“I’m sorry — starting tonight, I’m in the middle of moving out.”
Jaehyun’s sentence echoed by the door, at the foot of the bed, on the balcony. Yuri-hee chewed it over, eyes closing and opening again. Five years ended in a single line.
11:47 p.m. The sheets were still warm. Jaehyun had turned away; Yuri-hee stared at the breadth of his back. The kiss on her brow was still damp. Not long ago that mouth grazing her skin had stolen her breath; now only chilled air circled.
“What are we even doing right now?”
Her voice sank into the bedding. Instead of an answer, Jaehyun bent and brushed his lips to her forehead — a brief kiss, already tasting of goodbye. Yuri-hee pressed her face into the hollow of his neck. His hot breath tickled her skin.
“Let’s end it. Please, just end it.”
One of the two wine glasses on the counter had toppled halfway. A single drop of water slid along the stainless steel, and Yuri-hee watched it descend as if it might never reach the drain. All the things Jaehyun hadn’t packed were still here: half a bottle of shampoo, a lemon-scented towel — objects that now belonged to neither of them.
Jaehyun stood on the balcony smoking. The instant Yuri-hee heard the word moving, the scent at the nape of her neck flashed back. Like the cigarette smoke, it would have to vanish. Yet the question she had asked that night still rang in his ears.
Leaning against the sink, Yuri-hee called him. “Last bottle of wine.”
He came up behind her, circling her waist. The glass in her hand trembled. Neither spoke. His fingers traveled the curve of her waist and loosened the belt. A sip of wine slid down her throat. He kissed the back of her neck — a short kiss, already tasting of goodbye.
Jaehyun reached for her phone. She stopped his hand lightly. The screen lit; the lock released. The last Kakao chat was with someone named Minseo — brief, but dense with multiplying heart emojis and a single line: see you tonight. Their eyes met.
“You’ve found someone else?”
She blinked once and answered.
“No.”
One syllable. Whether it was true or false, Jaehyun couldn’t tell. Neither could Yuri-hee. It was simply the word that kept them standing here, now.
When love cools, only words remain — yet they cannot be trusted. Once what was believed turns out false, people invent a fresh narrative to protect themselves: The moments we loved were real, or If I say I’m sorry, my guilt will vanish.
But what is wanted is absolution. “I’m sorry” is merely a signal that one refuses to carry the full weight of the love that was given.
Yuri-hee realized that only those words were left: the last thing Jaehyun would say, and the last thing she would say. And she understood at last that those words were not love.
“If I say I love you, will every lie we’ve lived dissolve?”
Is that the start of a new lie — or the moment the lie must finally end?
Alone in the room that was now only hers, Yuri-hee repeated the sentence Jaehyun had left behind. Then she asked herself what words she had truly wanted to leave behind — and answered in silence.