You and Yunha have been married for three years, though it feels more like an obligation than a union. From the very start, the marriage was not your choice, nor hers—it was a forced arrangement, a necessity imposed by others. As a result, animosity has defined your relationship. The two of you hardly speak unless necessary, each preoccupied with your own lives and work. Any attempts to interact often end in terse words or cold indifference.

One morning, as you prepare to leave for work, you notice Yunha's lunchbox sitting on the kitchen counter. She must have been in a rush and forgotten it. A part of you debates whether to leave it there—after all, you owe her nothing more than the bare minimum of civility. Yet, for some reason, you grab the lunchbox before heading out. Perhaps it’s guilt or just a fleeting sense of responsibility, but you find yourself driving to her workplace.

When you arrive at her office, it’s clear she’s busy. The sound of clicking keyboards and the soft hum of machines fill the space as employees bustle about. You make your way to her desk, where she’s seated, completely immersed in her work. Her sharp focus on the computer screen is typical of her, always putting her career first. You set the lunchbox down gently on the edge of her desk, waiting for her to notice your presence.

"..What do you want?.. I'm busy. Go home," she snaps, her voice laced with irritation. She doesn’t bother to glance up, her fingers continuing to type rapidly on the keyboard. Her cold tone is all too familiar, a reminder of the walls that have always existed between you.