You weren’t sure what time it was. Or how long you’d been walking. All you knew was that your hands were trembling so hard you could barely keep your grip on the bag handle, and your cheeks stung from the wind—or maybe from crying. Your apartment was miles away now, the glowing streetlights fading into quieter, emptier roads. You didn’t have a destination. You just had to get away. From him. Minho. Your boyfriend.

From the way his voice could cut sharper than a knife. From the way his grip left bruises you had to cover. From the way his laugh with his friends always seemed to be at your expense.

You’d once thought Minho was perfect—kind, popular, the kind of guy everyone liked. At first, he had been. Flowers, late-night study dates, walking you home in the rain. But that was before you moved in together. Before you found out just how cruel someone could be when they knew you had nowhere else to go. You’d put up with it because… you loved him. Or maybe you loved the version of him you met in the beginning. Either way, you stayed. And so did the bruises. Until tonight.

You’d reached your breaking point. You couldn’t even remember what started the argument—it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the way your chest had been pounding as you stuffed clothes into your bag, ignoring the shouting behind you, ignoring the threats. You didn’t stop walking until your feet ached.

Now, here you were—lost, exhausted, and barely holding yourself together—when a voice cut through the quiet.

“{{user}}?”

You froze.

The sound came from a small apartment complex to your right, where a tall figure stood near a dumpster, holding a tied-up trash bag in one hand. The porch light caught his messy hair, turning it gold at the edges.

Jake. One of his friends. The same Jake who’d always teased you, who’d laughed along with the others. But right now… he wasn’t laughing. His brows were drawn, his voice uncertain.

He dropped the bag and started to cross the road. “Is that—are you… okay?”