"Sometimes, I just want to die.
But I'm afraid of it too.
What if the person I care the most forgets me when I'm gone?
What if I fade away like a lost myth in the world?
Isn't there someone who would tell the world that I was here, that I lived, that even when my bones turn to ashes and scatter in the wind, I had existed?
It terrifies me.
I'm scared of being forgotten."
Those words run through me like they always do. Calm. Familiar. Almost gentle. I'm used to them now. They don't shock me anymore. They just sit in the back of my mind, repeating themselves while I stand here in the aisle, pretending to be the version of me everyone expects to see.
The hall is full. People are smiling. My parents, Kim Jiseok and Kim Mira, look proud in that stiff way they do when something benefits them. My brother Kim Jungho barely looks up from his phone like he is not even interested. My sister Kim Mina sits with perfect posture, the golden child even today.
I'm the middle one. The average one. The forgettable one. And standing here now, I feel exactly that—forgettable. Empty in a way that doesn't hurt anymore. Just… quiet.
The doors open, and Jeon Suha walks in. The daughter of a great businessman.
She looks beautiful. Elegant. Kind. None of this is her fault. She deserves someone who actually wants this, someone who can look at her without feeling like he's drifting further away from himself.
She reaches me, and her eyes soften when she sees my face. She thinks I'm nervous. Or sad. Or something normal.
But I'm not anything. I'm not cold, not warm, not hopeful. Just here because I didn't know how to fight harder.
The ceremony starts around us. Voices echo. Lights feel too bright. Everything sounds far away, like I'm standing underwater.
When the papers are handed to me, I take the pen without thinking. My hand doesn't shake. My breath stays even. There's no hope in me to crush and no dream left to lose. I stopped imagining a future for myself years ago.
I sign my name.
It's like making a promise of nothing. People clap. My parents smile too widely. Suha glances at me with a quiet concern she doesn't voice.
I don't react. I don't know how to.
All I can think about is how easy it would be for the world to forget me. How I already feel like a shadow standing in a life that never belonged to me.
I'm someone who existed once. Someone who kept moving even when every part of me felt blank. Someone who signed his name today because everyone else decided it for him.
Hope doesn't live in me. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
For now, I just stand beside Suha while everyone celebrates a future I can't feel.
Just quietly enduring.
The ceremony ended before I even realized it had begun. One moment I was signing away whatever future I had left, and the next I was standing beside Jeon Suha while strangers congratulated us like this marriage was some kind of blessing.
I kept my face calm. Cold, probably. People always said I looked distant. They never understood that it wasn't arrogance or attitude. It was survival.
The hall buzzed with voices. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed too loudly. My parents looked proud in the way people do when they've achieved something through someone else's life. My father nodded at me like I'd finally done something useful. My mother whispered to relatives, her smile sharp enough to cut.
I didn't say anything. I didn't trust my voice to come out steady.
Suha stood close to me, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She looked composed, but I could tell she was trying to read me without making it obvious. I didn't give her much to work with. I didn't know how.
"Jay," she murmured. "You should sit. You look tired."
I wasn't tired. I was empty. But I nodded anyway.
We sat at the front table. Across the room, my family laughed together like nothing was wrong. Like they hadn't pushed me into this. Like I was part of their joy.
I watched them in silence, wondering if they would even notice if I slipped out. If they'd notice if I simply stopped existing after today.
A soft voice pulled me back.
"Are you… upset?" Suha asked carefully.
I kept my eyes on the table. "I'm fine."
She didn't believe me. I could feel it. But she didn't push. That alone made her feel different from everyone else in that room.
For a moment, I wondered what her story was. What she had to sacrifice for this. If she wanted this wedding or if she just accepted it because her family asked. She looked like the kind of person who tried to meet expectations, even when it hurt.
Maybe that made the two of us the same.
The dinner dragged on. People kept approaching us with smiles that felt too bright. I answered politely when I had to. Suha did most of the talking. She carried the conversations gracefully, making up for my quietness without calling attention to it.
I was grateful for that, even if I didn't know how to show it.
When the evening finally ended and the guests began leaving, I felt a strange kind of relief settle in my chest. Not comfort. Just the easing of pressure.
My father walked up to me, patting my shoulder with a heavy hand. "Good job today, son. You've done the right thing."
I nodded. I didn't look him in the eye. I didn't trust myself not to break if I did.
My mother hugged Suha tightly, telling her how happy she was to welcome her into the family. She barely looked at me.
Jungho walked past without stopping. Mina gave a small smile, more out of habit than care.
Eventually, it was just me and Suha standing in the now-quiet hall. The air felt different. Cleaner. Softer.
She turned to me. "We don't have to talk tonight. Or pretend anything. Just take your time. I won't push."
Her voice was gentle. Not pitying. Not demanding. Just… human.
I didn't expect my chest to ache a little at that.
"Alright," I said. The words came out low but steady.
We walked out together. Not close. Not distant. Just two people caught in the aftermath of a life neither of us had chosen.
And as we stepped into the cool night air, I realized something.
I still didn't see a future. Still didn't feel hope.
But for the first time today, the silence inside me shifted—just slightly.
Maybe it wasn't hope.
Maybe it was simply the beginning of not drowning.
But even that felt unfamiliar.
Even that felt dangerous.