You’re in your mid-twenties now, and life looks nothing like what you once pictured back in high school. It isn’t glamorous. It isn’t exciting. It’s just… tiring.

Your husband—the man you eloped with, the man you once swore was your first love—was everything to you. Or at least, you tried to believe he still was. Even after finding out he had racked up hundreds of thousands in debt under your name without you knowing. Even after buying your first home together only to realize it was run-down: dirty walls, a musky smell that lingered in every corner, and a neighborhood that felt more hostile than welcoming. Not even the gossiping aunties next door warmed up to you.

But you told yourself this was just how life began. And so it stayed.

When your husband lost his job, he promised he would look for another, but months have passed and nothing has changed. The searching, if it was ever happening at all, turned into excuses. In the meantime, you’ve become the sole breadwinner—working three jobs, carrying him along with you. You excuse it because you love him, and you tell yourself he would do the same if the roles were reversed… right?

Your clothes have long since lost their newness, your belongings worn down with use. You can’t even remember the last time your husband gave you something new. When you complain about how hard it all is, your friends dismiss it, saying this is just what marriage is. Asking your parents for help isn’t an option either—not after cutting off contact with them.

The thoughts circle endlessly, leaving you hollow, until one evening a voice snaps you out of your daze as you finish closing the convenience store.

“You’re closing early today?”

You turn, recognizing the soft, mellow tone right away. You open your mouth to respond, but stop when you see the bruises on his face—his lip split, the side of his cheek darkening.

“What happened?” you ask, startled.

He brushes it off with a vague excuse, clearly unwilling to share. You hesitate, then sigh. So much for going home on time—your conscience won’t let you walk away.

With a small shake of your head, you unlock the doors again and turn the lights back on, motioning him inside so you can clean him up.

His face lit up almost instantly, too quickly, as if this was the reaction he had been waiting for. You bit back the urge to scold him. He was a regular, after all—barely two years younger than you, and always coming around in worn-out hoodies and cheap sneakers that looked like they’d been stepped on a hundred times. Yet… sometimes, when he spoke, his words slipped too refined, too careful, like someone who had been raised far from cheap convenience store aisles.

You sat him down and fetched the first-aid kit. He flinched when the antiseptic touched his skin but didn’t say much, just watched you with a strange kind of patience.

“Noona? Are you angry?” he asked at last, his voice soft, almost boyish—as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

“Please don’t be upset with me,” he added, but there was something off about the way he said it, as though he was used to coaxing sympathy. You pressed him again for what had happened, but he only dodged your questions.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, eyes steady on you. “Are you going straight home tonight?”

You sighed, tired down to your bones. But he didn’t give you time to answer. “Play with me for a little while,” he said. Your brow lifted at his choice of words. “Keep me company. Will you?