I always thought tragedies began loudly.
Sirens, screams, the screech of metal - something that steals your breath and makes your heart flinch.
The world, it seemed, should warn you when everything is about to collapse.
But mine began with a dull, ridiculous pop.
A pop.
Short, like someone slammed a door too hard.
Then - the screech of tires on wet asphalt, a crash, a scream, hurried footsteps.
And then - silence.
Not the kind that follows an argument, when you wait for an apology.
The kind no one ever comes back from.
***
I remember the smell of cinnamon.
The warmth of steam rising from a paper bag, leaving damp traces on my fingers.
Do‑yeon likes it when the rolls are still hot, when the sugar on top has just melted, and the cinnamon drifts like soft smoke.
I was rushing - soaked sneakers, uneven steps on the slick pavement.
Funny, just a few hours ago I had told him I wouldn't come. That he should let them cool. That I was tired.
And then… I couldn't resist.
The argument had been stupid.
Almost childish.
He said I was too stubborn. I said he was too sensitive.
We both went quiet, unsure who should apologize first.
And now I was running home with those warm rolls, as if everything we had depended on them.
The sky hung low, like a lid ready to close.
Streetlights reflected in the puddles, spreading gold across the streets, as if someone had spilled melted amber.
I looked left. Right.
Took a step.
Pop.
***
When I opened my eyes, there was no pain. No light.
Only thick silence - heavy, like a dream you can't wake from.
At first, I thought I was just dazed. That I only needed to stand, breathe, call for help.
But my knees wouldn't bend.
The air wouldn't obey.
My fingers felt nothing but a strange cold.
People moved around me.
Someone shouted.
Someone stood with a hand over their mouth.
A boy ran past with a phone, breathing fast, like someone who'd missed the last bus.
But I heard them as though through thick glass.
Voices blurred; words dissolved like wet ink on paper.
- "Move him! He's still-" A woman's voice trembled, and I never heard how it ended.
I followed her gaze.
On the wet asphalt, among shards of glass and twisted metal, someone lay.
A body.
I stepped forward - then another - without weight, without sound.
The streetlight above flickered, but no shadow appeared.
The light passed right through me.
The boy on the road…
He wore my sneakers.
My old jeans, worn at the knee.
The necklace Do‑yeon gave me on our first anniversary.
And his face - my face.
Only without breath.
Understanding didn't strike - it settled. Slowly. Coldly.
I was dead.
That's why no one could see me.
That's why the wind no longer touched my skin.
I was Cheon‑woo, who no longer existed.
***
How long had it been - a minute? An hour? A day?
I didn't know.
Time had fogged over like glass, traced by a finger that left no mark.
Everything flickered - people, cars, light.
I stood there while someone covered the body with black plastic.
While someone placed a warning cone.
While someone said, "Instant death, looks like."
And I kept trying to breathe, even though I knew I couldn't.
And yet, in all that gray chaos, one thought cut through the fog.
Do‑yeon.
I looked up - and through the night, I saw our windows.
Fifth floor.
Cream‑colored curtains.
Soft lamplight.
The home that always smelled of coffee and paint.
And suddenly, I was there.
I didn't walk.
I didn't open the door.
I simply - was.
***
He was sitting on the floor.
Right by the entrance, where he always complained I left my shoes scattered.
A blanket over his knees, tear marks dried unevenly on his cheeks.
In his hands - a frame.
The one with the painting I made of him at the piano.
He loved that painting.
Said I had captured the "moment he was truly alive."
Now there was no life in him.
Only emptiness.
I knelt beside him.
I wanted to touch his hair - like always - to run my fingers through it until he groaned that I'd messed it up again.
But my hand passed through.
Cold - not mine. The cold of his loneliness.
"Do‑yeon," I whispered.
My voice echoed like the sound in an empty house - voiceless, bodiless, unanswered.
"I'm here. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."
He didn't hear.
He didn't move.
Only his eyes, lowering to the frame, his breath short and uneven - as if even the air refused to enter him anymore.
***
I looked around the room.
Every detail was familiar - the cracked mug handle, the dried paintbrush in the glass, the folds in the blanket where I'd slept last night.
But now it all felt foreign.
The world without me looked… too quiet.
I tried to move - the air shivered around me, as if ripples spread from my body.
The lamp flickered, and I saw him flinch.
He lifted his head, glancing toward the space beside him.
For a moment, I thought - he feels me.
But his gaze fell again.
That's when I understood: I couldn't leave.
What held me here wasn't pain, or fear, or regret.
It was love.
Too strong to die.
Too alive to let go.
***
My death wasn't the end.
It was a sentence.
I stayed - to watch.
To watch the one I love die slowly.
Without blood, without sound - but just as completely.
Sometimes I think: maybe this is what hell really is.
Not fire. Not darkness.
But eternal presence - in a world where you no longer exist.
______________________
"When you die, you think the world will stop with you.
But it keeps moving.
It's just that now - you're the one who stands still."