Her parents collapsed into each other's arms, their cries echoing in the sterile hallway. Their shared grief filled the air with an unbearable heaviness, each sob cutting through ■■■■■■'s already fragile state. He felt his legs buckle beneath him, and he sank back into the chair, his body numb and his mind refusing to accept the doctor's words. The love of his life was gone, and the weight of that truth threatened to crush him entirely.
For a moment, all he could do was sit there, staring blankly at the floor, his mind racing in every direction and yet fixating on nothing. Her laughter, her smile, the way her eyes lit up whenever she talked about her dreams—it all played on an endless loop in his head, mocking him with memories of a future they would never have.
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the haze. Her mother stood abruptly, her face a twisted mask of grief and fury. Without warning, she lunged at Wonwoo, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him to his feet.
"This is all your fault!" she screamed, her voice raw with anguish. Her hands trembled as she gripped his shirt, shaking him as tears streamed down her face.
■■■■■■ blinked, startled, his mind too clouded to process her words immediately. "W-what?" he stammered, his voice weak and uncertain.
"I told her not to date someone like you!" her mother continued, her voice rising with every word. "I warned her! A boy with no parents, no stability, no future! You were nothing but trouble, and now... now she's gone!"
Before he could react, she slapped him across the face, the sound sharp and startling in the otherwise silent hallway. His head turned from the impact, but he didn't move to defend himself. He just stood there, stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening.
"You always took her away from me!" her mother sobbed, her grip tightening on his shirt. "Every time I tried to spend time with my daughter, you were there, stealing her from me! And now—now she's dead because of you!"
Her father stepped in then, pulling her away from Wonwoo. "Stop it," he said firmly, though his own voice trembled with emotion. "This isn't his fault. Blaming him won't bring her back."
But her mother wasn't listening. "That stupid uncle of his," she spat, her voice filled with venom. "I bet it's his influence that led to this. His reckless, selfish upbringing! My little girl is dead because of that family!"
■■■■■■'s heart sank further at her words. He couldn't respond, couldn't defend himself. Her accusations swirled in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. He barely registered her father pulling her away again, his voice growing quieter as he tried to calm her down.
The hallway eventually fell into a tense silence, broken only by the occasional muffled sob. ■■■■■■ remained frozen, his hands shaking at his sides, his thoughts spiraling. How could he lose the love of his life and be blamed for it on the same day?
Her mother's words about his uncle echoed in his mind. "That stupid uncle..." Why had she brought him up? His uncle wasn't even in the country. None of this had anything to do with him—or did it?
■■■■■■■ shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He loved his uncle dearly. As a child, his parents had been too consumed with their growing business to spend much time with him. His uncle had been the one constant, a source of warmth and comfort during those lonely years.
But things had changed after his parents' death. His uncle had grown distant, cold even. Their relationship became transactional, his uncle only reaching out to give him money or manage financial matters. It hurt, but ■■■■■■ had convinced himself that his uncle's detachment was his way of coping with the loss.
Her mother's words, however, planted a seed of doubt in his mind. Was there something about his uncle he didn't know? Something he had overlooked?
He tried to shake the thoughts away, focusing instead on the gaping hole her absence left in his chest. But the questions lingered, festering at the edges of his grief.
Eventually, the weight of it all became too much. He couldn't cry anymore. He couldn't think. His mind went blank, retreating into a numb, empty state. The world around him blurred, the harsh lights of the hospital hallway fading into nothingness.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in the doorway of his apartment, locking the door behind him. He didn't remember driving home. He didn't remember leaving the hospital. His body had moved on autopilot, carrying him to the one place he felt he could hide from the world.
Looking around the apartment, the weight of his grief became unbearable. It was then that he first noticed the blood on his clothes and hands, stark and accusing against his pale skin. A shiver ran through him, and the reality of the day crashed over him like a tidal wave. He couldn't stay like this. He had to do something—anything—to feel human again.
■■■■■■ moved toward his bedroom in a daze, his legs heavy as if each step required monumental effort. He opened the closet and pulled out a clean t-shirt and a pair of trousers, laying them on the bed with shaking hands. The room felt suffocating, each object a painful reminder of her presence. Her perfume bottle on the dresser. The blanket she loved to wrap herself in on chilly nights. The photo of them on the nightstand, both of them smiling, blissfully unaware of how fragile their happiness truly was.
He forced himself into the bathroom, turning on the faucet and letting the water run until it was hot. He started with his hands, scrubbing at the blood that clung to his skin. The water turned a murky red, swirling down the drain like a cruel visual of his grief. He scrubbed harder, his nails digging into his skin as if he could wash away the events of the day along with the blood.
The blood came off with the second wash, but the stains lingered in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see it, vivid and stark. It was more than just the blood—it was the memory of her lifeless body, the sound of the monitors flatlining, the doctor's solemn words. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't cleanse the guilt and despair that clung to him like a second skin.
When his hands were finally clean, he leaned heavily against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He barely recognized the person staring back at him. He looked like a man who had lost everything—because he had.
Mechanically, he dried his hands and changed into clean clothes. His movements were stiff, robotic, as though his body was moving on autopilot while his mind spiraled further into despair. The weight of his grief pressed down on him, each breath a struggle.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, his vision swimming as lightheadedness set in. The apartment was eerily silent, the absence of her presence magnified in the stillness. His eyes roamed over the familiar space, every detail cutting into him like a knife. The couch where they'd spent countless nights watching movies. The kitchen where she would hum her favorite songs while cooking. The bed where they'd whispered their dreams and fears to each other.
It was all still here, unchanged, as if mocking him for thinking their love could last forever. But she was gone, and all that was left was a hollow shell of the life they had built together.
He sat on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the floor, unable to move or think. Then, like a dam breaking, the tears came. They streamed down his face in hot, silent trails, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.
He buried his face in his hands, the sound of his own cries echoing in the empty apartment. "Why did you leave me?" he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his sorrow. "Why did you have to go? I... I can't do this without you."
His voice grew louder, more desperate. "Come back, please... I love you. I love you so much. Please, just... come back to me. I can't live without you."
He collapsed onto the bed, clutching her pillow as if it were a lifeline. Her scent still lingered on it, faint but unmistakable, and it only made the pain sharper, more unbearable. He curled up, hugging the pillow tightly, as if holding onto it could somehow bring her back.
"Ughh~ ■■■■■■, I can't bear to see you like this anymore," a voice suddenly broke through the suffocating silence.
Startled, ■■■■■■ bolted upright, his tear-streaked face whipping toward the source of the voice. Standing by the window was a figure, cloaked in soft, ethereal light. It wasn't someone he recognized—or maybe he did? There was something oddly familiar about the way they tilted their head, the way their presence felt oddly warm in the otherwise cold and lifeless room.
"Who—who are you?" ■■■■■ stammered, his voice hoarse from hours of crying. His body tensed, caught between fear and disbelief. Was he imagining this? Had his grief finally driven him to the brink?
The figure smiled, their expression equal parts mischief and compassion. "You can call me @$%*^×/+," they said, their voice lilting like the sound of wind chimes on a breezy day.
[ That's totally what happened and what i said ; ) ]
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"Why would you write that now??" Yoonah exclaimed, slamming the book shut and glaring at the ceiling as if the author were hovering above her, smugly watching her suffer. "I'm over here bawling my eyes out, and you just had to throw in some quirky, self-aware comment to ruin the moment? What even is that emoji-like nonsense name supposed to mean?!"
She huffed, flipping the book open again despite her complaints. "Fine, whatever. Let's see where this ridiculousness is going. But seriously, author—get your act together! You can't just mess with my emotions like this!"
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