FRAGILE TRUTH | Kwon Jiyong

12

Y/N's POV

One year earlier,

The sun filtered gently through the wide windows of Jiyong's penthouse, the golden light spilling across the concrete floors in warm ribbons. Outside, the city had only just begun to stir — slow, sleepy, unaware of the storm that would eventually come.

Inside, everything was still.

I blinked awake, my cheek pressed against the pillow, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the sheets. For a moment, I didn't move. Just breathed in. Exhaled. Let myself feel it.

The ring on my finger glinted when I turned my hand over in the light.

Engaged. We're engaged. I smiled to myself — soft, happy.

But the space beside me was cold.

I sat up, brushing my hair out of my face, and instinctively reached for my phone. No messages. No missed calls. No Jiyong.

I found him in the kitchen, dressed already, hoodie thrown over his head, staring into the espresso machine like he was waiting for something stronger than caffeine to get him through the day.

He barely looked up. "Morning."

I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You left."

He finally turned. His eyes were tired. Not just tired — worn. "Didn't want to wake you."

I hummed, watching him. "You always say that."

He offered a faint, crooked smile. "You're hard to wake."

But the banter felt thinner than usual, like we were both reaching for a version of ourselves we'd forgotten how to play.

I stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He didn't flinch — but he didn't lean into it either.

That was the first crack. The first time something in me whispered that something was off.

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

Days passed. Then weeks.

And with each one, something between us shifted — just slightly, barely enough to name.

At first, it was his schedule.

Studio sessions ran later than usual. He missed dinner once. Then twice. Then stopped apologizing altogether.

Then it was the mornings.

He stopped coming over. Even on his off days when he manage to come over, he'd be up and gone before she woke. His excuse: "Couldn't sleep."

He said it with a smile, but his eyes were hollow.

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

One night, I made his favorite pasta, even poured him a glass of wine — a rare treat considering how strict he usually was with his diet. I lit a candle. Played one of his unreleased demos in the background. The kind of evening he used to live for.

He barely touched the food.

Said he wasn't hungry.

Spent most of the meal on his phone, checking emails, barely registering when I spoke.

When he finally looked up, it was like he had to remember who he was sitting with.

"Are you okay?" I asked, voice low but careful.

He blinked at me. "Yeah. Why?"

"You're not eating. You haven't smiled in three days. You're not even here right now."