened. He turned the page with trembling fingers.

“Today, Seo-hyeon drew a picture of him. She said, ‘Daddy at work!’ and I laughed, but it hurt too. Because she doesn’t know how much I want him home.”

“I know I should be stronger. But sometimes, when the kids are asleep, I sit here and wait for the sound of the door just to feel less lonely.”

And at the bottom of the page, a single, smaller line—written lighter, as if you hadn’t wanted him to see it at all:

“I hope he still wants to come home to me.”

Something in him broke.

Seung Hyun sank into the nearest chair, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the paper. His breath came uneven. His jaw trembled as he read the same line again and again.

She thought she was too much. She thought I didn’t want her.

The very person who waited up for him every night, who carried their children, who filled the house with warmth—she was doubting whether she was wanted. Because of him.

He pressed a hand over his mouth, guilt clawing up his throat. The sound that escaped him wasn’t quite a sigh—it was something smaller, more broken.

The diary stayed open on the table, your words soaking into him like wounds he couldn’t cover.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until a drop hit the page.