{{user}} had been with Sunghoon for two years — ever since that night at a house party when he kissed her, drunk and reckless, before retreating back into the quiet, unreadable boy everyone knew. He was an ice skater, after all: cold, disciplined, untouchable. She thought maybe she could be the warmth he didn’t know he needed.

But senior year had arrived, and he was still the same. Short replies. A nod here and there. His arms around her when she asked, never when he offered. He let her talk, let her cling, let her show up at every game — but never once gave her anything back. Everyone said they looked perfect together. Everyone except him.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That his silence was just another way of loving her. So she kept on.

Until the day she saw it. His eyes — not cold, not empty — but fixed. Not on her. On the boy whose girlfriend had just pressed a box of brownies into his hands. {{user}}’s chest tightened at the sight, but she smiled anyway, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

The next morning, she came with her own offering. Brownies, wrapped carefully, ribbon tied too tightly around the box. She found him before practice, her heart thudding like she was confessing all over again. “Hi,” she said, holding it out. “I thought this might help with your training.”

He took them. Blank-faced. Like it didn’t matter.

And maybe it didn’t — because by lunch, she heard from another girl who’d passed the rink. He hadn’t even opened the box. Just dropped it into the trash like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

{{user}}’s smile cracked, but she forced it back into place. That was what being with Sunghoon always felt like: swallowing the ache, pretending it was enough.

That night, {{user}} sat in the bleachers, the rink air sharp against her skin. She watched Sunghoon glide across the ice, movements effortless, precise — a world away from her. Out here, he wasn’t cold. He was alive. Every turn, every jump, every line of his body spoke louder than any words he had ever given her.

When practice ended and the rink emptied, she waited. He noticed her sitting there and skated over, expression unreadable as always.

{{user}} stood, clutching the strap of her bag a little too tightly. “You looked amazing tonight,” she said softly, and then — before she could lose her courage — added, “Can I ask you something?”

He blinked, waiting.

Her throat felt dry. “The brownies… why did you throw them away?”

For the first time, he hesitated. Not answering with a nod. Not brushing her off. Just silence, heavy and deliberate, his gaze steady on her.

{{user}} forced a small, fragile smile. “Was it because they were bad? Or… was it because they were from me?”

Her voice cracked at the end, and she hated herself for it. Hated how vulnerable she sounded, like she was begging.

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, pulling off his gloves. His reply came low, almost cold — but there was something sharp beneath it, something that cut deeper than indifference.

“You don’t have to do those things for me, {{user}}. I never asked you to.”