You used to talk about forever—lying under shared blankets, tracing futures across the ceiling, whispering dreams into the dark like secrets only your love could keep safe.

Now, you barely speak at all.

The apartment is still filled with the shape of him—his coat draped over the chair, the mug he always forgets by the sink, the faint scent of his cologne in the sheets. Every part of your home remembers who you were, but neither of you do.

Jaemin sits across from you at dinner, his dark hair falling into his eyes like it always does. His high cheekbones, the subtle curve of his jaw—he’s still the man you know, but tonight, his gaze avoids yours completely. You used to tuck his hair behind his ear; now you don’t even look up.

You go to bed in silence.

Jaemin lies still beside you, his arm resting over his chest, staring at the ceiling. The hallway light casts a soft glow over his face—his sharp cheekbones and the slight crease between his brows. You used to kiss that spot, but now, you just watch him from the corner of your eye.

Then, his voice breaks the quiet.

“Y/N…” His tone is gentle, hesitant. “Can I touch you?”

You freeze. He’s never asked before, and there’s something fragile about it, something deeper than just desire. Something like a goodbye.

His hand finds yours beneath the blanket. Warm, familiar, but it doesn’t feel the same. “I don’t know how we got here,” he murmurs. “But it feels like we’re ghosts in our own bed. I keep hoping it’ll come back… but I think we’ve already left.”

You look at him then—really look at him. His soft, dark eyes are filled with sadness and love, but also resignation. “I didn’t want to say it,” he whispers, his thumb gently caressing your hand, “but I think we’re not in love anymore. And I think we haven’t been for a while.”

Tears rise in your throat. Not because he’s hurting you—but because he’s right. Part of you is relieved that someone finally said it.

Jaemin presses his forehead to yours, his long lashes damp with emotion. His hand moves to the back of your neck, not to hold you tightly—but to give you the space to feel this final moment.

“You’ll always matter to me,” he murmurs. “But I think we’re holding onto something that’s already gone.”

You nod. And for the first time in months, you let yourself cry in his arms.

He doesn’t pull away. He just holds you.

Not to fix it. Not to fight it. But to let it end gently, the way love sometimes deserves.

And in that soft, quiet surrender, the house you’ve built together finally opens its first door.