Ji-Woo pulled on her hoodie, the fabric soft and familiar, like armor she didn't quite trust.
Jeans.
Sneakers.
She slung her bag over one shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap before she opened the door.
The house was quiet as she walked down the stairs.
Mrs. Kim was in the hallway, folding laundry. She looked up the moment Ji-Woo reached the last step.
"Going somewhere?" she asked gently.
"Jeonju," Ji-Woo replied. That was all. No explanation. No excuses.
Mrs. Kim studied her for a moment—the set of her shoulders, the way she was holding herself together by sheer will. Then she nodded.
"Be careful," she said softly.
Ji-Woo bowed her head slightly. "I will."
Mrs. Kim didn't stop her.
Outside, the air felt colder than she expected. Ji-Woo adjusted her bag and stepped forward—
—and ran straight into someone.
"Hey—"
She stumbled back. Ji-Bok stood there, hands half-raised like he'd been about to knock.
"I came to check on you," he said quickly. "After today, I thought—"
"I'm busy," Ji-Woo said, already stepping past him.
"Ji-Woo, wait—"
She kept walking.
"Ji-Woo!"
She stopped.
Slowly, she turned back.
Ji-Bok's jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration finally spilling over.
"Why are you running away?" he demanded.
"I'm worried about you. You disappear, you won't talk, and you act like none of this matters. Are you okay or not?"
She let out a sharp breath, irritation flaring through the exhaustion.
"Why are you so worried?" she snapped, half-annoyed, half-angry. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because you keep pushing me away," he shot back. "Like I'm nothing. Like I don't even get a chance to ask if you're fine."
She stared at him, chest rising and falling. "I didn't ask you to worry."
"I know," he said, voice strained. "But you don't have to sweep me aside like this either."
Silence settled between them—thick, unfinished.
Ji-Woo tightened her grip on her bag.
"I can't deal with this right now," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."
She turned and walked past him, her steps quick, determined not to look back.
Ji-Bok stayed where he was.
He watched her disappear down the street, his hands curling into fists at his sides—not angry, just helpless.
The words he hadn't said stayed lodged in his throat.
And the silence she left behind felt heavier than anything he could have spoken.
--
Ji-Woo found him near the back of the building, where the noise thinned and the air felt colder.
Eun-Woo had his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense, staring straight ahead like he'd decided not to turn around no matter what.
"Eun-Woo," she said, breathless.
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. "I was looking for you."
Still nothing.
"I—I wanted to apologize," she continued, words tripping over each other. "About Today. About everything."
That was when he turned.
"What do you want from me?" he snapped.
The sharpness in his voice made her flinch.
"I said I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean for any of it to—"
"Go away," he said, louder now. "Just go."
Her eyes widened. "Why are you pushing me away?"
He laughed once, short and bitter. "You think this is pushing? I'm trying not to lose my mind."
She swallowed hard. "Do you… hate me now?"
The question came out small. Fragile.
His jaw tightened. He didn't answer.
Ji-Woo's hands clenched at her sides.
"I wanted to tell you the truth," she said, voice trembling.
"I really did. But I couldn't. I didn't know how. I was stuck, and everything kept getting worse and—"
She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. "I was helpless. This wasn't my fault. I swear it wasn't."
He looked away.
"I'm not asking you to understand everything," she whispered. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
For a moment, it felt like he might say something.
He didn't.
Ji-Woo bowed slightly, out of habit, out of respect—out of something that felt like goodbye.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
Then she turned.
She walked away slowly at first, then faster, wiping at her face as tears spilled despite her best effort to hold them back.
Eun-Woo watched her go.
He didn't call her name.
Didn't stop her. Didn't follow.
He just stood there, silent, as the space she left behind settled into something heavy and irreversible.
And for the first time, the distance between them felt real.
The sound of the bus came first.
Low. Distant.
Growing louder.
--
Ji-Bok knew where she would go.
He knew she'd look for Eun-Woo.
And he knew Eun-Woo would be angry—who wouldn't be? Anyone would be.
So he ran.
Past the house with the chipped gate.
Past the big tree that always caught the afternoon light just right.
Across the bridge they used to stop at, leaning over the rail, talking about nothing and everything like time was endless.
His chest burned. His legs ached.
He didn't stop.
When he reached the bus stop, he slowed.
Ji-Woo the real Ji-Soo was there.
She stood near the pole, hoodie pulled low, one hand gripping her bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Her shoulders shook slightly.
She wasn't sobbing—just crying quietly, the kind that hurts more.
Ji-Bok hesitated.
Then, softly, carefully, he called out, "Ji-Soo."
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
For a split second, something crossed her face—shock, pain, recognition.
Then she walked toward him, steps uneven, like she might fall if she stopped moving.
Ji-Bok didn't move.
When she reached him, she leaned forward and rested her head against his shoulder.
Her hand still clutched the strap of her bag.
He didn't wrap his arms around her. Didn't say anything.
He just stood there and let her cry.
Her breathing hitched once. Twice.
Then steadied, still broken, still quiet.
The city moved around them—cars passing, distant voices—but the space they stood in felt suspended, fragile.
Ji-Bok stared straight ahead.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't demand answers.
Didn't try to fix what couldn't be fixed.
He just stayed.
And for that moment—small, wordless, aching—it was enough.
Ji-Woo lifted her head slightly, as if she'd felt it coming before she heard it.
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, breathing uneven but trying to steady herself.
The bus pulled in with a long hiss of air and brakes.
Doors opened.
People began to line up.
Ji-Bok finally spoke.
"You need to go," he said quietly.
She looked at him.
"To Jeonju," he added, softer now. "They're waiting for you."
Ji-Woo nodded once. Her fingers tightened around her bag, then loosened. "I know."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The bus driver glanced their way.
Ji-Woo stepped back. Then another step. She stopped at the edge of the curb and turned.
"Thank you," she said. Not for today. For everything.
Ji-Bok shook his head slightly. "Just… come back safe."
She gave a small nod.
Then she lifted her hand and waved.
It wasn't big. It wasn't dramatic.
Just enough.
Ji-Bok raised his hand in return.
They looked at each other—really looked—holding the moment between them like something fragile they didn't know how to name.
Then Ji-Woo turned.
She stepped onto the bus.
The doors closed.
The bus pulled away, carrying her forward, away from everything she hadn't finished saying.
Ji-Bok stayed at the stop, watching until the bus disappeared from sight.
Only then did he exhale.
And only then did he let himself feel how quiet it had become.