Jaebom was bent over his books, trying to focus on the mountain of material spread out before him. The quiet hum of his desk lamp was the only sound in the otherwise peaceful room, but his mind kept drifting. He had so much to get through before the week was up, but the text message that just popped up on his phone made his focus waver.

He unlocked his phone and glanced at the screen, only to see his father’s name at the top.

Dad

Jaebom let out a sigh, sinking back in his chair.

A party? He could already imagine the kind of event it would be—over-the-top, filled with people pretending to be too busy to talk to anyone but themselves. The kind of place where he’d have to smile through forced conversations with people he’d never see again.

He hated these parties. But it wasn’t like he had a choice.

Jaebom glanced at the clock. It was already late. His father would expect him to be at his best, even if he’d rather do anything else.

"Great," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. "Another night wasted."

He knew his father wouldn’t accept a no. So, with a resigned sigh, he typed a quick response.

Jaebom
Fine. I’ll be there.

He dropped his phone on the desk and pushed his books aside, trying to regain his focus. He needed to get back to studying, but now he had one more thing to dread.

Jaebom stared blankly at his phone after sending the message to his father, the weight of the words settling in his chest. He turned his gaze back to the books in front of him, but none of it made sense. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered studying—he didn’t want to run his father’s company. He didn’t care about the bottom line or the endless meetings.

What he wanted was to paint. To create. To express himself in a way that made his soul feel alive.

But his father didn’t understand that.

Jaebom slammed his book shut, the sound echoing in the silence of his room. He stood up, pacing back and forth, a wave of frustration crashing over him.

Why did they have to control everything?

Why couldn’t they see him for who he was? Why couldn’t they let him chase his own dreams instead of forcing him into this cold, suffocating path that wasn’t his?

Every time he told his dad that he wanted to be an artist, the response was the same: It’s not practical. It’s not enough. You need to take over the business.

He felt like a puppet, his strings pulled tighter with each passing day.

Why? Why did his parents have to take his dreams away from him? He wasn’t some heir in a royal family. He wasn’t meant to be part of their empire. He wanted to be free. To create something beautiful, something that was truly his own.

Jaebom slammed his fist on the desk, frustration bubbling up inside him.

He didn’t want to live for his father’s expectations. He didn’t want to wear the mask of the perfect son. He wanted to paint, to follow his own path. But instead, he was stuck, forced to play a role that wasn’t his.

He let out a deep breath, slumping back into his chair, his head in his hands. Maybe it wasn’t possible. He had no idea how to break free, how to tell his father that he just couldn’t live this life anymore.

Jaebom couldn’t take it anymore. The walls of his room felt like they were closing in, suffocating him under the weight of expectations he never asked for. His father’s text, the constant pressure, the feeling of being trapped—it all boiled over inside him, and before he knew it, he was up on his feet, shoving his chair back with a sharp scrape against the floor.

His hands curled into fists. He needed an escape.

Without thinking, he stormed out of his room and made his way down the hall to the one place that still felt like his—his painting room.

The moment he stepped inside, he felt a tiny bit of the weight lift. The familiar scent of paint and canvas filled the air, grounding him. This was his space. His real world. Not boardrooms and business deals, not polite smiles and empty conversations—this.

He yanked off his blazer and tossed it aside, grabbed a brush, and dipped it into the nearest color without even thinking. His hand moved on its own, dragging bold strokes across the canvas, fast and unrestrained. The anger, the frustration, the feeling of being caged—it all spilled out in every stroke.

Red. Black. Blue. Violent swirls and sharp edges.

His breathing was heavy, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what he was painting, and he didn’t care. He just needed to feel something that was his own.

Paint splattered onto his hands, his sleeves, even his face, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

By the time he finally stepped back, his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He stared at the chaotic mess on the canvas—wild, raw, full of everything he couldn’t put into words.

And for the first time that night, he felt like he could breathe.

Jaebom exhaled slowly, his heartbeat still unsteady from the rush of painting. His gaze flickered across the chaotic strokes on the canvas in front of him—anger, frustration, desperation—all laid bare in color. But it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm inside him.

His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where a painting sat on the easel, untouched for days. He hesitated before stepping closer, his fingers absentmindedly wiping the dried paint off his hands onto his pants.

It was her.

Chanmi.

The portrait had been left to dry a few days ago, but he hadn’t touched it since. He wasn’t even sure why he had painted her in the first place. It had started as a simple sketch—just something to pass the time. But before he knew it, he had gotten lost in the details.

The way her eyes held a sharpness, always observing, never too open. The slight tilt of her lips, as if she was holding back a thought. The way her hair framed her face, falling in a way that seemed both effortless and intentional.

Jaebom ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. Why Chanmi? Of all the things he could’ve painted, why had it been her?

He picked up the canvas carefully, his thumb grazing the dried paint. It was different from his usual work—softer, more intentional. There was something about it that unsettled him. Maybe because it made him realize something he wasn’t ready to admit.

It wasn’t just some random painting—he had spent hours on it, carefully blending the colors, making sure every detail felt right. But now, as he looked at it again, a new thought crept into his mind.

What do I do with this?

Keeping it felt… strange. Almost like a secret he wasn’t sure he wanted to have. But giving it to her?

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. Would that be weird? What would she even think?

He could already imagine the look on her face. Would she be surprised? Confused? Laugh at him? Or would she see it for what it was—something he made without even realizing why?

Jaebom frowned. He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this—this was different.

For now, he set the painting down carefully, leaning it against the wall. He’d figure it out later.

But even as he turned to leave, the thought wouldn’t leave his mind.