FRAGILE TRUTH | Kwon Jiyong

14

Present Day – One year later,

Seoul never felt small.
Not until she saw him again.

Y/n hadn't planned to be there. The gallery opening was something her friend Minji begged her to attend — "There'll be artists, buyers, influencers, free champagne!" — and Y/n only came because she was tired of sitting in silence at home.

She hadn't dressed to impress. Just something neutral, nice, unassuming. Hair pinned, lips barely tinted.

She didn't expect to see a ghost.

And yet — there he was.

Kwon Jiyong.

Not on stage. Not in the crowd. But alone, standing in front of a painting titled Solitude Rewritten, his expression unreadable.

He looked the same and yet not at all. Slimmer. Paler. More tired. Dressed in black, like he was trying to disappear into the shadows of the room.

Her breath caught.

He turned — maybe sensing her before seeing her — and for one suspended second, they simply stared at each other.

Her heart plummeted to the floor.

He blinked, surprised. Then guarded.

"...Y/n."

She swallowed. "Hi."

The conversation didn't come naturally.
It stumbled, limped, and paused in awkward places.

"I didn't know you were back in Seoul," she said.

"I never left."

Her brows rose slightly. "Oh."

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the drink in her hand. "You look good."

She hated that it still made her chest flutter.

"You don't," she replied before thinking.

His lips twitched — not quite a smile, but not offended. "Yeah. I've heard."

Y/n wanted to ask everything. Where have you been? Why didn't you reach out? Did you regret it? Did you move on?

But all she could say was: "Are you... here alone?"

He nodded. "Just passing through."

"Right. Of course. You always were good at that."

That hit harder than she meant it to.

He looked away.

"I didn't mean—" she started.

"No. It's okay. I deserve that."

They ended up on the rooftop terrace of the gallery, away from the noise.

A full moon hung low above the city. It made him look even paler. Or maybe that was just how she saw him now — like a fading version of the man she used to love.

No. Still loved.

"Why did you come tonight?" she asked.

He shrugged. "The artist's work reminded me of... something."

"Me?"

He didn't answer.

Y/n turned toward him, jaw tightening. "You broke my heart and didn't even explain why. I waited for you to come back. I kept telling myself you'd walk through my door and say it was a mistake. That you just needed time."

Jiyong stayed silent, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

"You left me with a note and a ring," she whispered. "You didn't even let me fight for you."

"I didn't want you to."

"Why?"

He finally looked at her. "Because if you had... I would've stayed."

That shattered something in her.

They stood in the cold silence a little longer.

He exhaled, visible breath curling in the air. "I thought I was protecting you."

"You weren't."

"I know that now."

She looked at him, eyes glistening. "Then why does it still feel like you're keeping something from me?"

His face shifted — a flicker of panic — before he masked it.

"I'm not."

"You hesitated."

"I just—" He stopped, shook his head. "Some things are better left buried."

She stepped closer. "Then why are you here, Jiyong? Why tonight? Why now?"

He looked at her like he wanted to say everything — but then chose silence instead.

"I shouldn't have come," he murmured, stepping back.

"Jiyong—"

"I'm glad you're okay."

And just like that, he turned and walked back inside.

Y/n didn't chase him.

She leaned against the railing, the metal cold against her palms, and stared out at the glittering city that suddenly felt too quiet.

Inside, her phone buzzed. A message from Hana.

Hana 💕

You disappeared! Where r u??

She didn't respond.

Instead, she scrolled back to the last message she ever sent to Jiyong. The one from a year ago.

"Jiyong, please. If something's wrong... just tell me. I don't care what it is. I love you. I'm not going anywhere."

Still delivered. Still unanswered.

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

Jiyong stood alone in the building's private elevator, head pressed to the mirrored wall.

He closed his eyes.

Inside his coat pocket, he gripped the edge of a recent scan report he hadn't dared show anyone.

Stage two.

It's getting worse.

He thought seeing her again would give him peace. Closure.

But all it did was open every wound he'd tried to bury.