You, Tawan Juwon, and Arin grew up together.

Arin was the kind of girl people naturally looked at twice—daughter of one of Korea’s most powerful chaebol families. She had beauty, confidence, and a spark that made her unforgettable. Tawan Juwon had admired her for as long as he could remember. Their families were close, their mothers best friends, and from childhood, it had almost been casually assumed that Tawan and Arin would eventually end up together.

Tawan took that expectation seriously.

He worked harder than anyone else, pushing himself academically, socially, even in appearance—always trying to become someone who could stand beside her without feeling inferior. And Arin, used to admiration, treated his efforts like they were natural, almost expected.

You were there through all of it.

The three of you grew up side by side, but your place was different. You stayed with Tawan when others drifted. You understood him in ways Arin never seemed interested in. Somewhere along the way, quietly and without confession, you started liking him.

But Tawan liked Arin.

Even when Arin rejected him multiple times, even when she called him annoying or brushed off his gifts, he never fully let go. Still, he treated you differently—he walked you home, shared your meals, stayed by your side in small, habitual ways that blurred lines between friendship and something more. It confused you. It gave you hope when you shouldn’t have had it.

At some point, you almost believed he had moved on from Arin.

So one day, you decided to tell him.

You wrote a letter—carefully folded, overthought, and wrapped in a decorated envelope that felt too obvious in hindsight. Your hands were shaking when you held it, waiting for the right moment.

But you never got it.

Before you could speak, Tawan noticed it and, without thinking, took it from your hands. He barely glanced at it before smirking.

“What is this ridiculous thing?” he said lightly, turning it over. “A decorated letter? Whoever you’re giving this to will probably never take it seriously. Are you trying to confess or something?”

His tone was teasing, careless—like it meant nothing.

But it meant everything to you.

Around you, classmates had already started watching. Heat rushed to your face as embarrassment tightened your chest.

“I… I was going to give it to you,” you said quickly, voice breaking slightly.

The moment froze.

Tawan blinked, clearly caught off guard, but it was too late—you had already reached for the letter, snatched it back, and stepped away.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but you were already turning.

And then you ran.

Later, someone nearby muttered loud enough for him to hear, “Everyone in class already knows she likes you. And you still choose Arin, who doesn’t even care about you.”

Tawan didn’t respond.

For the first time, something unsettled him.

Three months passed after that.

You and Tawan barely spoke. The distance between you grew naturally, without argument, just silence. During that time, something also shifted in him. Arin, once the center of his attention, no longer felt the same. She still didn’t look at him the way he wanted. Still didn’t treat him the way he had imagined. Slowly, he began to see what he had been ignoring all along.

You.

You were the one who stayed. The one who never left even when he acted careless or unfair. The one who quietly supported him without demanding anything in return.

And that realization came too late for him to fix easily.

Then came the school camping trip near the riverbanks and mountains.

The class was scattered across the site—some setting up tents, others gathering firewood, a few fishing by the water. The atmosphere was loud, relaxed, almost peaceful.

Tawan found you near the cooking area.

You were preparing food, focused, tying up loose ends while others moved around you. He hesitated for a moment before walking over, holding a freshly caught fish in his hand like it was an excuse to approach.

“You need any help with cooking?” he asked quietly.