six

"staring at the ceiling in the dark, same old empty feeling in your heart." -let her go, passenger.

——

misun closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath.

the apartment was quiet. too quiet.

she kicked off her heels and walked slowly to her room, the lights dimmed. the familiar scent of home—faint laundry detergent and vanilla from a candle she'd never lit—made her chest ache.

she changed into her pajamas, the soft cotton brushing against her skin. every motion felt mechanical, but her mind wasn't in the room. it was back there—in the grocery store, in the moment when she had said his name.

jihoon.

the memory of him—the way he had looked at her, frozen for a second—made her chest tighten. her fingers flexed unconsciously, gripping the fabric of her pajama top.

a single tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.

she let herself cry for a few seconds, small sobs she thought she could hide in the quiet of her apartment. the ache in her chest was sharp, familiar, unbearable. she missed him. so much. every part of her did.

then she pressed her palms against her eyes, took a deep breath, and shook her head.

"no. i can't feel like this. not again. not now..."

her voice was barely above a whisper, but the conviction in it was fierce.

"i can't go through the same thing again. i can't let myself fall apart like that..."

she wiped her tears, forced a small, uneven smile at herself in the mirror, and sat on the edge of her bed.

her phone rested on the nightstand, silent and dark. she didn't want to look at it, didn't want to think about what she might say if she saw his name appear.

so she put it face down, and tried to distract herself—reading a book, humming a song, anything.

but the memory lingered. the way he had paused when he almost called her by the nickname he gave her... sunshine. the way his eyes had softened when he said her name.

it was too vivid. too real. too impossible to ignore.

meanwhile, jihoon sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner.

he should have gone to sleep hours ago, but he couldn't. sleep didn't come easy anymore.

he kept seeing her face—misun's face—in his mind. the way she had looked at him, the way she whispered his name, the soft light falling across her hair.

guilt tightened in his chest. every memory of leaving, of the words he hadn't said, pressed down on him like a weight he could never lift.

he wanted to reach for his phone.

he wanted to text her. just a simple message: hey, did you get home okay?

but then the questions began.

what if she changed her number? what if she doesn't want to hear from me? what if i disturb her? what if she still hates me?

each "what if" kept him frozen, thumb hovering over the screen, heart pounding.

he let out a long breath and tossed his phone onto the bed. the ceiling stared back at him.

she's fine. she's probably fine without me. he tried to convince himself.

she doesn't need me. she's okay. she's been fine for years.

but the ache in his chest told him otherwise. it screamed that he couldn't stop thinking about her. couldn't stop wanting to know if she was safe, if she was okay. couldn't stop wanting her in his life again.

he finally got up and paced the room, running a hand through his hair.

he wanted to call her. to text her. to hear her voice.

but doubt wrapped itself around him like chains.

he wasn't ready to risk the rejection, the possibility that she didn't want him in her life anymore.

so he stayed awake, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the city outside.

he couldn't sleep, and he couldn't stop thinking about her.

and somewhere in the night, they were both alone—each trapped in the same ache, the same longing, the same memories they weren't ready to face.