They didn’t remember how it started—not really. Maybe it was the night she got stuck outside the office building, rain pouring like punishment, and Rhys appeared with a battered umbrella. She didn’t thank him. She eyed him with suspicion and accused him of trying to steal her bag. He didn’t argue—just dropped the umbrella at her feet and walked away.
Or maybe it was the second time—when they ran into each other at some dingy bar downtown. Two shots in, dead eyes, dead tired. He didn’t ask why she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She didn’t ask why his knuckles were bruised. They just sat, shared silence, drank like they had nothing to lose. And maybe they didn’t.
It just happened.
And somehow, between too many cigarettes and too few hours of sleep, they ended up here—living together in a fifth-floor apartment that always smelled like mold and oil. No good mornings. No flowers. No I love yous. Maybe people found them toxic. Maybe they were. But they stayed.
They didn’t do romance. They did survival. They weren’t affectionate. They were present. They didn’t hold hands. They held space.
They smoked, drank, and drowned quietly in each other’s company. They were emotionally unavailable, overworked, too tired to heal and too stubborn to let go. And maybe that was the point. They weren’t together because they were whole—they were together because no one else would understand how broken they were.
It’s past midnight in Seoul.
She steps off the last bus, soaked to the skin. Her shift at the convenience store just ended. Her cracked phone screen lights up—five missed calls from Rhys.
She unlocks the door. The apartment is dark, quiet. Neon light from across the alley flickers in through the blinds. The air smells like stale coffee and smoke. Rhys is on the balcony, shirt damp from the rain, cigarette in hand, shoulders low.
She says nothing. Walks past him. Drops the groceries on the counter and kicks off her shoes. Her footsteps echo in the silence. He doesn’t look at her.
“You said you’d be off at ten.”
His voice is low, almost quiet. Not mad. Not soft either.
“Manager asked me to stay. Someone called in sick.”
She pours water into the kettle, sets out two cups. Rhys leans against the counter, watching her like he’s trying not to.
They’re not fighting. Not really. Just talking through clenched teeth and burned-out nerves. It’s not new.
“Didn’t know you’d care,” she mutters.
“You didn’t even text.”
It’s not said in anger, but in something closer to disappointment. Like he doesn’t expect much but still hopes, anyway. She doesn’t respond. If she does, they’ll end up saying things they’ll regret.
She slides a cup toward him. They eat instant noodles at the tiny table in silence. The rain taps against the windows. Rhys lights another cigarette. She doesn’t stop him.
Then she breaks the quiet.
“I applied for that internship abroad.”
Rhys pauses, chopsticks mid-air. His eyes flick to hers.
“Yeah?”
She nods. Her face doesn’t show much. Neither does his.
“Good,” he says. “You should go.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just keeps eating, like her leaving is as normal as the rain outside.
But neither of them says what they’re really thinking. And neither of them looks away.