The air in the apartment was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken words and tension neither Chrystal nor Man-shik dared to address. Ever since the family dinner, something had shifted between them—an awareness that lingered in their glances, their conversations, and the spaces in between. But neither of them had the courage to bridge the gap.

Chrystal sat on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through her phone. Her mind wasn't on the screen but on the man in the next room. She could hear him moving around, the faint shuffle of his feet and the occasional clink of glass. He was always so casual, so unaffected, but she knew better now. She'd seen the cracks beneath his carefully curated exterior.

Man-shik stood in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter. His jaw tightened as he stared at the empty glass in his hand. He'd told himself over and over that he didn't deserve Chrystal—that someone as warm and genuine as her would only end up hurt if she got too close. That's what he did, after all. He hurt people, even when he didn't mean to.

"I can't," he muttered to himself, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. He needed to distract himself. Anything to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. His phone buzzed on the counter, and he glanced at the name flashing on the screen. An old fling. A quick fix to silence the noise in his head.

Later that evening, Chrystal pushed open the apartment door, balancing a bag of groceries in one hand and her phone in the other. "Man-shik," she called out absently, kicking the door closed behind her. "I picked up some snacks since someone keeps eating mine."

There was no response. Instead, the faint sound of laughter reached her ears—a woman's laughter, soft and intimate. Chrystal froze, her stomach twisting as she followed the sound into the living room.

There they were. Man-shik on the couch, his arm draped lazily over a woman who was perched far too close for comfort. Her manicured hand rested on his chest as she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that felt both rehearsed and careless.

Chrystal's breath caught, her grip tightening on the bag of groceries until the plastic began to stretch. She didn't mean to make a sound, but the sharp intake of breath betrayed her.

Man-shik turned his head sharply, his eyes widening when he saw her standing there. "Chrystal," he said, his voice low and guilty.

The woman glanced over her shoulder, an expression of mild annoyance flickering across her face. "Oh, is this your roommate?" she asked, her tone dripping with fake sweetness.

Chrystal didn't reply. She couldn't. Her chest felt tight, and her ears buzzed as she set the groceries down on the counter with more force than necessary.

"Don't stop on my account," she said, her voice icy as she avoided looking at them. "It's your couch. Do what you want."

"Chrystal, wait—" Man-shik started, standing abruptly.

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "I'm not waiting for anything, Man-shik. I've seen enough."

Without another word, she turned and walked into her room, slamming the door behind her. She leaned against it, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breathing. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not for him.

The next morning, Chrystal's suitcase sat open on her bed, half-filled with neatly folded clothes. She moved methodically, her movements sharp and deliberate as if the act of packing could distract her from the ache in her chest.

Man-shik stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and his face unreadable. "You're leaving?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Chrystal didn't look at him. "What does it look like?"

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," she said firmly, finally meeting his gaze. "This isn't working, Man-shik. I need space, and clearly, you..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "You're fine as you are."

He took a step closer, his jaw tightening. "Chrystal—"

"What?" she snapped, throwing a shirt into the suitcase. "What do you want me to say? That it didn't bother me? That I don't care? Because I do, Man-shik. I care, and I hate that I do."

He opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to tell her that she wasn't just his roommate or his friend—that she was the first person who'd made him feel something real in years. But the fear of ruining her, of dragging her into the mess of his life, kept him silent.

Chrystal laughed bitterly, misinterpreting his silence. "Exactly. You don't care. And that's why I'm leaving."

The day Chrystal was set to leave, the apartment felt colder, emptier. She stood in the living room, her suitcase by the door and her keys in her hand. Man-shik leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed as he watched her.

"So, this is it," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"Guess so," he replied, his tone matching hers.

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them. Finally, Chrystal forced a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Well, it's been... interesting."

Man-shik huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "That's one way to put it."

She stepped forward, holding out the keys. "Here. You'll need these."

He hesitated before taking them, his fingers brushing against hers. The brief contact sent a jolt through both of them, but neither acknowledged it.

"Thanks," he said softly.

Chrystal nodded, gripping the handle of her suitcase. "Take care of yourself, Man-shik."

"You too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She turned toward the door, her movements slow and deliberate as if dragging out the inevitable. When she finally stepped outside, she closed the door behind her with a soft click.

On one side of the door, Chrystal stood still, her hand resting on the wood as tears streamed down her face. She pressed her forehead against it, her chest heaving with silent sobs.

On the other side, Man-shik slid down to the floor, his back against the door and his head in his hands. He felt hollow, like something vital had been ripped away. For the first time in years, he wondered if he'd made a mistake he couldn't fix.