He was waiting.
??????
In Yeouido, the penthouse remained immaculate.
But the vestibule light stayed on.
Haneul had left with no coat, no plan.
Left the ribbon behind. The braid he’d spent an hour weaving, quiet and half-asleep, cross-legged on the floor while Seungho pretended to read.
Seungho didn’t touch the ribbon.
He didn’t fill Haneul’s mug in the cupboard — the one with the chipped handle, bought for a joke but always used first.
Didn’t move the hoodie balled on the couch, still holding the curve of his shoulders.
Didn’t delete the half-typed reminder on his phone to pick up the cereal with the smug little cartoon fox on the box.
He just sat once, in the kitchen, lights off.
One hand on his knee. Other clenched. Listening to the clock tick like it might say something else.
He had started making space. Quietly.
A toothbrush that wasn’t his. The socks that never matched. The smell of paint and cinnamon ramyeon in the air conditioner filter.
The fridge emptied faster now. The freezer held two kinds of dumplings, not one.
He hadn’t told Haneul any of it. Hadn’t told himself.
But he had started to hope. In small, dangerous ways.
So when he disappeared —
no coat, no braid, no backward glance —
It didn’t feel like abandonment.
It felt like the moment after a building falls.
When the dust hangs suspended, not knowing yet how to settle.
He didn’t chase.
Didn’t call.
But every night, he stood longer by the window.
Phone plugged in. Notifications on. Ringtone off.
He didn’t fill the silence with music, nor speak, even when Jaewan asked.
He just walked slower past the sock drawer.
Stopped turning the hallway light off.
And left the ribbon exactly where it was, on the counter —
