Soo-min's Pov
The rooftop light had been left on again.
I noticed it the moment i stepped out of the stairwell, the warm bulb casting a soft halo over the concrete tiles. Ji-woo used to scold me for leaving it on. "You're wasting electricity, Soo-min. The city already has too many lost lights."
But tonight, i didn't turn it off.
I kept it glowing. Because somewhere in my foolish, stubborn heart, i believed he might walk through that door, out of breath, holding two cup noodles and that crooked smile he only ever let her see.
I sat on the ledge, phone in hand.
Refresh.
Refresh.
Refresh.
No messages.
I typed him again.
Where are you?
The message remained unread.
My breath quivered, but i didn't cry. Crying felt too final, like accepting something i wasn't ready for.
I waited.
I always waited.
The memories came softly, like pages of an old book falling open on their own.
The small bookstore near campus, the place, we of buying someday.
Ji-woo running his fingers along the shelves, whispering,
"Books survive longer than people. If we can't grow old, at least our stories can."
I had laughed, pretending not to notice that his eyes were already carrying too much pain for his age.
We had once stood between the aisles, my head against his chest, his heartbeat slow and careful like he was afraid it might give him away.
He had kissed my forehead and murmured,
"I'll come back. I always come back to you."
That was the last night i saw him alive.
Weeks passed.
I began leaving ramen for two on the kitchen counter.
I kept his side of the bed untouched.
I arranged his paintbrushes exactly how he liked them.
My friend teased me gently, "He's busy, Soo-min. Stop acting like a widow."
A widow.
The word clawed under my ribs, but i forced a smile.
I knew Ji-woo.
He wasn't careless.
He always answered.
Always.
Until he didn't.
I was in the art studio when i heard the news.
My phone buzzed once. A notification.
At first, i didn't look. I was painting a sunrise, soft pinks and muted golds, the kind i said, i wanted to see with him in Busan someday.
The second buzz made me glance down.
A journalist found dead…
Fall from rooftop…
Possible suicide…
My brush froze.
My heart did not.
I clicked the article.
I didn't breathe as i scrolled.
Then i saw the name.
Han Ji-woo.
The brush slipped from my hand.
Paint splattered across the canvas, red where there should have been gold. A cruel, accidental sunrise that looked more like a wound.
Someone in the studio asked me if i was alright.
I didn't answer.
I didn't scream.
I didn't faint.
I didn't even cry.
I just stood there, completely still, the world narrowing into something unbearably quiet.
Inside my chest, something ancient and fragile cracked, silently.
Later, Joon Ha, found me sitting on the floor, surrounded by spilled paints.
His voice trembled.
"Soo-min… I'm so sorry."
I blinked up at him.
"Are you sure?" I whispered.
His silence was the confirmation that destroyed me.
I didn't collapse.
I didn't rage.
I simply whispered, so softly that even the air felt ashamed to carry it:
"He promised me he'd come back."
I turned back to the ruined canvas, the sunrise that would never be finished and touched the smear of red with trembling fingers.
"He promised me a city where no one knew our names.
But now the world knows his…
as a headline."
That was the first moment i realized:
Some waits never end.
Some promises are buried before they break.
And some loves, the quiet ones, don't survive the silence that follows a fall.
Present
Mirae's Pov
I woke up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The suffocating kind.
Eun-woo usually texted me good morning, even when he left. A simple message:
"I'm here. Don't overthink."
But today, nothing.
I checked my notifications again.
And again.
And again.
Still nothing.
My chest tightened.
I dialed his number.
The number you are trying to call is unavailable.
I tried again.
And again.
My hand started shaking.
"Where are you?" I whispered to the empty room.
At first, i thought i was overreacting, like i always did, like everyone always accused me of.
I paced the apartment.
Checked the window.
Checked my phone.
Refreshed his location.
No signal.
A cold, slick dread crawled up my spine.
I called every hospital that i know, in Zurich.
"No record of that name, ma'am."
"It's just a question," i snapped. "Check again!"
But every answer was the same.
Nothing.
No Eun-woo.
No reassurance.
No explanation.
Just silence.
The kind that eats you alive.
The flashbacks came uninvited.
Our last moment before he left, my voice too loud, his too soft.
"You don't understand how hard it is!" I had yelled.
He didn't yell back.
He never yelled.
He only cupped my cheek and said,
"I do understand. That's why I will leave."
Then he smiled, that gentle, maddening smile that made me feel seen and loved and exposed.
"I'll be back. Always."
I had believed him.
I clung to that promise like a lifeline.
But lifelines break.
In the bathroom, i saw his toothbrush still in the holder blue, worn at the edges.
His jacket still on the hook.
His coffee mug still on the counter ,the one he drank from every morning.
My breath hitched.
I reached for the mug, fingers trembling.
It was cold.
Completely cold.
Something inside me snapped.
The mug fell.
Shattered.
I stared at the pieces.
My reflection in the glass of the cabinet looked wrong, eyes too wide, breaths too quick, a face i didn't recognize.
I touched the mirror.
It felt like touching someone else's life.
I slammed my fist into it.
Cracks spidered across the surface, splitting my reflection into fragments.
I didn't break the mirror out of rage.
I broke it because,I was terrified i was disappearing.
My breath shook.
My knees buckled.
I curled on the bathroom floor, arms wrapped around herself.
"He said he'd never leave.
But the silence is louder than any goodbye."
And that was the moment i understood:
Losing someone isn't always about death.
Sometimes it's about the unbearable echo of an unanswered phone call.
I sat by my broken mirror, clutching Eun-woo's jacket.
But one truth tied me:
I was just waiting for ghost.
The moon rose quietly, as if observing a moment of silence for the living.
"Some people don't die when they fall.
They die when the world forgets they were ever standing."