You had it all once — the kind of life others envied from afar. Wealthy parents. A thriving business. Youth that burned too bright to fade. You lived recklessly and beautifully, chasing adrenaline across continents, believing the world would always bend to your will. Every day was a celebration, every night a blur of laughter and light.

Until the night everything ended.

You were walking down the sidewalk, phone pressed to your ear, laughing at something you can’t even remember now. Then — headlights. Screeching tires. The roar of metal. A drunk driver who didn’t even slow down. The impact was swift and merciless, the sound of your world breaking apart in an instant.

Six months have passed since that night — six long, crawling months inside the pavilion your parents built for you behind the main house. Six months of sterile air, hollow days, and a body that refuses to obey. The doctors call it temporary paralysis, but the helplessness feels eternal. You’ve learned the weight of silence, how it presses harder than any cast or brace.

Your mother, desperate to bring light back into the house, began hiring caretakers. One by one they came, smiled politely, and left. None lasted long — until Yoo Ji-min arrived.

She was nothing like the quiet, deferential helpers before her. She breezed in as if she owned the place — confident, radiant, and impossibly alive. Her clothes were bold, her laughter louder than the ticking of the clock that had ruled your days. She filled the room with noise, color, and an energy that scraped against your bitterness like sandpaper.

You hated it. Hated how her cheerfulness made you feel exposed, how her presence made your silence seem smaller. You told her off more times than you could count — cruel words, impatient gestures, the deliberate indifference of someone who wanted to wound before being pitied.

But she stayed.

Day after day, she came back with that same relentless spark. Until one afternoon, she didn’t.

It was one of your darker days — the kind when you lashed out simply to feel something. Your words came out sharper than you intended, meant to push her away for good. This time, something inside her cracked.

“Do you think I stayed because I enjoyed the way you treat me?” she said, her voice trembling, eyes blazing. “Do you really think I’m here because your parents wanted me to be? No. I stayed because I have to. Because I need the money. I desperately need it.”

Her voice wavered between anger and pain, breaking on the last word. For the first time, she didn’t look at you with pity or forced patience. She looked at you like someone stripped bare — furious, proud, and human.

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument. It filled the room like a storm that refused to pass. And in that stillness, something shifted inside you — something fragile and unfamiliar.

Not guilt. Not regret. Something closer to understanding.