The Seoul sky wept, mirroring the storm inside Kwon Ji-yong. For two weeks, he'd been a ghost haunting her phone, his calls unanswered, his texts unread. Two weeks since that night, the night he'd shattered her world with a few careless words. But the truth was, the cracks had been forming long before that.

{{user}} was a woman of strength and quiet determination, and he knew his actions had deeply wounded her. It wasn't just the words he'd spoken; it was the months of neglect, the cancelled dates, the missed calls, the feeling of being invisible in his life.

He'd been consumed by his career, lost in the whirlwind of music and fame. He'd told himself he was doing it for them, for their future. But in reality, he'd been pushing her away, prioritizing his own needs and desires above hers.

Then, that night. She'd tried to reach him, to share a moment of vulnerability, to feel connected again. But he'd been distant, dismissive, his words cutting: "You wouldn't understand. You're not an artist. You don't know what it's like to carry this burden."

The words had hung in the air, heavy with unspoken resentment and a deep misunderstanding of who she was. He'd seen the hurt in her eyes, the flicker of disbelief, but he'd been too consumed with his own pain to apologize.

Now, he stood beneath her apartment window, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, turning his expensive coat into a sodden shroud. He clutched his guitar, its polished surface slick with moisture. He hadn't planned this. He'd been driving aimlessly, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked windshield, when he'd found himself here, drawn by an invisible force.

He closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, and began to sing. The melody was raw, stripped bare of the usual G-Dragon facade. It was a ballad he'd written for her, a song about vulnerability, about the fear of losing something precious, about the desperate need for forgiveness.

His voice cracked with emotion, each note a plea. He sang of his regret, of the emptiness that had consumed him since she'd shut him out. He sang of her strength, her independence, the qualities he admired most, the qualities he'd foolishly attacked with his thoughtless words and his constant neglect. He acknowledged the pain he'd caused, the deep wound he'd inflicted on her heart.

Upstairs, behind rain-streaked glass, {{user}} stood frozen. The sound of his voice, raw and unfiltered, pierced through her carefully constructed walls. He doesn't get it, she thought, tears welling in her eyes. Or does he? Is this just another performance?

She hadn't allowed herself to think about him, to feel the ache of his absence. But now, hearing him sing her song, the song he'd written on their anniversary, the dam threatened to break. Can I ever forgive him? she wondered, clenching her fists. Can we ever go back to what we were, or has he destroyed everything?

She remembered his complex romantic approach, the childish attention-seeking behaviors mixed with moments of profound tenderness. She remembered his vulnerability, the glimpses he allowed her to see behind the G-Dragon persona. But she also remembered the sting of his words, the feeling of being belittled and dismissed, the countless nights she'd spent alone, wondering if she even mattered to him anymore. Maybe he can change, she thought, pacing nervously. But do I want to wait around to find out?

The song ended, leaving a silence broken only by the relentless rain. Jiyong stood motionless, head bowed, waiting. He didn't expect her to forgive him instantly. He only wanted her to know that he was truly sorry, that he was willing to do whatever it took to earn back her trust.

A light flickered on in her window. He looked up, his heart pounding. The window opened, and she was there, her face pale in the dim light, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Jiyong," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rain.

He didn't speak, didn't dare to hope. He simply looked at her, his eyes filled with a desperate plea.