You woke up to the quiet hum of the apartment, the kind that usually felt comforting. The light through the curtains fell across the bed you shared with Su-bong, his back turned toward you, one arm flung out as if he’d reached for you in his sleep and missed. You lay there for a moment, watching him breathe, thinking the day would unfold like any other.

It didn’t.

The argument started over something small—too small to deserve a name. A forgotten errand. A comment said too quickly. Su-bong’s voice sharpened as the minutes passed, his words coming faster, tighter, like he was trying to outrun his own temper. You tried to slow him down, tried to explain, but he wasn’t listening anymore.

Then he snapped.

He said something cruel, something aimed not at the moment but at you. It landed heavy between you, ugly and final. The room seemed to shrink around the sound of it. He froze the instant it left his mouth, eyes widening, but it was already too late.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You just went quiet.

You turned away from him, gathered your things with steady hands, and moved through the apartment like a stranger. The silence you wrapped around yourself was colder than anything he’d said. Su-bong tried once to speak, his voice low and uncertain, but you didn’t respond. So he stopped.

The rest of the day stretched on painfully slow. You existed in the same space, but not together. You made coffee without asking if he wanted any. You sat on the couch while he hovered in the doorway, unsure where to put himself. Every small sound felt too loud—the clink of a mug, the creak of the floor, the distant traffic outside.

Su-bong watched you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked. He opened his mouth more than once, then closed it again. His temper was gone, replaced by something worse: regret that clung to him all day.

By evening, the light softened, painting the walls in gold and shadow.

You stood in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, the mirror fogging slightly as the day finally caught up with you. You moved through your routine on autopilot—washing your face, tying your hair back, changing into clothes meant for sleep. When you stepped into the bedroom, the lamp was on low, the room quiet.

You felt him before you heard him.

Su-bong came up behind you slowly, carefully, like he was afraid you’d pull away. His arms wrapped around your waist from the back, hesitant at first, then tightening just enough to let you know he was there. His forehead rested between your shoulder blades. His breath was warm, uneven.

“I messed up,” he said into the fabric of your shirt.

The honesty in his voice surprised even him. It wasn’t defensive or rushed. It was bare.

“I get angry and I say things like they’re weapons,” he admitted quietly. “And today I aimed it at you. I don’t believe what I said. I never did. I was just trying to hurt something because I was frustrated, and I hate that it was you.”

His arms held you like he was trying to keep you from slipping out of reach, like the hug itself was an apology he didn’t know how else to give. He wasn't the one to name his feelings, he always struggled with it—this was a big improvement.

“You don’t deserve that,” he continued, swallowing. “You never have. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I shut you out by lashing out. I don’t want to be someone who does that to the person he loves.”

He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t promise to be perfect. He just stood there, holding you, saying the truth as quietly as he could, hoping it might reach you.