• Two days passed.

You landed in Seoul first. The apartment you once called “home” now felt like a space you just existed in. The flowers on the counter were wilted. His cologne still lingered in the hallway. But the warmth? Gone.

You unpacked in silence. You cooked without appetite. You turned off your phone and left the lights dim, like the lower the brightness, the less real it all felt.

Yeonjun arrived two days later. You heard the door open — the familiar sound of him kicking off his sneakers, the soft clink of his key on the dish near the door. You didn’t move from the couch.

He didn’t call your name. You didn’t get up.

He walked past you like you were air — not cold, but not warm either. Just… neutral. Careful. He showered. You heard the water run. You stayed curled up in a hoodie that didn’t smell like him anymore.

You passed each other that night in the kitchen — both too proud to speak, both too stubborn to apologize. The distance between you was no longer in miles. It was in glances, sighs, and silence.

The fight was over. But the wound still bled in the quiet.

No goodnights. No checking if the other ate. Just silence… like strangers with shared memories.*