He came back hours later.
The house had already settled into that strange, suspended quiet, too still to be peaceful, too heavy to be empty. The lights were dimmed, the air holding onto the remains of the evening like a breath not yet released.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing in particular. She hadn't moved much since he left. Time had passed, but it hadn't really gone anywhere.
The door opened.
She didn't turn.
She recognized his footsteps, the way he hesitated just slightly before entering, as if giving himself a moment to prepare for whatever version of her he might find.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence stretched between them.
Then he spoke.
"So," he said quietly, not angry, not loud. Just tired. "Now that he's back… will you choose him over me?"
The question didn't accuse. It didn't beg. It simply existed between them, heavy and unavoidable.
She closed her eyes.
He took a few steps closer, stopping near the foot of the bed.
"Have you ever even loved me?" he asked, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but wasn't. "Or was I just… convenient? Someone who stayed when he couldn't?"
She didn't answer.
Not because she didn't have words, but because every honest word felt like it would destroy something.
She turned her face slightly away from him, eyes fixed on the wall, jaw tight. Sometimes silence wasn't avoidance. Sometimes it was mercy.
"Look at me," he said softly.
She didn't.
"Ha Yoon," he said again, quieter this time. "Just tell me. I can handle the truth."
Her fingers tightened in her lap.
Some truths don't break you all at once, she thought. Some of them just keep cracking you open slowly.
"Can I… not answer this right now?" she asked, her voice barely steady. "Just, can you give me time?"
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"It's okay," he said, forcing calm into his tone. "I understand."
But his eyes betrayed him. They looked hollow, like someone who already knew the answer and was choosing to accept it anyway.
He turned and walked away.
She listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway, the sound disappearing into distance that felt much larger than the house itself.
The night passed like that.
Uncertain.
Awkward.
Full of things neither of them dared to say.
They moved around each other the next day like strangers pretending not to notice the space between them. Their conversations were polite, surface-level. Practical.
As if saying the wrong thing might shatter whatever fragile peace remained.
By afternoon, the weight of it became unbearable.
She found him in the pool room.
He stood there alone, lining up a shot, the green felt stark under the overhead lights. The cue stick moved with practiced precision, but his shoulders were tense, his focus fractured.
"Hae Min," she said softly. "Can we talk?"
He looked up, surprised, but not guarded.
"Sure," he said, placing the cue stick down carefully, as if afraid of making too much noise. "What's on your mind?"
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she inhaled.
"Hae Min," she began, choosing her words carefully, "just because I haven't moved on… doesn't mean what you and I had was a lie."
He stiffened slightly.
She continued, voice trembling but determined. "It wasn't pretend. It wasn't convenience. It wasn't something I did to replace him."
She paused, swallowing hard.
"I loved you in the way I knew how at the time," she said. "In the way someone loves when they're trying to survive. When they're scared of being alone."
His gaze softened, but his pain didn't disappear.
She took a step closer.
"And even if it hurts," she said, tears pooling in her eyes, "I will choose you first."
He looked at her sharply.
"I promise," she said. "I'll make it right. I'll try, really try, to be present. To not live in the past. To stop letting old memories define who I am now."
His jaw tightened.
"You don't have to promise," he said quietly. "I don't want to be something you choose out of guilt."
"That's not what this is," she said quickly. "I'm choosing you because you're here. Because you stayed. Because you've loved me without asking for more than I could give."
He searched her face.
"And him?" he asked softly.
She hesitated.
Not long, but enough.
"I don't know how to erase a past that shaped me," she admitted. "But I know this: I don't want to lose you."
His breath hitched.
"That's not the same as loving me the most," he said.
She didn't deny it.
Instead, she said, "It's loving you honestly."
He looked away, running a hand through his hair, struggling with emotions he didn't want to show.
"I don't want to be second," he said. "Not in your heart. Not in your life."
"You're not," she whispered. "You're the present. You're the one I'm standing with now."
He turned back to her.
"And if one day," he asked quietly, "you realize the past still owns you?"
She met his eyes.
"Then I'll tell you," she said. "I won't lie. I won't pretend. I won't let you build your life on something false."
He nodded slowly.
It wasn't reassurance.
But it was truth.
And sometimes, truth is all you can offer when love isn't simple.
They stood there in silence, not touching, not retreating.
Two people bound together, not by certainty, but by choice.
And sometimes, that's the most fragile kind of love there is.