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 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.

For four weeks, they healed in each other’s arms. Soft mornings. Shared laughter. Korean lessons whispered into skin. But on a quiet Thursday night, Jul’s phone lit up with a photo. A moment misread. A truth withheld. And just like that, the warmth turned cold. Not from absence, but from knowing too much.