60

I ran like a coward with good shoes.

Which, honestly, felt worse than running barefoot—because it meant I’d planned to be a functional adult that day and still chose emotional self-sabotage. Impressive. Truly.

I didn’t even know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay there, couldn’t stand in front of a man who had just looked at me like I was a forever decision and not a temporary mistake.

So I walked.

And walked.

And then dramatically slumped onto the edge of a sidewalk like a heroine from a very low-budget tragedy.

God.

He proposed.

Like—proposed proposed.

Not a joke. Not a hypothetical. Not a “someday, maybe, if the stars align and you stop being feral.” No. This man pulled out commitment like it was a weapon and aimed it straight at my chest.

And I ran.

I dropped my head into my hands and groaned.

“Nice going, Kang Haerin,” I muttered. “Peak romance. Ten out of ten. Would recommend fleeing again.”

My phone buzzed.

I flinched so hard I nearly threw it.

Nothing. Just a food delivery notification. Apparently, the universe thought now was a good time to remind me that someone was still willing to bring me comfort without emotional expectations. Bless capitalism.

I leaned back against the cool wall behind me and stared at the sky.

Why did he do that?

No—worse.

Why did he do it so calmly?

No trembling hands.

No panic.

No “please don’t leave me.”

Just certainty.

And that was the problem.

I could handle desperation. I could handle chaos. I could even handle anger—I’d built my spine around surviving that. But someone being sure about me? Someone choosing me without flinching first?

Absolutely not. Immediate system failure.I laughed once, sharp and humorless.

“Marriage,” I whispered. “Of course.”Of course it had to be him. Of course the one man who didn’t need me to shrink, beg, perform, or bleed for affection was the one who decided to make me his whole future.

I scrubbed my face hard.

I wasn’t scared of him.

That was the sick part.

I was scared of how easy it felt to imagine waking up next to him for the rest of my life. Scared of how my brain didn’t scream when I pictured it. Scared of how my body didn’t brace for impact.I missed him already.

Which was insane. I’d known him for—what—long enough to ruin each other’s nervous systems but not long enough to justify this level of emotional dependency? And yet here I was, checking my phone like a loser, half-expecting him to text Come back or I’m sorry or I pushed too far.

He didn’t.

And somehow that hurt more.

Because of course he didn’t chase me. Of course he didn’t demand an answer or corner me into one. He was the kind of man who would sit still and let silence do its work, even if it killed him a little.I hugged my knees to my chest.

“Idiot,” I told myself. “You finally find someone who won’t leave—and you sprint.”

I imagined his face. Not angry. Not cold. Just… disappointed, maybe. Or worse—understanding.

That thought punched harder than any rejection ever had.

I exhaled slowly.

I wasn’t running because I didn’t love him.I was running because I did.

Because love like that rewires things. It demands permanence. Accountability. Showing up even when you’re terrified. And I’d spent so long surviving that I’d forgotten how to stay.

My throat tightened.

“I hate this,” I whispered. “I hate you for being good to me.”

And because the universe enjoys irony, that was the exact moment my chest ached for him the most.

For his voice.

For the way he said my name like it mattered.

For how he never let me flinch without noticing.

I wiped my eyes roughly, scowling at absolutely nothing.

“I am not crying over a man who proposed,” I declared. “I am processing.”The tear that slipped down anyway did not respect my authority.

I laughed again, watery this time.God help me.

I didn’t want a life where I kept running away from good things.

And for the first time, that thought didn’t feel like a weakness.

It felt like a choice waiting to be made.

•••

The next morning, Jungkook didn’t look at me.

Correction: he looked at me exactly once — professionally, neutrally, like I was a competent colleague and not the woman who had bolted after he asked her to marry him.

It hurt worse than yelling. At this point, just fucking yell at me. That way, at least there would be some emotion to make sure he hadn't turned into a robot overnight. What was making me even more mad was that this bastard didn't even call me at night or anytime. He was simply withdrawing like I had farted and he couldn't breathe. I hated how good he was at pulling this professional face in the face of all these dumbass people. Nobody would even guess that this man was simping over my skirt yesterday.

He was being way too professional.

I noticed it the moment I stepped into the office. Not because he ignored me dramatically. No. That would’ve been easier. He didn’t avoid me either. That would’ve meant something.

He simply… gave me space.

Like a gentleman.

Like a fool.

Like a man who had heard no without me even saying it.

I sat at my desk, booted up my system, logged in, logged out, logged back in because I’d typed my password wrong the first time (twice), and waited.

Nothing.

No message.

No “did you reach home?”

No “are you okay?”

My phone stayed disrespectfully silent and so did Cirq. For a quick dogish second, I almost Cirq'd him to ask what the hell was up with his fucking head. But I pulled back, staring so hard at the screen that Mirae asked me if I had some work with Jungkook.

I shut my system and rushed to the pantry instead because I couldn't take it. I couldn't take the space. I wanted to kick everyone like a crazy bitch. Lose control. Please someone get me a rage room.

He wasn't in the pantry to get coffee. I took coffee alone and sat alone like a stupid woman. I felt utterly disgusted with myself and at the same time I was impressed that I had so much ego. I could spare it for the entire building. With the kind of ego I had, I could ruin a humble person. Yeah right. That's what I was supposed to be thinking right now instead of the current pathetic situation.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, sipping my coffee like a villain. “That’s fine. Totally fine. This is what adults do. They propose, get emotionally clotheslined, and then act like they’re filing taxes together.”

I threw the coffee cup back inside the can and marched back to the floor, angrily sitting on my system and working like I was working to death. The numbers blurred. I even scolded Seulgi and Jimin for messing something up. The team meeting didn't go well either. It was all chaos and nothing else. Just a round of me being frustrated at everyone.

Ten minutes later, I tried to get up and immediately tripped on my own chair.

Mirae looked up. “You okay?”

“Yep,” I said from the floor. “Just testing gravity.” I patted the floor like I was really testing it as I slowly stood up. I know. What the fuck was this even supposed to mean?

I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and absolutely did not glance toward the elevator that led to Jungkook’s floor as I fled from the scene. I even heard Mirae laugh in the back at the way I fell but bye bye shame, hello shamelessness.

I did glance again thirty seconds later towards the elevator to make sure I wasn't dreaming that I was getting blatantly cock blocked by my boyfriend.

Still nothing.

He wasn’t hovering. He wasn’t watching. He wasn’t even pretending to need coffee from our pantry. Fuck this shit.

Oh.

So that’s how we’re doing this.

I spent the next hour being profoundly useless. I think Neureva cried a little because of the way I was working. I wouldn't even mind if they cut my salary for the day because of how useless I was.

I sent an email without an attachment.Replied “Thanks, noted” to the wrong thread.

Accidentally waved at a man who was just scratching his head.

I was beginning to think that the world was against me so I resigned to work that I could review later when I was not in need for an asylum admission. I was getting hopeful that maybe everything would be fine at work but no. I had one more downfall in my checkbox.

At eleven, Mr Min called me into his cabin.

“Sit,” he said, pushing a file toward me. “There’s a managerial opening in Operations. Different department. Good exposure. I want you to apply.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” He paused. “You’ve outgrown this role.”

Great. My career chose today to evolve. Maybe this was my chance. Become a manager and ask to be moved to another country, away from Jungkook's life and proposal.

"Mom," I began in a quick tone and immediately backtracked when I saw Mr Min's face. He looked like I had just told him I was his new stepmother.

"I mean, Mr Min. Mr Min!" I corrected desperately. He didn't say a word for a second but just burst out laughing.

"That's quite alright, Haerin. You need some affection today, I guess." He laughed, inadvertently dancing on the grave of my pride.

“I’ll apply,” I said quickly, nodding like someone who had her life together. I wasn't even thinking. "I'll apply and let you know."

I left his cabin like my ass was on fire. I didn't even consider the fact that I was supposed to wait. I didn't want the manager shit here. Wait. I did. But I hadn't thought this through.

I sat at my desk, opened the internal portal… and applied wrong.

Very wrong.

I uploaded my CV where the cover letter was supposed to go.

Typed my current designation as “Assistant Mamager."

And, somehow, selected Marketing instead of Operations.

I stared at the confirmation screen.

“…Okay,” I whispered, clutching my hair. “We’re spiralling.”

By lunchtime, I’d convinced myself of something truly impressive:That Jungkook had proposed impulsively, regretted it overnight, and was now quietly disengaging.

Rational? No.

Believable to my trauma? Absolutely.

I saw him once — across the atrium — laughing with someone from his team. His sleeves were rolled up. He looked relaxed. Fine. Unbothered.

Like a man who hadn’t just cracked open someone’s heart and asked to live there forever.

I looked away too fast and walked straight into a glass door.

“Haerin!” Seokjin rushed over. “Goodness—are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, clutching my dignity, which was bleeding internally. “Door attacked first.”

By evening, my head ached from holding everything in.

I didn’t cry at the office. I was very proud of that.

I waited until the bus ride home.

I took the window seat, pressed my forehead against the glass, and let it quietly fall apart.

I wasn’t mad at him.

That was the worst part.

I was mad at myself — for running, for not answering, for assuming his respect meant disinterest.

He was giving me space because he loved me.

And I was hurting because I wanted him to ignore my fear and choose me anyway.

The bus jerked forward.

I wiped my cheeks quickly, sniffling, laughing under my breath at how ridiculous I was.

“Get it together,” I told my reflection. “You literally got proposed to.”

But the truth sat heavy in my chest all the way home:

I didn’t want space.

I wanted him.

And tomorrow, if I didn’t find the courage to say that—

I might lose him without either of us ever choosing to leave.

By the time I reached home, my brain had decided that the best coping mechanism was dissociation mixed with administrative panic.

Because apparently, I had an interview.

An actual interview.

For a managerial position.

In another department.

Which I had applied to wrong.

I stared at my laptop like it had personally betrayed me. How the fuck had a marriage proposal ended me up in a managerial interview? Seemed fucked up in every sense.

“Okay,” I muttered, rolling up my sleeves. “We can fix this. We’re educated. We’ve survived worse.”

Like being proposed to and running away like a Victorian heroine with asthma.

I opened the interview mail again.

Read it twice.

Then a third time because my brain kept skipping words.

Panel interview.

Case study.

Cross-functional assessment.

Lovely. Just delightful.

I texted Bo Ah in hurried panic for some relief even though I knew that her department wasn't intellectually sound.

Me: do u know how to prep for a managerial interview

Bo Ah: wow. growth.

Me: don’t do this

Bo Ah: no 💀 I’ll ask JaeHwan

Great. Now my fate rested in the hands of a man who once tried to microwave ice cream to see what would happen.

I opened my notes, then closed them. Opened Google, typed how to be a manager when you are emotionally unstable, deleted that immediately, and typed something respectable.

My phone buzzed.

Not Jungkook.

Of course not Jungkook.

It was someone from another department.

“Hey,” he said when I picked up. “Mr Min told me you’re interviewing?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “Against my will.”

She laughed. “I can send you the framework we used last year.”

I could’ve cried. “Please. I’ll name my first child after you.”

“Pass,” she said quickly. “But yeah. I’ll mail it.”

Ten minutes later, the mail came.

Twenty slides. Dense. Corporate. Soulless.

I scrolled through them, my soul slowly leaving my body.

This is when I realised something deeply unfair:

Jungkook would’ve been perfect at helping me with this.

Not because he was smarter.

But because he knew how my brain worked.

He knew I panicked before big things.Knew I overprepared the wrong way.

Knew when to cut through bullshit and when to let me spiral for five minutes before intervening.

I slammed my laptop shut.

“Stop,” I told myself. “We’re not doing this.”

I reopened it thirty seconds later.By midnight, I was still stuck on one stupid question:

How would you handle interdepartmental conflict?

I stared at it until the words lost meaning.Honestly? I would be the reason for the conflict because I clicked on the wrong fucking phishing link or something. Then maybe, I'd argue with the man in charge and get kicked out of the company for using abusive words on a Zoom call.

That was the exact way I was going to resolve the conflict. By making it worse enough to be historical.

But I couldn't write that. I couldn't say that to the interviewer. Mr Min and Neureva would spit on me.

I sighed as I fell back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Tears sped out of my eyes. I was so tired. I was tired of running because this seemed like the perfect time for my life to pull a Jong Suk on me.

Wait. Jong Suk.

Jong Suk was the perfect man to help me with a managerial interview.

I was going fucking stupid.

He was a fucking married man now. How the hell was I even thinking of contacting him with the way he left? Dignity? Unchecked.

I stared at the ceiling, crying to myself in the silence because if my mom heard, she would kick my ass and get me married first thing. Was I stupid to run? Jungkook was maybe stupid to take things so fast and ask me to marry me. I mean, I did know him for almost a year now but I only have dated him for a month. That does not seem sane to get married. Why the fuck was he acting like he knew me for longer? Well, he did like me from the start. I was the one who was late to get my feelings. I only hated him at the start of this.

Maybe I should tell him to back the fuck up and give me space. And when he was giving me space I was going crazy.

The next day at office was… worse.

Because now I was actively looking for him.

And he was actively not looking back.He stayed on his floor.

Sent emails instead of walking over.CC’d people like a model citizen.

It felt deliberate.

And I hated myself for resenting him for doing the right thing.

During lunch, I escaped to the stairwell with my notes, pretending this was a productive choice and not avoidance.I sat on the steps, knees pulled to my chest, muttering bullet points under my breath.

“Stakeholder alignment,” I whispered.“Transparent communication.”

“Proactive mitigation.”

I sounded like a fraud.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I frowned and answered. “Hello?”

“Miss Kang,” a polite voice said. “This is HR Operations. We noticed a discrepancy in your application—”

My soul left my body again.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “That was me. The discrepancy.”

There was a pause.

“…Right. We’ve corrected it internally. Also, you’ll be receiving a case prompt by evening.”

“Oh,” I said faintly. “Great.”

They hung up.

I sat there for a full minute, then laughed softly into my sleeve.

Of course.

Of course this was happening.

I trudged back to my desk, where a new mail was already waiting.

Case Prompt: Data Breach Response Strategy.

I froze.

This wasn’t a coincidence. This was his domain. Cybersecurity. Incident response.

Containment strategy.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.I did not want to owe him anything.I especially didn’t want to need him.But I needed help.

So I did the most humiliating thing possible.

I asked Namjoon.

Namjoon stared at the screen for a solid thirty seconds. “This… is above my pay grade.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “Love that for me.”

He hesitated. “I mean—Jungkook’s team usually handles these.”

“I know,” I snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. Not snapping at you. Snapping at the universe.”

Namjoon scratched his head. “I can ask around. Discreetly.”

“Please,” I said. “Discreet is my middle name.”

(It was not.)

By evening, a miracle occurred.

A mail landed in my inbox.

No sender name. Internal ID masked.

Subject line: Framework – For Reference Only.

I opened it. Clean. Concise. Annotated.Not just answers — thinking paths. My throat tightened. This was him. Not overt. Not crossing lines. Just… there. Helping without asking permission. I hated how relieved I felt. I hated how grateful I was.I hated how my fingers trembled as I scrolled. He knew exactly what I’d struggle with.

Even now.

Especially now.

I closed the mail and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“Asshole,” I whispered. “You couldn’t just stay in your lane, could you?”

I worked through the framework slowly, adding my own voice, my own decisions.

By the time I was done, it felt… solid. Not perfect. But mine.

As I packed up to leave, my phone buzzed again.

A message.

From him.

Jungkook: HR will focus more on decision-making logic than technical depth. Don’t overexplain.

That was it. No emoji. No warmth. No apology. Just guidance.

I stared at the screen, heart doing something deeply inconvenient. I typed and deleted like a damn teenager who didn't know communication.

After five minutes of leaving him on seen, I typed the most disgustingly formal thing I could.

Me: Thanks.

Three seconds passed.

No reply.

I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag, walking out of the building with a strange ache sitting right behind my ribs.He was still here.

Still choosing me.

Just… from a distance.

And somehow, that hurt more than if he’d walked away completely.

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious.

Probably both.

And that, unfortunately, was where I went to sleep that night — armed with a solid interview plan, a bruised heart, and a man who loved me enough to step back…even when I didn’t want him to.