Sooah stood in the silence of their bedroom, the weight of her own emotions pressing down on her like a heavy fog. She had confronted him, asked the questions she had been holding onto for so long, and now… now she wished she hadn't.
The coldness in Jaemin's voice, the detachment in his eyes, it had hit her harder than anything she had anticipated. His calm demeanor, the way he shut down every question with the same measured indifference, had left her feeling more alone than ever. She had thought that by uncovering the truth, by confronting him with the things he had kept hidden, she would find some kind of connection, some understanding between them. But instead, she had pushed him further away.
She could still feel the weight of his words echoing in her mind. It doesn't matter. It was just a phase. I don't owe you anything from the past.
The harsh reality of it settled over her like a blanket, suffocating her. She had hoped that by opening herself up, by laying bare her own vulnerability, Jaemin would do the same. But instead, he had remained closed off, emotionally distant, the wall between them growing taller with each passing moment.
The next morning, after their brief and painful conversation, Jaemin had returned to his routine as if nothing had happened. He didn't act like anything was wrong. In fact, he had barely acknowledged her presence beyond the basics. The distance between them had never felt more vast.
As she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of his coolness pressed down on her chest. She had tried to be honest with him, to express her feelings, to ask him for something more. And in return, he had given her nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion. Not a single moment of warmth.
Her hands gripped the sheets as she replayed their exchange in her mind. She had come to him with a need, a longing for connection, for him to open up to her the way he had once done. But instead, she had received a cold, unfeeling response, as if he was already so far removed from their past that it no longer mattered.
She could feel the tears threatening to spill, but she fought them back. Crying wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't make him love her more, wouldn't make him see her, wouldn't make him care. It would only make her appear weak, desperate.
And so, she stayed silent. But the silence between them was deafening.
Later that evening, when Jaemin came home, she was sitting in the living room, watching the soft flicker of the television screen without really seeing it. She didn't know what she expected from him—some kind of acknowledgment, some sign that he had heard her, that he understood how much she had wanted him to open up. But he didn't say a word. He simply passed by her, heading straight for his office, his back straight, his expression unreadable.
She sat there, frozen, watching him retreat into himself once again.
Sooah couldn't help the bitter taste that filled her mouth. Confronting him, asking him about his past—what had she really expected to achieve? She had asked him to open up, to share the pieces of himself he had hidden away. But in return, she had only received a colder, more distant version of him. He had built walls around himself, and no matter how hard she tried to climb over them, she could never reach him.
And now, as she sat alone in the quiet, she realized the truth—she was the one who had made the mistake. She should have left the past where it belonged: buried. She had asked for something he wasn't willing to give, and in doing so, she had only driven them further apart.
Sooah closed her eyes, feeling the sting of rejection settle deep inside her. She had lost him. She had thought that their marriage, their commitment to one another, would make him open up again. But Jaemin had changed. He was no longer the man who had loved her with all his heart. The man who had once been vulnerable and broken in her arms was now locked in a cage of his own making. And she had no key to unlock it.
In the days that followed, Jaemin continued to distance himself. His focus was always on work—on the endless tasks, meetings, and obligations that consumed him. He was a machine, going through the motions, and Sooah felt like an afterthought in his life. She had thought that by confronting him, she could bring him back to her, but instead, she had become invisible. He didn't need her. He didn't want her.
And she hated herself for it.
She had pushed him away. She had asked for answers, for things she had no right to know, and now she was paying the price. Jaemin didn't need her anymore. He was fine without her.
She wasn't sure if it was the desperation in her heart or the loneliness that had settled into her bones, but she found herself standing outside his office door one evening, hesitating. She hadn't spoken to him in hours, and even though she wanted to, she didn't know what to say anymore. What could she say? Sorry for pushing you too far? Sorry for asking things that hurt you?
But she didn't say anything. She just turned away and went back to her own room, the weight of the mistake she had made sitting heavily on her chest.
She had learned the hard way that some things were better left unsaid. Some truths were better left buried, even if it meant living with the emptiness of not knowing.
As she lay in bed that night, her mind spinning with regret, she realized that the distance between them wasn't just physical. It was emotional. And no matter how much she tried to bridge that gap, no matter how many times she begged for answers, Jaemin would never let her in. He had already closed that door, and no amount of pleading could make him open it again.
Sooah turned onto her side, staring into the darkness, feeling more alone than she ever had before.