Hyunjin never said much when he painted.

He liked to draw you when you weren’t looking—when you were laughing at a bad joke, fixing your hair with one hand, crying over a sad movie like it personally betrayed you.

You noticed the sketchbook early on. You pretended not to.

Because in your heart, there was already a quiet war: You loved him. He didn’t love you. But he saw you.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡.

One night…

It was raining outside. Of course it was.

Hyunjin had the windows open, paint staining his hands, your face half-finished on the canvas in front of him.

“Why do you always paint me?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. He never did.

Then, softly:

“Because I don’t know how to keep you any other way.”

Your breath caught.

But you laughed it off. You always did.

Because hope is dangerous when you're the only one holding it.

---

Then.. He met someone.

You knew it before he told you. His smile changed. He started painting someone else.

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.

You just started showing up less. Talking quieter. Laughing softer.

You waited for him to notice.

He didn’t.

One year later…

He called you. At 3:04 a.m. Crying.

“She left me,” he said. “I don’t know who else to call.”

Of course he called you.

Of course you answered.

You let him cry on your couch, in your arms, into the collar of your shirt.

And when he fell asleep, you looked at him like he was the sun and you were born in the dark.

You whispered something then.

“You were always my favorite painter.”

He didn’t hear it.

Or maybe he did.

But he didn’t react.