Sometimes, the worst thing isn't yelling. It's silence—the kind that lingers after someone's footsteps have faded and the door doesn't swing back open.
Bo-ra didn't slam the door when she left. She didn't cry in front of me. She just… looked at me. Like I wasn't worth the argument anymore. Like the damage had already been done.
And maybe it had.
She walked away.
The echo of her heels on the pavement outside my apartment rang louder in my ears than any of my own stupid words.
I stood there, frozen. My breath came out shallow and tight, like my own chest was punishing me for speaking. "Don't cross the line, Bo-ra." The words tasted bitter now. Poison dipped in pride.
What line, exactly? The one between fake and real? The one I kept redrawing every time she got too close?
I sat down heavily on the couch, the same couch where she'd nagged me to sit up straight, teased me about my slouching, tossed popcorn at me during movie nights. The cushions still smelled faintly like her—vanilla shampoo and cinnamon body mist. How stupidly comforting.
And now… she was gone.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling like it could explain why I kept pushing her away every time she pulled me in.
Just a few hours ago, she was beside me. Her hand brushing mine under the table at that stupid restaurant. Her voice soft but firm as she tried to nudge me into facing my mother.
And I did.
For the first time in years, I actually sat across from the woman who left me. I listened.
I was trying.
Until he showed up. My mother's new husband.
Tall. Loud. Hands that gripped her wrist too tightly when he told her they were leaving. I saw the wince on her face and something snapped in me.
"Let go of her."
I didn't even remember standing. All I knew was that one second I was seated, and the next I was in between them, fists clenched.
My mother's eyes were wide—shocked. Embarrassed. Not at him. At me.
"Yul, stop it. You're making a scene—"
"A scene? He grabbed you. That's okay with you now?"
She looked away.
I didn't.
"Unbelievable," I muttered, turning on my heel and storming out.
Bo-ra followed me out of the restaurant without a word. Her presence was a silent comfort, like a sweater draped over shoulders you didn't know were cold. She didn't ask questions. She didn't prod. She just… stayed close.
Until we got home.
And I snapped. Again.
Because that's what I do.
She tried to talk. "Yul… maybe you should sit down, breathe. Talk to me."
"I said I need space, Bo-ra."
"I know. But bottling it up like this—"
"You don't know!" I barked. "You don't know what it's like to be abandoned by your own mother, okay? To watch her choose someone else—some jerk—over you and Dad!"
Her eyes widened slightly. Her lips parted like she was about to say something, but I kept going.
"And now you, of all people—you think you get to meddle? Just because we're playing house in this fake marriage?"
"Yul—"
"It's fake, Bo-ra! That's all this is. Don't get any weird ideas. Don't be delusional."
Her face fell.
And then I said it. The one thing I knew would tear everything down.
"Don't cross the line, Bo-ra."
She stared at me. Not in anger. Not even in shock.
Just pain.
Like the light behind her eyes had been switched off. Like the version of me she believed in had died on that spot.
"…Okay," she whispered.
And then she left.
Not with a dramatic scream. Not with a slammed door. Just silence.
I sat there, haunted by the gentle click of the door behind her.
Outside, I caught a glimpse of her figure through the window, walking away. Shoulders stiff. Arms wrapped around herself. And even from that distance, I knew… she was crying.
Not loud. Not messy. The kind of cry that leaves you breathless. The kind you do when you've officially given up.
I buried my face in my hands.
"Idiot," I muttered to myself. "You absolute, certified, award-winning idiot."
Why did I say those things? Why did I twist the knife just to prove a point? A point I didn't even believe?
I didn't want her to cross the line… because I'd already crossed it. Somewhere between coffee runs, shared ramen, and her falling asleep on my shoulder while we watched late-night dramas, I fell. Hard.
And now she was gone.
Again.
"Bo-ra…" I murmured.
But it was too late.
To be continued.