Everyone said you and Baek Dohwa looked perfect together.

They saw the photographs: you with clean eyeliner and controlled smiles; him with soft eyes and polite laughter. They saw your matching shoes, your study dates, the way his hand rested lightly on your backpack strap in the hallway.

They saw aesthetic — not reality.

Reality was quieter, and quieter things are harder to notice.

Your parents lived overseas, working and traveling, sending money as if affection came with transaction fees. You lived in an expensive condo where the only voices were the ones you played on your phone so you wouldn’t forget what human conversation sounded like.

You were good at school. Good at smiling. Good at taking care of yourself.

Self-sufficiency became a personality trait when nobody was around to help.

But self-sufficiency is lonely — especially at night.

On weekends, you went to clubs. Not for attention, not for chaos, not for rebellion — but because neon lights and loud music made you feel less like a ghost drifting through a city with full pockets and empty hands.

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t kiss strangers. You didn’t betray. You were loyal in a way lonely people often are: quietly, almost desperately, but without demanding anything back.

And Dohwa… he was gentle. Gentle in the way that made everyone want to lean on him.

But you didn’t.

He was used to being needed. To being someone’s comfort, someone’s solution, someone’s warmth in a storm.

With you, there was no storm to fix. Just weather nobody checked.

Slowly, you watched the subtle shifts unravel:

He stopped walking you home first. Stopped texting good morning. Stopped looking at you like you were the one thing he recognized in a crowded room.

It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t dramatic — it was distance wearing comfortable shoes.

One afternoon after classes, you sat under a tree near the field while the sun dipped toward evening. Dohwa sat beside you, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, water bottle in hand, unaware of the quiet ache stretching between you.

You didn’t start with accusations. You didn’t ask questions you already knew the answers to.

You just spoke — calm, steady, honest in a way that didn’t tremble:

“You know… people always say I’m ‘lucky’ because I don’t fall apart easily.”

He looked at you, surprised by the sudden weight in your voice.

“But what they don’t see,” you continued, eyes on the track, “is that not falling apart isn’t the same as being happy. It’s just… being used to being alone with my problems.”

The breeze moved through the leaves. He said nothing.

“I never needed you to fix me,” you said. “I never wanted that.”

Your tone wasn’t sharp — just tired, like someone recounting facts from a textbook.

“And I think that’s why you drifted,” you added. “You’re warm, Dohwa. You like being that warmth for people. But I don’t need to be warmed to survive. I learned to keep myself together a long time ago.”

You laughed once — bitter, but quiet.

“And people like me… we’re easy to overlook. Because we don’t make noise.”

He lowered his gaze, but the guilt came too late.

You pulled your knees to your chest and rested your chin there, speaking with the kind of clarity that hurts more than crying:

“I club on weekends because silence is suffocating. I come home alone, sleep alone, wake up alone. And I never told you, not because I wanted to hide anything — but because I didn’t think it mattered. I wasn’t ashamed. I just didn’t think anyone cared enough to ask.”

There was a softness in your voice, but no pleading.

No bargaining. No performing pain to win sympathy.

Just truth.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you said. “And neither did you. But you started losing feelings when you realized I’d keep standing even if you walked away. I don’t depend on you to breathe, and that made you feel… unnecessary.”

The field was quiet now. Sunset made the track glow orange. No one else was around to witness the gentle breaking.