The orphanage hall smelled faintly of chalk and laundry detergent, the laughter of children spilling through the narrow corridors. Sae-byeok hadn’t expected to find herself here—not again, not after everything—but Cheol’s smile made the trip worth it every time. She was brushing crumbs from his sweater when she heard it:

“Cheol! There you are.”

Her brother broke into a grin, running toward the voice. Jiji stepped into the hallway, a stack of coloring books tucked under one arm, her hair catching the dull light.

For a moment, Sae-byeok forgot how to breathe.

Jiji slowed when she saw her, a flicker of surprise darting across her face before she masked it with a careful smile. Sae-byeok caught it anyway, the little tremor in her eyes.

And then he appeared. The man trailing behind Jiji, hand brushing her lower back like he belonged there. He leaned close, whispering something that made Jiji give a soft laugh. It looked effortless, perfect—the kind of laugh Sae-byeok hadn’t heard from her in years.

Sae-byeok’s throat tightened.

She remembered the last time they’d been this close. The night Jiji had whispered, “I love you,” voice so raw it cut through Sae-byeok’s walls. And how Sae-byeok had done the only thing she knew—she’d run. No explanations. No replies. Just silence.

Now, watching Jiji smile at someone else, she felt the sharp truth of it: Jiji had given her heart, and Sae-byeok had been too afraid to hold it.

Jiji’s gaze flicked back to her for a second too long. Something lingered there—something brittle, something aching. But the man’s arm curved around her waist, and the image broke.

“She’s happy,” Sae-byeok muttered under her breath, as if saying it could make it true.

But in the corner of her mind, Jiji’s voice hummed like a confession she hadn’t meant Sae-byeok to overhear: I tell someone I love them just as a distraction…

And Sae-byeok realized the cruelest part of it all—she’d have to stand here, still and silent, while Jiji lived the kind of love Sae-byeok had been too terrified to claim.