Jaemin sat in his office late one night, the weight of his responsibilities heavier than ever. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above him and the rhythmic tapping of his keyboard were the only sounds breaking the suffocating silence of the room. He glanced out the window at the city below, its lights flickering like stars in a sky too distant to touch. It was a fitting reflection of his own life—bright, bustling, and completely out of his reach.
He didn't look at her often. He couldn't afford to. Sooah was in the other room, in their home, in their life now. They were married, bound by a contract that felt more like a weight than a promise. And despite the years that had passed and the changes he had made to himself, there were moments—small ones—that crushed him. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she looked at him, unsure of the man she had married.
It was that uncertainty that hurt the most.
Jaemin had spent the last three years breaking himself apart, tearing down everything that was once him and rebuilding from the ashes. He'd buried the boy who had begged her to love him, the man who had worshipped her to the point of suffocating. In his place, a new version of himself had emerged—a version that didn't need love, didn't need affection. A version that was capable of surviving on his own, even if it meant enduring the pain in silence.
But despite all the control he had cultivated over himself, despite all the walls he had built around his heart, there were moments—moments like now—when the pain threatened to breach those walls. When he caught a glimpse of her smile, or heard her voice calling his name, the old Jaemin would resurface, yearning for what he could never have.
He had chosen this path. He had chosen to change. To burn away the parts of himself that had made him weak. To become someone who didn't need her love to survive. But in doing so, he had buried the deepest parts of himself—the parts that had once loved her so fiercely, so desperately. And now, those parts of him were nothing more than painful reminders of the boy who had been left behind.
Jaemin hated himself for it. For the way he had let her go. For the way he had let her think that he wasn't worth the effort. But he knew, deep down, that the only person to blame for all of it was himself. He had been inadequate, weak. She had seen that in him, and that was why she had walked away. That was why he had let her.
But as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn't blame her. She had every right to leave. He hadn't been enough for her. And because of that, he had made a vow to himself to never be that man again. To never be the man who relied on others, who craved affection, who needed validation from anyone.
Now, he had everything. Everything he had worked so hard to build. The empire, the power, the control. But it all felt hollow. The price he had paid was too high. The cost of his transformation had been the loss of his ability to feel, to love, to need. And every time he saw Sooah smile at him, it was like a knife in his chest.
He could never reach out to her. He couldn't touch her, couldn't hold her the way he wanted to. Because he wasn't that man anymore. He wasn't the man who needed her to validate his worth. But it hurt. It hurt more than anything he had ever experienced before.
Her smile, her warmth, her gentle touch—those were the things that broke him now. He had sacrificed everything to become this controlled, composed version of himself. But deep inside, beneath the walls he had built, he still burned with a quiet longing. A longing for the love he once had, the love that he had let slip through his fingers.
He had come to terms with his self-loathing. He had told himself that he was better off this way. That he was stronger, more capable, more in control. But every time he saw her, every time she smiled at him, he couldn't help but feel the weight of what he had given up. What he had sacrificed.
Jaemin was trapped in a cycle of self-hatred. He couldn't bring himself to blame Sooah for anything that had happened. She had made the choice to leave, and in the end, it had been his fault. He had been weak. He had been everything she had accused him of. And now, here he was—married to her, yet still unable to reach her, still unable to let her in.
He knew she didn't see it. She didn't see the pain, the internal struggle he was going through every day. She didn't see how much it cost him to restrain himself, to hold back the urge to touch her, to love her. To beg her for the affection that had once been so freely given.
But he would never ask for it. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.
Instead, he would endure. He would live with the emptiness, with the longing, because that was the price he had to pay for becoming someone worthy. And if he had to sacrifice everything—his heart, his soul, his love—for this version of himself, then so be it.
But as he sat in his office, staring at the papers before him, a single thought flickered through his mind. A thought that he quickly pushed away, as though it was a dangerous temptation.
What if I could have it all? What if I could have her?
But the thought was fleeting, and Jaemin quickly buried it beneath the weight of his self-imposed walls.
He had made his choice. He would endure. He would never let her see how much it hurt. He would never let her know just how much he still loved her.
Because he couldn't afford to.