Min-jae had never been one for domesticity. Yet, every Saturday and Sunday, without fail, he would cook lunch in their penthouse kitchen, preparing simple but well-balanced meals for himself. The act of cooking, like everything else in his life, had become a precise, methodical ritual—a way to maintain control over at least one part of his day. But in the quiet hours before the meal was ready, he would find himself wondering, even if just for a fleeting moment, if there was any way he could reach through the walls of his own heart and connect with Seo-jin.
It wasn't that he didn't feel sorry for her. There were times, rare moments when he would glance up from his research papers or look up from his phone during the long, silent meals, and see her there—staring out of the window, her once-sharp features now softened by the isolation. It wasn't hard to recognize the loneliness in her eyes, nor was it difficult to recall the woman she had been before all of this.
But his sympathy, as always, was locked away behind layers of ice. He had long since given up on the idea of reconciliation or warmth. He had built his fortress around himself, and it was strong—too strong. And besides, he couldn't bring himself to care for someone who had discarded him so thoughtlessly.
Still, every weekend, he would cook a meal for both of them. He never asked her to join him, but she would, unspoken, sit across from him at the polished dining table, as they both sat in silence, eating the food he had prepared. She would always make a polite comment about the meal, complimenting him for the flavors or how well-cooked it was, but her words lacked any real emotion. The tension between them, the distance that separated them both physically and emotionally, was palpable.
Min-jae would nod in response, offering a brief, polite smile, then turn his attention back to his phone or the pile of work in front of him. His mind would drift back to the company, his research, his next step in his relentless quest for excellence. He knew he was doing what was necessary to keep up the facade—to adhere to the contract they had signed, the one that bound them together without the promise of affection or real commitment.
They would eat in silence for the most part. He might offer a rare, distant comment about a new project or ask her if she was still attending her social events, but those words were only ever to fill the silence, never to engage her. He wasn't interested in how her life was unfolding; he wasn't interested in her at all. He couldn't afford to be.
Seo-jin, for her part, had long stopped trying to break through the wall that he had built around himself. She accepted the routine as it was—lunch with him on weekends, spent in polite distance, both of them silently resigned to their fate.
But there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when Seo-jin would watch him from across the table and wonder what had happened to the man she once knew. He was still handsome, still a figure that commanded attention. But now, he was a shadow of that former self—the charming, reckless Min-jae who had once had time for her, for life, for everything. Now, he was a man who only had time for work and achievement, someone who had turned his back on everything else, including her.
As much as it pained her, she realized that the Min-jae she had known was gone. And no amount of sitting in silence, no polite lunches or polite conversation, would bring him back.