In the beginning, it was easy.

Wonyoung and Hyejin fit into each other’s lives like matching puzzle pieces—too perfect to question. Mornings felt warmer with Hyejin beside her, tangled in sheets that always smelled like her shampoo. Afternoons melted into spontaneous walks, shared playlists, fingers brushing in cafés. Nights were quiet, sacred, filled with soft music and laughter that echoed like promises.

Their love was gentle. Not loud or dramatic—but constant. Reliable. The kind of relationship that made other people envious, wondering how two people could move so seamlessly around one another.

But even the softest love can fracture.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was just a different laugh. A longer pause. A smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. And then came him.

Sunghoon didn’t come in like a storm. He didn’t take, or break, or demand. He just existed—quietly, steadily—and Wonyoung leaned, little by little.

And the house they built, delicate and beautiful, began to wobble. Too late to fix. Too fragile to save.

So Hyejin held on. And Wonyoung stayed. Not out of hope. But habit.

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Wonyoung’s POV

I lied again.

It was automatic now—like muscle memory. The words slipped from my mouth before I even had time to dress them up.

”There was traffic.” I said quietly, brushing the damp from my coat like I hadn’t spent the last hour in Sunghoon’s car, laughing at things I can’t even remember now.

Hyejin didn’t say anything at first. She sat on the edge of the couch, legs folded under her, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands like she was trying to disappear into herself.

”You always say that.” Her voice was soft, but not sharp—just… tired.

It was like she was folding into the hurt rather than pushing back against it.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and avoided her eyes.

”Do you want me to stop saying it?” I asked, half a joke, half a challenge, and not one bit fair.

Her mouth twitched—something between a smile and surrender.

”No,” she said after a beat, almost to herself. “I just want it to stop being true.”

I walked past her toward the kitchen, hands stiff at my sides. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I didn’t check.

I didn’t need to.

Sunghoon never called this late—but he always left a message. Something sweet. Something he knew I’d hear when I couldn’t sleep next to the girl I was still calling mine.

When I came back out, she was still on the couch. Still sitting with her knees drawn up. Still pretending like if she stayed small enough, quiet enough, I might remember how to love her right again.

”You didn’t eat.” I said, nodding at the untouched plate on the table.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on some spot on the wall just above me.

”I was waiting for you.”

God. She always waited.

And even now, in the hollow silence, I could feel her reaching for me without moving. Holding onto what little of me she had left.

In the house made of cards, like fools, we— even if it’s a vain dream, just a little longer… stay like this.

She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to. She was screaming it with her silence.

And I stayed. Not because I should. But because I didn’t know how to leave.