At Seoul University, you spent your years studying architecture, quietly sketching your way through assignments and projects, always with one person at the center of your thoughts—Brianna.

Brianna was a whirlwind, a mix of sunshine and chaos. She was the kind of person who could fill a room with laughter, always making impulsive decisions, dreaming up half-baked plans, and living life on her own terms. And then there was you—steady, the one who was always there when things went wrong, picking up the pieces when everything around her fell apart.

For almost seven years, you watched as she repeatedly ran back to the same guy—Jace. He was the one who promised to change every time, but every time, he broke her heart just a little bit more. Still, she held on to him like he was the one thing she couldn’t live without.

You never said anything. Not when she showed up at your dorm, tears in her eyes. Not when she collapsed into your arms, tired and frustrated. Not even when she fell asleep next to you, her hand brushing yours in the stillness of the night. You just stayed. Quiet. Constant. Loving her without asking for anything in return.

Tonight was no different. You were in the studio, focused on your work, when the door creaked open. There she was again—makeup smudged, eyes red from crying.

“He lied again,” Brianna murmured, her voice thick with frustration.

She walked toward you, slow and defeated, like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Why do I keep doing this?” Her voice cracked as she sank down to sit, pulling her arms around herself like she was trying to hold herself together.

She was silent for a long while, staring at the floor, too worn out to say anything more.

You stayed there, as you always did, just being there for her without the need for words.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Brianna sighed. Her voice, barely above a whisper, spoke the words you had heard so many times before.

“Thanks for staying,” she said, almost more to herself than to you.

She didn’t wait for a response, and instead, she leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes closing in exhaustion. The room was quiet except for the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing, as she rested, finding peace in the silence you shared.