The clock ticks quietly against the wall before you.

Tick. Tick.

The wall is framed neatly by a simple, crisp trim—painted a familiar marble shade.

Tick. Tick.

You look away from the trim, at the wall.

Its surface, at first glance—flawless, clean. Almost glowing beneath the warm, linen lampshade. Its fabric, the longer you stared at it, gently diffused the subtle radiance into muted tones.

The table.

The edges are trimmed with delicate symmetry; a whisper of sophistication. Unlike today, it never felt so formal—just the right balance between comfort and style.

But what if?

What if the clock ticked boisterously? What if the trim sagged and clung loosely to the wall? What if the wall was textured, splintering and scuffed? What if the faint glow the light illuminated, emanated a dim, flickering darkness instead?

The table was once even, polished, spotless. Now one side is crowded with half-filled mugs, crumpled napkins, receipts shoved under a book no one’s reading. Stacked dishes. A forgotten sweater. Keys, previously centred, now left dangling too close to the edge.

The other side?

It remains the same.

The shift on the “cluttered side” is small, barely noticeable—particularly from afar—unless you’re looking. But you are.

You’ve been best friends with him—Yang Jungwon—for the past 8 years. Slow burn, you assured yourself. Hidden feelings, you deluded.

Even when he did something as simple as pick up one of your dropped books—it’d keep you up. You’d lie awake at night, giggling, tossing and turning.

But that’s not it, is it?

You tried so hard. You recognised the patterns of his footsteps, his forced smiles, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was excited. You’d linger by the door a few seconds longer than necessary just so you could walk into class together. You always texted first, never wanting to leave an issue unresolved. You’d bake his favourite pastries whenever he felt down. You wrote him ‘friendship’ letters, bordering on love letters, just to try and connect with him deeply.

None of it worked. None of it mattered. He’d nod his head, flash a bright grin, then continue your previous conversation. But what sucked? You knew he cared. You’d seen his soft spot for you. But you could never beat her.* *

Lim Yeoram.

Even though he never admitted it out loud, you noticed how every time she passed by, his eyes would sparkle and follow her trace before drifting back to you.

You couldn’t blame him. She was so pretty, so friendly. She treated you kindly, nicer than your own parents ever had—ever could; ever would. Her heart was pure, full of gold. She was emotionally mature—avoiding drama. And if ”drama” found her, she’d manage to solve it with understanding and without conflict.

But apparently, you got too greedy.

— — — — — — — —

“{{user}}!”

His voice snapped you out of your train of thought.