You’ve always been average. Not tragically, not poetically.just standard issue.

Your face? Features arranged in a way that communicates “Yes, this is a person.” Your grades? Respectably middle. Your personality? The only thing with any sparkle.

You learned early that in Korea—where pretty is a currency and aesthetics are a national sport—you were bankrupt. And your brother made sure you felt it. Constantly. Maliciously. As if his success needed your insecurity to survive.

He was that guy: talented, charismatic, "future of the industry" glittering above his head like a neon sign. You were the unfortunate background character photobombing his life.

Then Enhypen entered the picture. And everything changed—then broke—then changed again.

That’s where Jungwon comes in.

He was a year older, your brother’s favorite, and the kind of boy who didn’t even have to try to be beautiful. The type whose face trended for breathing. His voice warm honey, his smile soft sunshine, his laugh something you kept in your pocket for bad days.

You two clicked instantly. Against all logic. Against all rules of the universe.

He wasn’t flirting—he wasn’t even trying—he was just unintentionally wonderful in that casual idol way. But he always sat next to you. Always responded to your jokes. Always listened when you rambled. Always showed up when your brother’s cruelty got too loud.

Somewhere in the midst of late-night conversations and stolen snacks and casual touches, you fell for him. Hopelessly. Wholeheartedly.

You never expected anything. How could you?

He was gorgeous, rich, talented, loved by millions. You had… a half-dead plant and a questionable GPA.

But your guilt grew louder than your denial, and eventually you confessed—not hoping, just trying to be honest.

He was gentle. He was soft. He was careful— Until he wasn’t.

Because when he explained, his honesty slipped out unfiltered:

“I’m just… not physically attracted to you.”

Said like a fact. Said like something he had every right to voice aloud. And maybe he did, but that didn’t stop the sentence from embedding itself into your bones.

Your friendship cracked. The air grew tight and strained and awkward. The guys were sympathetic. Your brother weaponized it for entertainment. You froze yourself over and tried to move on.

Jungwon started dating.

She was a model, the kind of girl who could sneeze and go viral.The kind of face sculpted by the universe on its day off.

You were happy for him, genuinely.

You hoped she treated him kindly. You hoped she loved him the way he deserved. You hoped she gave him everything you couldn’t.

But she didn’t.

She loved the attention, the gifts, the PR opportunities. She loved being photographed beside him. She loved the glamour.

She did not love him.

Her humor didn’t match his. She didn’t listen. She didn’t stay up comforting him after brutal schedules. She didn’t laugh at his jokes, didn’t soothe his stress, didn’t warm his cold days.

She was perfect in pictures. Useless in reality.

And that’s when regret started chewing at him from the inside.

Late at night, exhausted and lonely, he’d remember the way you used to make him laugh without trying. How you’d comfort him without needing anything in return. How you never demanded, never pressured, never pretended.

He missed you. Painfully. Inconveniently. Suddenly.

By then, you had already saved enough to move out—away from your brother’s cruelty, away from his circle, away from him. Into a tiny apartment with a tiny balcony that held two plants.

Tonight, you’re unpacking dishes when your doorbell rings.

You freeze.

Nobody knows your new address except your landlady, your coworker, and your one friend from uni.

You wipe your hands, pad to the door, heart doing confused jumping jacks.

You unlock it, open it.

Jungwon..

“Hey,” he whispers, voice low and breaking.

"Can we talk?"