44

                                    

                                          
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since the fallout, since everything between Jihoon and Jinhee had crumbled. On the outside, it might have seemed like they were getting back to their routines, moving forward with their lives, but on the inside, they were both far from okay.
Jihoon had thrown himself into his work, his father's constant demands only adding to the weight on his shoulders. He had become a regular at mandatory meetings, gatherings, and events — things he'd once easily avoided, but now, with the pressure mounting, he couldn't escape. He was working harder than ever, trying to keep his mind occupied, but no matter how many meetings he attended, no matter how many projects he worked on, his thoughts always returned to her. 
He couldn't concentrate. He hadn't been able to concentrate for weeks. His professors were starting to notice, and even his father had commented on his lack of focus during a meeting the previous day. Jihoon barely cared. None of it seemed important anymore.
Jinhee, too, seemed to be moving through her days on autopilot. She attended her lectures, but her mind was elsewhere. She tried to focus on her studies, tried to push everything aside, but every time she looked down at her notes, every time her phone buzzed, a part of her heart would break all over again. She couldn't forget what had happened, no matter how much she wished she could.
Jihoon tried to talk to her — over text, through brief encounters in hallways, even once when he ran into her on campus — but she remained distant. Her answers were short, her gaze cold. She wasn't cruel, but she wasn't open, either. It was like there was an invisible wall between them, one he couldn't break down, no matter how hard he tried.
But the more he tried, the more the distance between them seemed to grow. Every time she avoided him, every time she shut him out, a deeper ache settled in his chest.
What had he done?
Jinhee, for her part, felt the weight of her own emotions pressing down on her every day. She missed him — in ways she couldn't explain. She missed the way he made her laugh, the way he would look at her like she was the only one in the room. But there was too much pain now. She wasn't sure if she could ever look at him the same way again.
Despite everything, she still saw him — in the hallways, at the campus cafe, even sometimes in the music room. And every time, a small part of her wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around him and forget all the hurt. But another part of her, the stronger part, pulled her back. She couldn't let herself get hurt again. Not by him.
They were both struggling. They were both broken in their own way.
And still, neither of them knew how to fix it.
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<Jinhee, can we please talk?>
Another text. Another ignored text.
Jihoon stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard for a moment before he put the phone down with a frustrated sigh. Another attempt, another failure. He had tried everything — but nothing seemed to break through. Jinhee was distant, colder with each passing day. It was like she didn't even want to listen to him anymore.
He felt hopeless. Every time he thought about the things he had done, about how he had hurt her, it felt like a weight too heavy to carry. It wasn't just her trust he had broken—he had also shattered the promise he had made to her parents. The memory of their faith in him, their belief that he would always protect and cherish her, twisted in his chest like a knife. He had failed them. He had failed her.