Han & Jul

A quiet hum filled the space. Wine glasses clinking, murmurs over framed photographs and scattered sculptures. The exhibition was tasteful, intimate, and unfortunately familiar.

Jul hadn’t meant to sit beside another man. Not deliberately. Not spitefully. It was simply the seat offered. One chair away from the only exit, away from the gaze that had tracked her across the rooftop like heat without flame.

Jul closed the bathroom mirror gently, her reflection folding into itself. It was just past 5 p.m. The room was quiet, her hair pinned back with precision, lips softly painted. She stood in front of her closet for five minutes before touching a single hanger.

The morning didn’t feel different, but everything else had changed. Standing in Han’s shirt, Jul realized silence wasn’t comfort — it was exposure. They had never crossed lines, only stood close enough to feel the burn. When she admits she’s scared of being seen and still not chosen, Han offers the only truth he has. Silence, she learns, has never been safety.

The air hadn’t changed, but Jul had. Sitting across from Han, wearing his shirt and pretending at boundaries, she felt the weight of everything unsaid. When his hand reached for her face, it wasn’t possession that scared her — it was how deeply she needed the touch. Some moments don’t feel like beginnings. They feel like truths you’ve been denying for too long.

The hallway was too quiet for a heart pounding that loudly. Jul stood inside his apartment, the door closed but not locked — the option to leave still intact. She wore his shirt, her silence heavier than any confession. When Han tells her not to speak, she realizes it’s already too late to pretend she came for anything innocent. Some moments don’t ask permission. They only wait for you to stay.