The television murmured in the background, its light flickering across the living room like a restless pulse. Ha-yoon wasn't really watching at first. She was half-rocking Ye-joon on her lap, humming without sound, the way mothers do when their minds are elsewhere but their bodies remember what to do.
The reporter's voice sharpened.
"…has officially announced his resignation this morning, citing personal reasons and health concerns...."
Ha-yoon stilled.
Her fingers tightened around the cup in her hand, then loosened without her noticing. The ceramic slipped. For a second it hovered, weightless, as if reconsidering. Then it fell.
The sound was too loud in the quiet room.
Tea spread across the floor in a slow, dark bloom. Ye-joon startled, blinking up at her with wide, confused eyes. Ha-yoon didn't move. She stared at the television now, really stared, as the screen filled with his face, older somehow, thinner, composed in that careful way he'd learned over the years.
He stood behind a podium, shoulders straight, jaw set. A man performing strength.
"Daddy?" Ye-joon murmured, tugging at her sleeve.
Ha-yoon swallowed. Her throat felt tight, as if something were lodged there that refused to move. She reached for her phone with hands that didn't quite feel like her own.
One call.
No answer.
She tried again. Straight to voicemail.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't leave a message. She didn't know what she would say that wouldn't sound like fear.
She turned back to the television. The reporter continued, voice smooth, rehearsed.
"Sources close to him say the decision was unexpected...."
Unexpected. The word felt wrong, like a lie wrapped in politeness.
On the screen, he stepped away from the podium. For just a moment, so brief it could have been imagined, his hand brushed the edge of the table, fingers curling as if for balance.
Ha-yoon noticed.
She always noticed.
__________________
His office was quiet in a way that felt intentional, like he had stripped it of sound on purpose. The blinds were half-drawn, sunlight cutting the room into neat lines that didn't quite reach him.
He opened the drawer slowly.
The divorce papers lay exactly where he'd left them, crisp, untouched, waiting.
He took them out and placed them on the desk, smoothing the edge with care. The pen lay beside them. He picked it up, adjusted his grip, then paused.
For a long time, he didn't move.
He stared at his name printed in black ink, neat and official. The space for his signature waited patiently, as if it had all the time in the world.
His fingers tightened around the pen.
Then loosened.
He exhaled through his nose, a short, controlled breath. Not yet, he thought. Or maybe he thought, I don't know how.
When he finally signed, it wasn't dramatic. No trembling hand. No tear falling onto the page. Just a quiet, precise motion, practiced like everything else he'd learned to do without complaint.
He slid the papers back into the drawer and closed it.
The click sounded final anyway.
______________
Ha-yoon went into their bedroom later, intending to distract herself with small, ordinary tasks. Sorting laundry. Straightening the bedside table. Anything that felt normal.
She opened the drawer on his side, looking for a charger.
Instead, a thin folder slipped free.
It fell to the floor and opened on impact.
White paper. Black text. Words that didn't belong in a home like theirs.
She knelt slowly, heart beginning to pound as she read.
Diagnosis. Neurological impairment. Progressive.
Her hands shook as she turned the page. Medical language stripped of softness, sentences that didn't care how much they hurt. Dates. Tests. Notes scribbled in the margins.
She pressed a hand to her mouth.
"Oh," she whispered, like the word might soften the blow. "Oh."
It made sense now, the missed calls, the silences, the way he'd been watching her lately like someone memorizing a place they were about to leave.
She sat on the floor with the papers spread around her, Ye-joon playing around her, unaware that something fragile had just cracked open.
________________
He came home late.
The house was dim, quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. He paused at the door, listening, bracing himself for questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Ha-yoon stood in the living room, the folder in her hands.
He froze.
"How long?" she asked quietly.
He looked at the papers, then at her. For a moment, he considered lying. He was good at it. He'd practiced silence until it felt like a language.
"Long enough," he said instead.
She stepped closer. "Why didn't you tell me?"
His jaw tightened. "Because I didn't want you to look at me differently."
"I already do," she said, voice breaking. "I look at you and I see you pulling away. I see you disappearing."
He laughed softly, without humor. "You make it sound so dramatic."
"It is dramatic," she said. "You resigned. You stopped answering your phone. You signed..." She stopped herself, breath catching.
He turned away.
"I'm not leaving," he said. "I'm just… making things easier."
"For who?" she asked.
"For you."
The word landed between them, heavy and unwanted.
"I don't want to be something you have to carry," he continued. "I don't want Ye-joon growing up watching his mother sacrifice everything because his father couldn't..."
"Stop," she said. "Just stop."
She reached for him, but he stepped back instinctively, as if touch itself might tip him over.
"I'm still here," she said. "I married you. All of you. Even the parts that scare you."
He shook his head. "You say that now."
"And you don't get to decide what I can bear," she replied. "You don't get to erase yourself and call it kindness."
His shoulders sagged then, the first real crack in the armor. He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
"I'm afraid," he admitted, voice barely audible. "I'm afraid of waking up one day and not being able to stand. Of needing help to do things I used to do without thinking. I'm afraid of watching you become tired."
She knelt in front of him, forcing him to look at her.
"I'm already tired," she said gently. "Not because of you. Because I love you."
Tears filled his eyes, silent and furious.
"I don't want to be a burden," he whispered.
"You're not," she said. "You're my husband."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Ye-joon's soft breathing drifted from the other room, a reminder of the life they were still living, fragile and unfinished.
He reached for her hand. His grip faltered for just a second before tightening again.
She noticed.
She always would.
And she held on anyway.