The train doors hissed open, and Sydney stepped inside, her eyes scanning for a seat. That’s when she saw him.
Wynter.
All sense had left her, all she could think is Yesoh is hurting and it’sall his fault. That was all that mattered in the moment. She knew she swore not to get involved or bring him up anymore but heavens help the man who dared to exist peacefully while her friend was in pain.
He was seated near the far end of the car, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a North Face duffel bag at his feet. He wore a sleek black jacket over a fitted sweater, his hair slightly damp and tousled, like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot—which, knowing him, he probably had. He lookedcalm, composed, but Sydney couldn’t miss the faint shadows under his eyes or the way his posture lacked its usual ease.
He’d never admit it, but the distance from Yesoh had taken a toll on him too.
Her grip on the garment bag tightened as a rush of emotions surged through her. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene, but the thought of letting this moment slip away was unbearable.
Taking a deep breath, she made her way toward him, gripping the pole in front of his seat as the train lurched forward. “Wynter whatever-the-hell-your-middle-name-is Kwon.”
He glanced up, startled, pulling his headphones down around his neck. “Sydney?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, though the answer was obvious.
“Coming back from a shoot,” he disclosed, gesturing to the duffel bag at his feet. “I didn’t know you took public transport without being held hostage?”
“Picking up Yesoh’s costume,” she replied, lifting the garment bag slightly. Her tone was casual, but the weight of unspoken words hung between them.
At the mention of Yesoh’s name, Wynter’s expression shifted. His jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked away, settling on the floor of the train car.
Sydney wasn’t one to shy away from confrontation. She tilted her head, her voice calm but edged with steel. “So, Wyn. What's your game plan here? Do you intend to just ignore her forever?”
His gaze snapped back to hers, his brow furrowing. “I don’t want to discuss this, I doubt it concerns y—”
Her eyes narrowed. “It is my business when my best friend was crying herself to sleep every night in guilt over astupid fucking diarybecause you can’t even bother to acknowledge her anymore.”
His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, he replied, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I don’t?” she shot back, crossing her arms. “I know that she gave you that scrapbook as an olive branch, I know she poured her entire heart into it. Herbigheart. And what did you do? Did you even look at it?”
“I did,” he said defensively, his voice low but firm. “I looked at it.”
“Did you really?” she pressed, leaning closer. “Or did you just glance at the pretty pictures of praise and toss it aside for an ego boost?”
Wynter opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to say.
Sydney huffed, shaking her head. “Did you even flip to the last page?”
He froze, his expression faltering. “What are you talking about?”
“The letter, Wynter,” she said, her voice rising slightly.
“What letter, Sydney?” he responded in absolute confusion, sitting up on the edge of his seat.
“Don’t play naive, it’s unbecoming.” Sydney scoffed. At that, Wynter placed a hand over hers on the table between them. “You cannot be serious—”
“And yet, I am.”
“Didn’t you get her letter?” Sydney contemplated, and she was struck to her core by the sheer desperation in his voice.
It was then that she knew immediately; this was not a man who didn’t care, one who was going out of his way to make her friend feel terrible but a lovesick idiot who didn’t bother to flip to the last page.
“I—no,” he refused. “Please, tell me?”
“The letter she wrote you. It’s on the last page. She poured her soul into that letter—everything she couldn’t say to you in person. And you’re telling me you didn’t even bother to read it?”
