Epilogue

112 2 1
                                        

The sun spilled in through the window — pale gold, brushing against cotton sheets and half-drawn curtains. Somewhere, a kettle began to whistle.

Y/N stirred awake slowly.

The house was quiet, save for the faint sound of music playing from the speaker in the kitchen. A familiar beat. One of his.

She smiled faintly.

There were new lyrics on the fridge — scribbled on a sticky note in his shaky handwriting.

Even if I forget the world,
I'll remember the warmth of your voice

She poured two cups of tea.

One for her.
One for him — for when he wandered in, slow but smiling, wearing the same hoodie she'd been trying to steal for years.

She didn't know what the future held.
They never talked about timelines anymore.

But in this moment — with sunlight, and music, and the quiet memory of everything they fought through — she felt okay.

Loved.

Present.

Still his.

And when he appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, hair messy, eyes still sleepy, she held out the second cup without a word.

He took it. Their fingers brushed.

"Morning," he rasped.

"Always," she whispered back.

The real kind of forever doesn't always look perfect.

But it shows up.

Even if it forgets — it remembers where to come home to.

FRAGILE TRUTH  | Kwon JiyongWhere stories live. Discover now