The message arrived at 3:17 a.m.
A quiet hour.
The kind where the world is between breaths, when loneliness sounds the loudest and truth looks you straight in the eye.
But Joon-ha didn't see it.
Not then.
At 3:17 a.m., he was slumped on the couch, still wearing yesterday's shirt, the fabric wrinkled with exhaustion. The television was on, muted, replaying the same footage that had taken over every screen in the country, his father being escorted out in handcuffs, eyes vacant, surrounded by a sea of cameras and accusations.
Justice, the anchors kept saying.
Justice, the headlines screamed.
Justice, the city whispered as if the word alone could put the ghosts to sleep.
But inside his penthouse, justice felt like dust settling over rubble.
Stillness.
That was the only thing that lived there now.
When morning crept in through the blinds, his phone buzzed once, a small, tired vibration, the kind that gets swallowed by silence.
It was 6:42 a.m. when he finally woke, neck stiff, eyes swollen, mind fogged from a sleep that felt more like collapse than rest.
He blinked.
Reached for his phone.
Ignored the news notifications.
Then he saw the message.
1 New Message, Areum
His stomach tightened.
He opened it.
" Joon-ha,
I'm sorry.
For everything I said. For everything I didn't. For staying too long. For leaving too late.
I know you don't hate me. But I also know you can't look at me without seeing everything that broke.
So I'm leaving the country. I won't say where. I don't want you to feel obligated to follow.
This isn't punishment. It's mercy. For both of us.
You deserve to rebuild without the weight of me.
Thank you for loving me when I didn't know how to be loved.
Goodbye, Joon-ha.
Areum"
He stared at the message.
No breath.
No movement.
Just the heavy sound of something inside him sinking , a slow, quiet descent, like a ship finally giving in to the ocean.
He didn't think.
He just got up.
The world blurred as soon as he stepped outside.
He didn't grab a jacket.
Didn't comb his hair.
Didn't take a second to convince himself it was worth trying, that he was allowed to chase something that had already turned away.
He simply ran.
The car ride was chaos:
red lights he didn't remember stopping at, traffic he swerved through, streets that flashed by in streaks of gray and silver.
He didn't know her flight number.
Didn't know the airline.
Didn't know where she was going.
He only knew she was leaving today, now, this morning.
And he wasn't ready.
Not to stop her.
Not to beg her to stay.
Not even to promise a future.
He just wanted to see her once more.
To say something that sounded like the truth, not silence disguised as strength.
His heart thudded painfully, in rhythm with a phrase looping through his mind:
Don't let her disappear.
Not like Ji-woo.
Not like the years he lost.
Not like the innocence he wasted on loyalty.
Not like everything else.
He ran through the airport until his lungs burned.
People stared.
He didn't care.
He reached the departure board, eyes scanning frantically, searching for anything that felt like her.
Then the blinking letters came into focus:
Flight 7A — Departed
Gate 14 — Closed
The world slowed.
His knees nearly buckled.
He placed his hands on them, gasping for breath, but it wasn't the running that winded him.
She was gone.
Not dead.
Not stolen.
Not unreachable.
But gone in the cruelest, softest way, by choice.
And somehow, that cut deeper.
Loss by fate is tragedy.
Loss by choice is rejection.
His heart didn't shatter.
It simply sagged, like a door finally giving up its hinges.
For the first time, he understood what Soo min meant when she once said:
"Some people leave gently, and somehow that hurts more than all the ones who slam the door."
His phone vibrated again.
He looked down.
Another message from her.
I left something for you. Rooftop. One last thing. Then let me go.
He closed his eyes.
Not in pain, in acceptance.
She hadn't just left.
She had prepared her own ending.
Her own farewell.
Her own mercy.
He stood there in the middle of the airport, surrounded by languages he didn't understand, people rushing toward their futures, and departure gates that all felt like metaphors for losing someone.
Then he turned around.
And drove back.
The rooftop was silent.
The morning light spilled across the concrete, soft and gold, the kind of light that makes endings look deceptively gentle.
The rooftop light, the one Soo-min always kept on for Ji-woo, was still glowing.
Symbolism.
Memory.
Echoes of every person he had failed to keep.
A small envelope sat on the ledge, held down by a white camellia.
The flower of longing.
Of admiration.
Of the kind of love that doesn't suffocate.
He approached it slowly.
As if any sudden movement might erase what was left of her.
He picked up the envelope.
Opened it.
Inside was a sketch.
Of him.
Not the version the world saw.
Not the heir, the scandal, the son of a monster.
Just Joon-ha.
Tired eyes.
Ink on his fingers.
A softness he forgot he still had.
He flipped the page.
Her handwriting covered the back:
You were never the villain.
You were the boy who tried to hold on.
And I will spend the rest of my life remembering that.
He felt something inside him crack, not violently, but quietly, like ice breaking under the weight of truth.
He pressed the drawing to his chest.
And for the first time since Ji-woo's death…
Since Soo-min's smile faded into silence…
Since his father's empire collapsed…
He allowed himself to cry.
Really cry.
Not the silent, angry tears he hid from everyone.
But the kind of crying that empties a person.
That confesses without words.
That cleans the wounds you've pretended didn't exist.
He cried not because she left.
But because she loved him enough to go.
Because love doesn't always hold on.
Sometimes love steps back
so you can finally breathe.
Night fell softly.
The city pulsed below, neon lights flickering, cars humming, life moving forward as if the world hadn't ended for him that morning.
He sat on the rooftop floor, sketchbook resting on his lap.
For once, he didn't draw from memory.
He drew from feeling.
A silhouette at an airport gate.
A white camellia on concrete.
A boy kneeling under blinking letters that spelled "Departed."
He didn't know where she was.
Didn't know if she'd ever return.
But for the first time, he understood something:
Some goodbyes aren't punishments.
They're compass needles.
Pointing you back to yourself.
Some endings aren't endings.
They're doors you're finally brave enough to close.
And some love stories
The real ones
Don't depend on reunion.
They survive on the courage
to let go
before you destroy each other.
He closed his sketchbook.
Exhaled.
And whispered into the night:
"Thank you… for leaving me softly."
Chapter 39 / 47
Note: My new novel "velvet devotion" is coming out on 17th November 2025
It's not the book 2 of this novel but it includes some characters from this novel which are, Kim Ara and Detective Choi.