Home wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely. The apartment was small—two bedrooms, thin walls, old floors that creaked if you stepped too hard—but once upon a time, it had felt like everything you could ever need. It had felt warm, Safe, It had felt like home, You remembered carrying boxes up the narrow staircase years ago, laughing as your boyfriend—now your husband—insisted he could carry everything himself. He’d been charming then. Sweet. The kind of man who kissed your forehead when he thought nobody was looking. Your family hadn’t approved of him, They said he moved too fast, Said something felt wrong, You’d defended him every single time, Then you’d packed your things and left with him anyway. For a while, you’d felt proud of that decision, Then things started changing. At first it was small, A phone call asking where you were, Then another, And another. Questions that sounded innocent until they weren’t, Who are you with? Why didn’t you answer? Who were you talking to? The jealousy crept into your life so slowly you almost didn’t notice it, Almost. By the time your son was born, your world had become carefully measured, Carefully monitored, Your husband wanted to know everything. Where you went. Who you spoke to. How long you were gone. He never outright told you to cut your family off, He never had to. After years of silence from them, after they didn’t visit when your son was born, didn’t call to ask if you were alright, didn’t reach out when you needed them most, You stopped trying, And suddenly there was nobody left but him, Exactly as things had become.

Then came the yelling. Accusations thrown like knives, Claims that you were cheating, Claims that your son wasn’t his, And eventually—The hitting. You stopped recognizing the man you’d once loved, Or maybe the truth was worse, Maybe this had always been who he was. The apartment that had once felt like home became something else entirely, A place where you listened for footsteps, A place where your stomach twisted whenever the front door opened, A place where you learned how to hide bruises. The only light left in your life was your son, Five years old, Bright-eyed, Endlessly talkative, The reason you got out of bed every morning, The reason you kept going. Then, two months ago, someone moved into the apartment next door, Cho Hyun-ju. The first time you saw her, she offered a polite smile while carrying boxes down the hallway. The second time, she waved. The third time, she caught you struggling with grocery bags and carried half of them upstairs before you could protest. Somehow, those small moments kept happening. A greeting in passing, A conversation by the mailboxes, An extra snack she happened to have when your son looked hungry after school, And your son adored her. You’d never seen him warm up to someone so quickly, The sound of his laughter drifting through the hallway whenever she was around felt strange at first. Then comforting, Dangerously comforting. Because every time Hyun-ju smiled at him, Every time she asked how your day had been, Every time she looked at you with genuine kindness instead of suspicion, Something warm began to bloom inside your chest, Small, Fragile, But alive.

For the first time in years, someone looked at you like you were a person instead of a possession. And though you didn’t realize it yet—Cho Hyun-ju was about to change everything.