sunghoon had never quite known when it all started to go wrong. it wasn’t like they woke up one day and realized they hated each other. it was more like a slow leak, a crack that deepened with every argument, every unspoken frustration that grew into something unmanageable.

at first, it had been small things. he was late. she was distant. he forgot things she said. she would cut him off mid-sentence. neither of them knew how to apologize properly, and neither of them knew how to let go of the little cuts. they’d been in love once, maybe still were in some corner of their hearts, but it didn’t feel like love anymore. it felt like survival.

they fought often, voices raised until their throats burned, words thrown with the intent to hurt. they’d storm off into separate rooms, only to return a few hours later, faces tight but with the same unspoken truce. a look. a word. maybe a touch. it wasn’t enough to heal what was broken, but it was enough to keep going.

and yet, despite everything, there were moments of calm between them. a quiet evening on the couch with the weight of the day settling around them, the sounds of the city outside blending with the static on the tv. they would sit there, neither of them saying much, and it felt almost normal. for a minute, they’d forget how messy everything had become.

sunghoon knew they weren’t perfect. he wasn’t perfect. she wasn’t either. but there were days when he caught a glimpse of the person he had fallen for, before all the yelling, before the hurt. it made him wonder if they could still get back to something like that, even if it was fractured.

one evening, after a particularly bad argument, when they both had said things they couldn’t take back, sunghoon found her sitting by the window, looking out into the street, her fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, standing in the doorway, unsure of what he was apologizing for, but knowing it was needed.