I couldn't breathe. The apartment felt smaller than ever, the walls pressing in, suffocating me. The memory of that old insult, sharp and cruel, flashed in my mind: "Betas are useless." It was from middle school, a taunt I had buried deep, but tonight, for some reason, it clawed its way to the surface. My chest tightened, stomach twisting, and I felt panic rise like a tidal wave.
I bolted. My feet pounded against the floor as I shoved past the couch, past the doorway, past everything familiar. "I can't… I can't…" I muttered under my breath, voice trembling. My hands shook. My carefully practiced smile—the one Dohyun loved—felt useless, like a fragile mask crumbling in my grip.
The door slammed behind me. Night air hit my face, cold and sharp, making my tears sting. I ran down the street without direction, letting my legs carry me wherever they would. My heart thumped violently, and I could barely catch my breath.
This can't happen. Not now. Not with him.
I sank against a lamppost, knees to my chest, shaking. My eyes blurred with tears, hot and salty. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, feeling utterly small. I can't let him see me break. I won't.
"Jihwa?"
The voice made my chest constrict even more. I turned slightly, heart pounding, and there he was—Dohyun—standing a few feet away, looking worried but cautious. His eyes scanned me, soft and gentle, and I felt a pang of guilt twist in my gut.
"I… I didn't mean to scare you," he said softly, stepping closer. "I just—please, please don't run away from me."
I pressed my face into my knees, biting the inside of my lip to stop the shaking from showing. "I… I need… I need air," I whispered, barely audible.
Dohyun knelt a little distance from me, careful not to crowd me. "I get it," he said gently. "I know… I know I can be… overwhelming sometimes. But I never want to hurt you, Jihwa. Not ever."
I shook my head violently, tears spilling over. "You don't understand… it's not just you!" I whispered, voice cracking. "It's… it's me. Everything… everything I am…" My voice broke into a sob.
Dohyun's brows are knitted, concerned with sharpening his features. "Jihwa, hey… look at me, please."
I hesitated, forcing my eyes to meet his, hiding the worst of my trembling behind the faintest mask of my smile. "I… I'm fine," I lied, voice weak but steady. "Really. Don't worry."
He tilted his head, frowning, eyes searching mine. "You're not fine."
"I…" I swallowed hard, clenching my fists against my chest. "I can't… not now… I just… can't…"
He sighed, voice softening even more, kneeling a little closer. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize I was being selfish. I shouldn't have pushed. I just… I like having you around, Jihwa. I like being here with you. But I should have thought about how you feel too."
I swallowed, chest tight. My lips curved into a small, faint smile, the one mask I could still hold onto. Not for him. Not yet. For me.
He paused, eyes locking onto that smile. "You're smiling," he said softly, almost a whisper. "Even now… even when you're upset… you still smile at me?"
I shrugged lightly, letting my smile widen just enough to tease him, though my heart was breaking inside. "It's… easier this way," I said. "If I smile, maybe everything doesn't feel so heavy. Maybe it's not as bad as it feels."
Dohyun reached out slowly, hand hovering near mine, careful, hesitant. "Jihwa… can I…?"
I shook my head just slightly, keeping the faint grin in place. "Not yet," I whispered. "Not… not now."
He nodded slowly, swallowing, lips pressed together. Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, the night air wrapping around us. He didn't move, didn't speak, just stayed there, waiting, giving me space while still showing he cared.
I didn't speak again. I didn't run. I just let him be there, silent and patient, while I tried to gather the pieces of myself scattered across the pavement.
For now… the smile would do.
I woke early, chest still tight, the echo of last night's panic lingering like a storm cloud over me. My stomach churned, my heart raced. Every nerve in my body tensed, expecting confrontation, expecting something worse.
I rose quietly, careful not to make a sound. The apartment was still, too still.. I sank into the chair at the kitchen table, tracing the rim of my mug with my finger. My hands shook slightly, and I bit my lip, forcing a steadying breath.
A few minutes later, Dohyun appeared. He looked tired, hair mussed from sleep, eyes heavy—but he moved carefully, as if trying to avoid setting off any more tension between us. I looked up at him and, without thinking too hard, let my lips curve into a faint smile.
Not for him. For me.
"Morning," I said lightly, voice airy. "Coffee's ready."
He glanced at me, but he didn't comment on my smile. He didn't linger on it, didn't ask if I was okay. He simply nodded and moved to the counter, quietly making himself a cup of coffee.
I watched him, the tension in my chest tightening. I wanted him to see that I was okay, that I wasn't fragile, but at the same time… I didn't want to force anything. So I kept smiling, faint and careful, deliberately giving nothing away.
He set the coffee down and sighed softly. "Jihwa…" His voice was low, careful, as if testing the air. "I… I'm sorry. Last night, I was selfish. I shouldn't have pushed you. I—"
I shook my head slowly, keeping my smile in place. "It's fine," I said lightly, almost breezy. "Really. Don't worry about it."
He pressed his lips together, nodding. His eyes flicked briefly to mine, but didn't linger on the smile. "I'll… try to be better," he said quietly, more to himself than to me. "I shouldn't have been so pushy. I… I was wrong."
I tilted my head, lips curving a little more. "Good. That's… all I needed to hear."
We drank our coffee in silence after that. The air was thick, taut, heavy with things unsaid. I let my faint smile stay, a mask to ease the tension, though inside my chest still ached. Dohyun never once mentioned it, didn't acknowledge it, and I didn't expect him to. That was fine.
Because for now… the silence, the calm, and my carefully held smile were enough. Enough to survive the morning, enough to pretend the storm hadn't happened, enough to protect the fragile thread between us.
I would let it go. I had no intention of shattering the fragile trust we were rebuilding.
The days after our quiet understanding had started to feel heavier. Dohyun was here—physically—but somehow further away. His presence was no longer warm or comforting. He moved around the apartment with that same careful, quiet energy, but the air between us had changed. It felt taut, like a string stretched too far, ready to snap.
I tried not to notice at first, convincing myself it was my imagination. But little things added up: the way he lingered less at the table during breakfast, how he avoided sitting close to me on the couch, the way his eyes seemed distant, even when I spoke directly to him.
"Hey…" I called softly one morning, watching him pour coffee, his back to me. "Are you okay?"
He didn't turn immediately. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, his expression was calm, but there was a quiet tension beneath it. "…Yeah. Just tired," he said, voice clipped, almost dismissive.
I hesitated. My chest tightened. Just tired? That's all? I forced a small smile, trying to hide the anxiety curling in my stomach. "You've seemed… different lately." My voice was gentle, careful, almost testing the waters.
Dohyun's hands froze on the mug. "…I'm fine," he said finally, avoiding eye contact. His tone was short, distant, like a door closing softly but firmly between us.
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. Different… yes. Distant… yes. But why? I tried to remind myself not to panic, not to push, but my fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the table.
For the rest of the morning, silence hovered like a thick fog. I watched him move through the apartment: folding laundry, rinsing dishes, scrolling on his phone. Every small sound felt amplified, every glance at me weighted with something unspoken.
I wanted to reach out, to touch his hand or brush a strand of hair from his face. But I stopped. My smile stayed, faint and careful, masking the storm inside me. I can't push him. I won't. Not yet.
Still, the ache in my chest refused to fade. I poured myself another cup of coffee, hands trembling slightly, and stared at the steam curling upward. He's here, but he's not really here. And I… I don't know what to do with that.
When he finally sat down, he kept his distance, picking at his breakfast silently. I tried to speak, tried to fill the void. "Do you… want to watch something later? A movie, maybe?"
He shook his head lightly, eyes fixed on the plate. "…Not really."
I nodded, swallowing the tightness in my throat, letting my smile remain. It's okay. I'll wait. I'll be patient.
But inside, my heart ached. The smile was a shield, yes, but even the strongest shield couldn't stop the fear gnawing at me—the fear that the distance between us was growing too wide to bridge.
And yet, I kept it in place. I had to. For him. For me. For what little thread of connection remained.
Evening came, Dohyun sat on the couch, scrolling on his phone, his posture stiff, shoulders tense. I wanted to ask if he was tired, or upset, or just… pulling away. But I didn't.
Instead, I sat at the table, tracing the rim of my cup with my fingers, and let my smile stay in place. Bright, steady, safe.
After a long pause, I spoke softly, "Dinner's almost ready." My voice was calm, casual. Almost like nothing was wrong.
He glanced up briefly, then back at his phone. "Okay," he muttered. Short. Distant.
I felt the sting in my chest but didn't let it show. Not aloud. Not in my face. This is fine, I told myself. It's fine if he needs space. I can wait.
The meal passed with silence heavy in the air, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery. I tried not to notice the way he avoided looking at me, the way he kept his hands on his plate, the distance he placed between us. My chest tightened with every careful movement he made, every quiet refusal of connection.
Finally, I cleared my throat, keeping the smile in place. "You've been… quiet today."
His gaze flicked up for a brief second, hesitant, unreadable. "…I needed some space," he finally admitted, voice low, almost reluctant.
I nodded, lips still curved into the faintest smile. "I understand," I said gently. "We… We all need space sometimes. It's okay."
He studied me for a long moment, like he was measuring whether I was really okay with it. Then he nodded slightly, eyes dropping back to his plate. Silence returned, but it felt different this time. Less sharp. Less tense.
After a few minutes, I spoke again, softer, almost to myself: "I'll wait. I'll be patient. I… I want us to be okay, even if it takes time."
He didn't reply immediately, but I saw a small shift in his shoulders, a faint exhale, a subtle relaxation. He was still distant, yes, but he hadn't pulled entirely away. That small sign—so tiny, so fragile—was enough.
I smiled again, just a little brighter, and let the warmth of that small hope fill the hollow ache in my chest. I can do this. I'll hold on.
Because sometimes, holding on quietly, patiently, was the only way to protect what mattered most.
And that night, as I washed the dishes and felt his quiet presence somewhere in the apartment, a private thought: One day… maybe the distance will disappear. Until then, I'll keep smiling.