Where I stay (In our memories)

After losing her wife to a terminal illness, Ahn Yujin is left alone in their quiet apartment they once filled with laughter, spring songs, and ordinary love.

Then she finds a letter.

Written by Jang Wonyoung before her death, the pages are filled not with grand goodbyes, but memories: their first awkward meeting in an alleyway with spilled oranges, five a.m. silent walks shared on empty roads in their neighborhood, pencil underlines in borrowed books, shoelaces tied with trembling hands, and all the small places love chose to live in.

Inspired by IU’s love letter.

Notes:

hiii i’m alive 😭 and unfortunately… back with another fic.

well it's technically not new new because this one has been rotting in my drafts for a very long time now. this fic genuinely came to me in a fever dream while i was listening to Love Letter at like an ungodly hour of the night and somehow it emotionally ruined me enough to start writing immediately 😭

before writing “if the world was ending,” there were actually several fics i wrote that never made the final cut, including this one. i ended up deciding the former would be my debut instead, which is probably why this miserable little work stayed buried in my drafts for so long.

but i thought maybe i should start posting some of my shorter/drafted works here too instead of letting them disappear forever inside my google docs…

anyways. let’s see how this goes.
enjoy!!! (or maybe survive idk 😭)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The first thing Yujin noticed after the funeral was the silence.

Not the obvious kind.

Not the absence of voices in the apartment after weeks of nurses, relatives, hushed condolences, the kettle constantly boiling because everyone kept asking if she’d eaten anything.

No.

It was the silence of not hearing Wonyoung anymore.

No humming from the kitchen.
No soft complaints about the weather.
No sleepy “Yujin-ah” from the bedroom at two in the morning because her legs hurt again and she couldn’t sleep.

Just silence.

It sat in the apartment like another living thing.

The curtains barely moved in the April breeze. Somewhere outside, children laughed on the street below, bicycles rattling over pavement. Life continuing in a way that felt almost offensive.

Yujin stood lifeless in the middle of the living room and stared at the pair of mugs still sitting on the coffee table.

One blue.

One pale pink.

The pink one still had lipstick on the rim.

Her chest tightened so violently she had to grip the edge of the sofa.

It had only been five days.

Five days since she’d held Wonyoung’s hand in a hospital room washed in sunset light.

Five days since Wonyoung smiled at her with tired eyes and whispered, “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me cry first.”

Five days since Yujin learned that a person could stop existing while their warmth still lingered in blankets and sweaters and pillowcases.

Five days.

And already the world expected her to continue.

Her phone buzzed again somewhere in the apartment. Another message. Another “How are you holding up?”

She didn’t answer any of them anymore.

Because what was she supposed to say?

I’m breathing, unfortunately.

She closed her eyes.

The apartment smelled faintly of lavender detergent and medicine.

Wonyoung’s scent, a mixture of Citrus and white tea.

Still everywhere.

Yujin pressed a trembling hand over her mouth.

For a terrifying moment, she thought she might scream.

Instead, she swallowed it down the way she had been swallowing everything for months.

Because toward the end, Wonyoung had hated it when she cried.

Because every tear on Yujin’s face looked like guilt in Wonyoung’s eyes.

Like she was apologizing for dying.

What came first was the pain.

Not life-threatening enough to frighten them.

Just small things. Trivial.

Wonyoung lingering at the top of staircases with a hand pressed subtly against her lower back. Her knees aching after long walks. The strange bruises blooming too easily across pale skin. The exhaustion that sleep never seemed to fix.

“You’re getting old,” Yujin teased once while rubbing ointment into her calves.

Wonyoung groaned into the couch cushion. “I’m twenty-nine. This is deeply offensive.”

They laughed about it then.

Because neither of them knew.

It happened on a Thursday.

Yujin remembered because it had been such an ordinary day before it became the worst day of her life.

She remembered it in fragments instead of sequences.

Not as a complete memory, but as pieces sharp enough to cut her open years later without warning.

She would replay it obsessively, trying to understand how something so catastrophic could happen inside such an ordinary evening. One second Wonyoung had been standing beside her complaining about overpriced strawberries, nudging unnecessary snacks into the cart whenever Yujin wasn’t looking. The next, her face had drained completely of color. Not just pale—colorless, like someone had suddenly extinguished the light beneath her skin. She had gripped the cart so tightly her knuckles turned white, her mouth parting soundlessly before her knees buckled underneath her.

Yujin still heard the sound sometimes in her sleep.

At first, she thought Wonyoung had hit her head. Then Wonyoung screamed.

It had been a rainy day.

Cold.

The kind of evening where traffic crawled endlessly through the city.

Wonyoung had insisted on accompanying Yujin to the grocery store despite complaining all morning that her hip hurt again.

“It’s literally just groceries,” Yujin said while driving. “You could’ve stayed home.”

“And let you buy terrible fruit alone? Absolutely not.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You love me.”

True.

Always true.

Inside the store, Wonyoung seemed mostly fine at first.

She was a little quieter than usual, a little pale, but still teasing Yujin over cereal brands and slipping unnecessary snacks into the cart when she thought Yujin wasn’t looking.

Then halfway down the frozen food aisle—

she stopped walking.

Beside her, Yujin noticed immediately.

“Wonnie?”

No response.

Wonyoung stood frighteningly still, one hand gripping the shopping cart so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Baby?”

Her face had gone colorless.

Not pale.

Colorless.

Like all the blood had drained out at once.

Then suddenly—

Wonyoung crumpled.

The sound her body made hitting the floor haunted Yujin afterward.

A horrible crack.

Sharp enough that nearby shoppers gasped.

“Wonyoung!”

The cart slammed sideways as Yujin dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her.

For one horrifying second, Wonyoung laid stiff in her arms.

Then a strangled cry tore from her throat.

Yujin had never heard pain sound like that before.

It didn’t even sound human.

Wonyoung curled instinctively into Yujin, shaking violently, clutching her hip while tears spilled instantly down her face.

“It hurts—” she choked out. “Yujin—It hurts—”

Panic obliterated every coherent thought.

“What hurts? Baby, what hurts?”

“My leg—”

She tried to move.

Screamed immediately.

People gathered.
Someone called emergency services.
Everything blurred into noise.

Yujin remembered kneeling helplessly on the freezing supermarket floor holding Wonyoung’s trembling body while she cried so hard she couldn’t breathe properly.

“It hurts,” Wonyoung gasped. “It hurts—it hurts—it hurts—”

“I know,” Yujin whispered frantically, brushing sweaty hair from her face. “I know, baby, I know, they’re coming, just hold on—”

She remembered begging her to breathe. Begging her not to move. Begging emergency services over the phone to hurry while Wonyoung cried hard enough to choke.

The ambulance lights painted everything red after that.

Hospital corridors blurred together in cold white flashes. Nurses asking questions too quickly. Consent forms shoved into trembling hands. The smell of antiseptic clinging suffocatingly to the air. Yujin sat beside Wonyoung’s bed in the emergency room still wearing damp clothes and clutching her hand so tightly their fingers hurt, terrified that if she loosened her grip for even a second, something irreversible would happen.

The fracture made no sense.

That was what the doctors kept saying.

A healthy bone should not have cracked that easily.

Wonyoung had barely fallen.

At first they spoke cautiously, almost casually, explaining that they wanted imaging done just to rule things out. But the atmosphere in the room shifted gradually with every passing hour. One scan became several. Blood tests turned into additional examinations. Nurses stopped smiling quite as brightly when they entered the room. The physician assigned to them began speaking more slowly, more carefully, in the measured tone people use when they are trying not to frighten someone before they absolutely have to.

Fear arrived long before answers did.

By midnight, exhaustion had settled heavily into the room. Wonyoung lay weakly against stiff hospital pillows, pain medication finally dulling the agony enough for her to stop shaking, though every movement still made her wince. Yujin sat beside her in silence with her knee pressed against the bedframe, staring numbly at the floor tiles because looking directly at Wonyoung hurt too much suddenly. She couldn’t explain it. Nothing had been confirmed yet, but something deep inside her already knew the shape of the end of her world approaching.

The doctor entered quietly sometime past midnight. Yujin remembered noticing how tired he looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The hesitation before he sat down. And afterward, she would realize that was the exact moment their old life ended.

“There’s a lesion on the pelvic bone,” he explained gently, pulling up scan images neither of them understood. “And we found additional abnormalities in the surrounding tissue that concern us.”

Yujin stared blankly at the screen. Bright white shapes against darkness. Meaningless to her.

“A lesion?” she repeated slowly.

The doctor paused.

It was only a second. Barely noticeable. But Yujin would remember that pause forever because it was the moment hope began slipping quietly out of the room.

“We need to investigate the possibility of a malignant tumor.”

The words landed strangely.

Too clinical.
Too calm.

Malignant.

Tumor.

Yujin remembered hearing the heater humming softly somewhere overhead after that, because for several long seconds it was the only sound she could process. The world seemed to recede around the edges. Hospital lights blurred. Voices dulled. Even time itself felt distant suddenly, as though she were watching the conversation happen through thick glass instead of living inside it.

Beside her, Wonyoung went frighteningly still.

Not crying.
Not panicking.

Just still.

Yujin turned toward her immediately, almost desperate for denial, for anger, for anything that would make this feel unreal. But Wonyoung only looked down at her own hands resting in her lap, staring at them with an almost lifeless expression.

“What does that mean?” she asked quietly.

The doctor answered carefully after that. More tests. Biopsies. Possibilities. Nothing confirmed yet. They needed additional imaging. They needed pathology results. They needed time.

Time.

God, Yujin would come to hate that word.

Because suddenly their entire existence became waiting. Waiting for scans. Waiting for specialists. Waiting for results that everyone already seemed to know except them.

And the cruelest part was that the world did not stop while they waited.

Outside the hospital, people still laughed. Couples still held hands crossing streets. Coffee shops still opened. Winter lights still appeared in storefront windows while Yujin sat beside hospital beds learning new medical vocabulary she never wanted to understand.

Biopsy.
Metastasis.
Aggressive.

The final diagnosis arrived two weeks later beneath a gray December sky.

At the age of Twenty-nine, Wonyoung was diagnosed with Stage II osteosarcoma.

Bone cancer.

Aggressive and already beginning to spread beyond the original site.

Yujin remembered the exact way Wonyoung reached for her hand before the doctor had even finished speaking. Her fingers were cold. Terribly cold. But her grip remained steady despite everything.

Yujin’s did not.

Later, looking back, she would realize that was the moment their lives divided permanently into before and after.

Before hospital corridors and morphine schedules.
Before wheelchairs and heating pads and five a.m. panic attacks.
Before counting pain levels instead of days.

Before understanding that sometimes the person you love most in the world can still smile at you gently while dying right in front of your eyes.

Yujin remembered sitting in the parking lot after that appointment while rain hammered against the windshield.

Wonyoung had stared ahead silently for almost a full minute before saying, very calmly:

“Well. This is definitely not ideal.”

Yujin laughed.

Actually laughed.

Because that was Wonyoung.
Beautiful and absurd and gentle even while her own world cracked open.

Then five seconds later Yujin burst into tears so hard she nearly choked.

Wonyoung had unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned across the console, and held her face carefully.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Don’t do that yet.”

Yet.

As if grief had a schedule.

As if they could postpone it.

Maybe they did.

For a while.

The first time Yujin met Wonyoung, she was twenty-one, mildly sleep-deprived, carrying an iced americano that already tasted watered down, and seriously considering dropping out of college over a statistics assignment worth only ten percent of her grade.

It had been raining all afternoon.

Not heavily—just enough to leave the city damp and gray and smelling faintly of wet concrete. Yujin had spent the last four hours trapped inside a café two blocks away from her apartment, pretending to study while actually staring blankly at the same paragraph for nearly twenty minutes straight.

By the time she finally gave up and headed home, it was already evening.

She remembered being halfway through the narrow alley behind her apartment building when she saw someone struggling ahead.

A girl.

Tall. Pretty. Young.

Carrying far too many grocery bags at once.

Yujin noticed her immediately not because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she looked ridiculous. One reusable bag hung dangerously off her wrist while another was balanced awkwardly against her hip, a paper bag clutched against her chest like she was seconds away from losing a fight against gravity.

Yujin almost smiled to herself as she walked slower behind her.

Then disaster struck exactly as expected.

One of the paper bags split clean open.

Oranges spilled across the pavement, bouncing in every direction like tiny runaway suns.

“Oh my god,” the girl groaned aloud.

The sheer devastation in her voice made Yujin chuckle before she could stop herself.

The stranger whipped around immediately, startled, eyes wide.

And God.

That was the first real thing Yujin noticed.

Her eyes.

Large and dark beneath absurdly long lashes, filled at that moment with equal parts embarrassment and annoyance.

“I’m glad this is entertaining for someone,” the girl muttered.

Yujin snorted despite herself and crouched automatically to help gather the oranges before they rolled farther down the alley.

“Sorry,” she said, reaching beneath a parked bicycle for one. “You just look like you’re having the worst day imaginable.”

“I am,” the girl sighed, kneeling beside her. “I missed my bus, my umbrella broke, and now I’m being publicly humiliated by citrus fruit.”

That made Yujin laugh properly.

A real laugh.

The kind that escaped unexpectedly.

The girl looked up at the sound instinctively—and then immediately froze because at the exact same moment Yujin leaned forward for another orange.

Their foreheads knocked together painfully.

“Ow—”

“Ow.”

They both jerked backward at once.

“Sorry,” Yujin blurted.

“Sorry,” the girl echoed immediately.

Silence fell afterward.

Not awkward exactly.

Just strangely suspended.

Rainwater dripped softly from somewhere overhead while both of them remained crouched on the pavement surrounded by escaped oranges.

Then the girl laughed helplessly.

“I think,” she said between breaths, “this is the universe humiliating me specifically.”

Yujin stared at her for a second too long.

Because suddenly she wasn’t noticing the ridiculous grocery situation anymore.

She was noticing the curve of her smile.

The tiny mole beneath her eye.

The way she laughed with her whole face like she genuinely couldn’t help it.

Pretty wasn’t even the right word for her.

She felt warm somehow.

Familiar.

Like someone Yujin had missed before even meeting.

“You live around here?” Yujin asked before thinking.

The girl blinked once, surprised by the abrupt question. “Uh… yeah. Building across the street.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Yujin picked up another orange casually. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“That sounded either flirtatious or threatening.”

“It can be both.”

The girl stared at her for one startled second before laughing again.

And that—

that was probably the exact moment Yujin fell a little bit in love.

Though she wouldn’t realize it until much later.

Together they gathered the remaining groceries, though the broken paper bag was beyond saving. Without hesitation, Yujin took two of the heavier bags from her hands automatically.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

“But they’re heavy.”

“You look like a strong gust of wind could take you out.”

The girl gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you.”

Yujin grinned.

They started walking slowly toward the apartment buildings afterward, and neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave.

That was the strange thing.

There was no reason for the conversation to continue.

Normally Yujin hated small talk with strangers. Usually she avoided eye contact in elevators. But something about this girl made silence feel easy instead of uncomfortable.

So they kept talking.

About stupid things at first.

The weather.

The terrible condition of the neighborhood sidewalks.

The convenience store nearby that overcharged for ramen.

The girl’s name was Jang Wonyoung.

She had moved into the area recently.

She was Nineteen.

She was studying Law.

She loved sweets to a borderline unreasonable degree—especially Dubai chocolate even long after the trend had already disappeared.

“It’s still good,” she defended stubbornly when Yujin raised an eyebrow.

“It tastes like sugar and financial irresponsibility.”

“You just don’t understand luxury.”

“You paid fourteen dollars for chocolate.”

“And I’d do it again.”

Yujin laughed softly under her breath as they walked.

She hated cold weather with genuine bitterness and said winter made her feel like “a dying Victorian child.”

She also hated pigeons.

Violently.

“You hate pigeons?” Yujin repeated, genuinely entertained now.

“They know things,” Wonyoung said immediately.

Yujin nearly stumbled over her own feet laughing. “What does that even mean?”

Wonyoung looked at her with complete seriousness. “Have you ever noticed how they stare at people?”

“That is literally what animals do.”

“No. Not normal staring.” Wonyoung pointed accusingly toward a group of pigeons gathered near the sidewalk ahead. “They look at you like they recognize you from somewhere.”

“You sound insane.”

“I’m serious! And they always travel in groups too. That’s suspicious behavior.”

“They’re birds.”

“Exactly. Why are they strategizing?”

Yujin laughed so suddenly she almost dropped one of the grocery bags.

The kind that escaped uncontrollably from somewhere deep in her chest.

Because this girl—
this absurd, dramatic, beautiful stranger—
was unlike anyone she had ever met before.

Everything about her felt oddly specific.

The way she spoke animatedly with her hands.

The way her nose wrinkled when she complained.

The way she could say the most ridiculous things with complete sincerity and somehow make them sound believable for half a second.

And the strangest part was that Yujin realized very quickly she did not want the conversation to end.

Usually, strangers exhausted her. Usually she counted minutes until interactions were over so she could retreat back into herself again.

But walking beside Wonyoung felt easy.

Natural.

Like she had known her longer than twenty minutes.

Wonyoung kept talking while they crossed the street together, rambling now about how summer was objectively superior because winter forced human beings to suffer unnecessarily.

“I shouldn’t need three layers just to survive outside,” she argued. “That’s not living. That’s endurance.”

“You’re being dramatic again.”

“You’ll understand when you see me in December.”

“I think I have an inkling,” Yujin teased. “You seem weak against minor inconveniences.”

Wonyoung gasped softly in offense before narrowing her eyes. “You’re mean.”

“And yet you keep talking to me.”

“That might be my first mistake.”

But she was smiling when she said it.

Smiling in a way that made something unfamiliar shift quietly in Yujin’s heart.

And maybe that was why neither of them walked away immediately once they reached Wonyoung’s apartment building.

Yujin would later remember this part most vividly—not the oranges, not the laughter, but this strange lingering pause afterward.

Like both of them sensed something quietly important unfolding and didn’t want to break it too quickly.

Rain drizzled softly around them while Yujin handed back the last grocery bag near the front gate, both of them lingering awkwardly beneath the yellow glow of the entrance light.

“Well,” Wonyoung had said finally, adjusting the bags against her chest. “Thank you for helping me survive my public humiliation.”

Yujin huffed out a laugh. “You’re welcome. Try not to lose another fight against citrus fruit.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Then Wonyoung smiled.

Small.

Soft.

Enough to completely derail every coherent thought inside Yujin’s brain.

And before Yujin could figure out how to end the conversation naturally like a normal person, Wonyoung gave her one last nod before slipping through the apartment gate.

Which should have been the end of it.

A perfectly ordinary encounter between two strangers.

Except Yujin stood there frozen for exactly five seconds after the gate clicked shut and immediately realized something horrifying.

She didn’t want this to be the only time she ever saw her.

The realization arrived with genuine panic.

Because suddenly the idea of this strange beautiful girl simply disappearing back into her life forever felt weirdly unbearable.

And before dignity or common sense could intervene—

“WAIT.”

Wonyoung startled halfway toward the apartment entrance and turned around.

Yujin, meanwhile, had apparently lost her entire mind.

Because instead of behaving normally, she practically lunged toward the gate, grabbing the metal bars with one hand and leaning halfway over them like a deranged neighborhood cryptid.

“Can I get your number?” she blurted out.

The words hung between them.

Yujin immediately wanted to die.

Because what kind of insane person asked for someone’s number after helping them pick up oranges off wet pavement? And nearly climbing over their apartment gate at that?

Apparently An Yujin.

Wonyoung looked stunned.

Standing there beneath the apartment lights with grocery bags hanging off her arms, blinking at Yujin like she genuinely could not process what she was witnessing.

And honestly?

Fair enough.

Yujin barely processed it either.

“I’m sorry,” Yujin said immediately, already scrambling off the fence. “That was aggressive. You can pretend I didn’t just do that.”

Wonyoung stared at her for another long second.

Then suddenly—

she burst out laughing.

The kind that made her bend slightly at the waist because she physically couldn’t hold it in.

“Oh my god,” she laughed breathlessly. “You were so cool and calm this whole time and that’s how you ask for someone’s number?”

Yujin covered her face instantly. “I know. Horrible. I’m aware.”

“You practically climbed the gate.”

“I panicked!”

Wonyoung laughed even harder at that, eyes crinkling beautifully at the corners, and Yujin remembered staring at her thinking, very clearly:

Yeah. I’m done for.

Because there was something so warm about her laughter. Something impossible not to chase.

Eventually Wonyoung recovered enough to step closer to the gate again, still visibly amused.

Then slowly—

very slowly—

she smiled.

Soft.

Almost shy.

“You’re really direct,” she murmured.

Yujin scratched the back of her neck, still clearly embarrassed. “I know. Sorry. You can pretend I never asked.”

But Wonyoung only shifted her groceries into one arm before holding out her hand expectantly.

“Give me your phone then.”

Yujin stared at her for half a second too long before fumbling immediately for her pocket.

Her hands were actually shaking.

Which was humiliating.

Wonyoung noticed too, of course she did.

“You’re nervous,” she murmured, visibly delighted by this discovery.

“No, I’m not.”

“...You’re cute.”

Yujin nearly died on the spot.

Later, much later, Wonyoung would admit that was the exact moment she started falling for her too.

Because there had been something strangely sincere about the whole thing.

Like Yujin saw someone she wanted in her life and impulsively reached for her before the chance disappeared.

And somehow—

that was always how Yujin loved.

Fully.

Earnestly.

Without knowing how to hold herself back once her heart decided something mattered.

Before handing the phone back, she added a tangerine emoji beside her name.

Yujin laughed softly at that.

“What?” Wonyoung asked innocently.

“Nothing. That’s just incredibly specific.”

“You’ll remember me now.”

The terrifying thing was—

Yujin already knew she would.

That was it.

There was no lightning strike.

No cinematic music.

Just a meeting in a narrow alleyway smelling faintly of rainwater and tangerines.

Years later, Wonyoung would tell her:

“I knew I’d love you because you picked up the ugly oranges too.”

“The ugly oranges?”

“The bruised ones. Everyone leaves bruised fruit behind.”

Yujin kissed her until she laughed.

They married at twenty-six and twenty-four.

in the middle of winter beneath soft yellow lights and a ceiling strung carefully with tiny white flowers Wonyoung had spent three months insisting were “absolutely necessary for the atmosphere.”

The venue itself was small.

Warm.

Almost painfully intimate.

Nothing extravagant, despite Wonyoung pretending otherwise during the planning process. Just their closest friends, immediate family, candlelight glowing softly against polished wooden floors, and snow falling quietly outside the windows like the world had decided to move gently for them that day.

Yujin barely remembered most of the ceremony preparations because she had spent the entire morning on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.

Not graceful nervousness either.

Real nervousness.

Sweaty palms.
Shaking hands.
Heart beating violently enough to make her nauseous.

She remembered standing outside the ceremony room beforehand while one of her bridesmaids adjusted her tie for the third time because Yujin’s fingers were trembling too badly to do it herself.

“You look terrified,” Rei laughed.

“I am terrified.”

“You’re literally marrying the love of your life.”

“That’s exactly why it’s terrifying.”

And somehow, absurdly, things only became worse once the ceremony actually started.

Because suddenly there were so many people watching them.

Rows and rows of faces turned toward her all at once the moment she stepped forward. Family members smiling. Friends already crying. Phones discreetly lifted for photos. The officiant speaking warmly somewhere in the distance while Yujin tried very hard not to pass out in front of everyone she had ever loved.

Then Wonyoung appeared at the end of the aisle.

And everything inside Yujin stopped.

Years later, even grief could not touch that memory.

Wonyoung in ivory silk.

Soft makeup.

Long dark hair tucked carefully behind one ear.

Looking at Yujin with such overwhelming tenderness it physically hurt to withstand.

She looked beautiful in a way that frightened Yujin.

Not because she looked perfect.

Because she looked happy.

Completely.

Radiantly.

Irrevocably happy.

Like there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

Yujin forgot how to breathe.

Actually forgot.

The room blurred around the edges as Wonyoung walked toward her slowly, bouquet trembling ever so slightly in her hands despite the calm expression on her face.

And all Yujin could think was:

Oh.

Oh, I’m going to marry her.

Not someday.
Not theoretically.

Now.

This woman was about to become her family.

The realization crashed into her so suddenly it nearly knocked the air from her lungs.

Wonyoung reached her a few seconds later and immediately noticed the panic written all over Yujin’s face.

Her mouth twitched softly.

Then, leaning closer beneath the music and murmured laughter filling the room, she whispered quietly:

“Why do you look like you’re being held hostage?”

Yujin stared at her helplessly before whispering back, voice genuinely strained:

“Why are they all staring at us?”

Wonyoung blinked once.

Then laughed.

A small, breathless laugh full of disbelief and affection and utterly love.

“Because it’s our wedding, silly.”

Our wedding.

Something about those words destroyed her instantly.

Yujin laughed shakily under her breath, though her eyes were already beginning to sting embarrassingly. Wonyoung noticed that too, of course she did, and subtly reached down to squeeze her hand once beneath the bouquet.

The ceremony continued after that, though Yujin remembered it in flashes more than sequences.

The warmth of Wonyoung’s fingers threaded through hers.

The candlelight flickering softly against ivory fabric.

Rei crying loudly before vows had even started.

Wonyoung smiling every single time Yujin looked at her—as if she physically could not stop.

And God.

Yujin kept looking.

It was actually becoming a problem.

During the vows, she got so distracted staring at Wonyoung’s face that she completely lost her place halfway through speaking.

The room fell silent.

Yujin blinked down at the paper in confusion like the words had suddenly transformed into another language.

Across from her, Wonyoung was visibly trying not to laugh.

“Breathe,” she whispered gently.

Everyone heard it.

The entire room burst into laughter immediately—including the officiant—and Yujin groaned while covering her face in humiliation.

“I’m serious,” she muttered weakly. “There are too many people here.”

“You’re doing great.”

“You’re biased.”

“I’m your wife. I’m supposed to be.”

Wife.

Even now, the memory of hearing that word for the first time in Wonyoung’s voice still ached.

Because at twenty-six years old, standing beneath winter lights while snow gathered softly outside the windows, Yujin believed she was stepping into the longest and happiest chapter of her life.

Later that night, after the guests had gone home and Wonyoung had kicked off her heels with relief, they sat together on the floor of their apartment eating convenience store ramen because they’d been too overwhelmed to eat at the reception.

Mrs. and Mrs.

The thought felt ridiculous.

Wonderful.

Terrifying.

Yujin remembered Wonyoung leaning against her shoulder later that night, suddenly quiet.

“What are you thinking?” Yujin asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I’m thinking…” Wonyoung hesitated. “I hope we get a long time together.”

Yujin turned immediately.

“Of course we will.”

Wonyoung smiled then.

She thought this was the beginning.

She thought they had decades ahead of them.

Ordinary decades.

Messy apartments and grocery lists and growing older side by side. Future vacations they hadn’t taken yet. Gray hairs Wonyoung would inevitably complain dramatically about. Arguments over thermostat settings because Wonyoung hated the cold weather with irrational passion. Future springs. Future winters. Future mornings waking up beside her.

Time had seemed endless then.

Beautifully endless.

And maybe that was why the memory hurt so much now.

Because looking back, Yujin realized happiness had never shone brighter than it did that day.

Right before life began quietly taking things away from them.

The first few months after the diagnosis felt less like living and more like learning how to survive inside a completely different universe.

Everything changed quietly at first.

The hospital visits multiplied gradually until they began consuming entire weeks. Their kitchen counter disappeared beneath prescription bottles and folded pamphlets and appointment schedules scribbled over with anxious handwriting. Conversations that once revolved around groceries or weekend plans became discussions about blood counts, treatment options, side effects, insurance approvals.

Yujin learned how to memorize medication names faster than she memorized birthdays.

And through all of it, Wonyoung kept trying to make things easier for her.

That was the unbearable part.

Even after being told she had cancer—even after the biopsies and scans and the terrifying clinical language of oncology wards—Wonyoung still worried more about whether Yujin had eaten dinner than about herself.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered once after a chemotherapy consultation when Yujin had gone completely silent beside her in the elevator.

Yujin blinked quickly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m already gone.”

The words sliced straight through her.

Immediately, violently.

Yujin looked away so fast it hurt.

Because the truth was that sometimes fear arrived so suddenly she physically could not breathe around it. Sometimes she would look at Wonyoung laughing softly over breakfast or complaining about hospital coffee or scrolling mindlessly through her phone beside her on the couch, and terror would slam into her chest so hard it made her dizzy.

This person could die.

The love of her life could die.

At first, treatment made Wonyoung sick in ways neither of them expected.

She slept constantly during the first chemotherapy cycle. Entire afternoons disappeared into silence because she was too weak to stay awake longer than an hour or two. Food stopped tasting right. Nausea arrived unpredictably. Sometimes Yujin would wake in the middle of the night to find the bathroom light on beneath the door and Wonyoung sitting on the floor afterward, forehead damp with sweat, too tired to stand immediately.

And every single time, without fail, she apologized.

“Sorry,” she whispered weakly while Yujin helped her back to bed.

As if being ill was something shameful.

As if suffering itself required forgiveness.

Yujin began hating the word almost immediately.

Sorry.

Sorry for needing help.
Sorry for sleeping so much.
Sorry for ruining plans.
Sorry for making Yujin worry.
Sorry for existing painfully.

One evening, about two months after treatment began, Yujin came home from the pharmacy to find Wonyoung sitting alone on the kitchen floor.

Not crying.

Just sitting there silently with one hand pressed against her thigh.

The sight terrified her instantly.

“Baby?”

Wonyoung looked up too quickly, like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“I’m okay.”

Which obviously meant she wasn’t.

Yujin dropped the grocery bag immediately and crouched in front of her. “What happened?”

There was a long pause before Wonyoung spoke again, this time her voice was stained.

“My leg hurts.”

“How bad?”

Wonyoung hesitated.

Too long.

Yujin felt cold all over.

“How bad?” she repeated quietly.

“Pretty bad.”

That night became the first time Yujin truly understood what bone pain meant.

Not soreness.
Not aching.

Agony.

Wonyoung curled into her in bed trembling so hard her teeth chattered despite the warmth of the apartment. Every movement hurt. Even breathing seemed painful somehow. Yujin spent nearly three hours laying beside her, holding her while rubbing slow circles into her back while waiting for stronger medication to kick in.

At one point around three in the morning, Wonyoung suddenly grabbed her hand.

Hard.

Yujin looked up immediately.

Tears had gathered silently along Wonyoung’s lashes.

Not dramatic crying.

Which somehow made it worse.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

It was the first time she had admitted it out loud.

Yujin felt something inside herself crack instantly.

But she still smiled.

Still brushed trembling fingers gently through Wonyoung’s hair.

Still leaned down and kissed her forehead softly like she wasn’t breaking apart internally.

“I know, my love,” she whispered back. “I’m here.”

And she stayed.

Always.

That became the rhythm of their lives afterward.

Yujin stayed through it all.

During blood tests and scans and emergency consultations.
During nights Wonyoung shook from pain badly enough that neither of them slept.
During mornings when she was too exhausted to climb out of bed without help.

Especially then.

The hardest adjustment wasn’t the hospitals.

It was the ordinary things.

The small humiliations illness introduced into daily life.

Wonyoung had always been fiercely independent. She hated needing help even before getting sick. So the gradual loss of simple abilities wounded her in quiet invisible ways Yujin noticed immediately.

The first time her hands trembled too badly to hold chopsticks steadily, she laughed it off.

“Wow,” she joked weakly. “Maybe I’m secretly eighty years old.”

But later that night, Yujin found her sitting alone in the living room staring at her own hands with tears slipping silently down her face.

Another time, she nearly collapsed trying to carry laundry upstairs by herself because she didn’t want to wake Yujin from a nap.

Afterward, Yujin cried silently in the kitchen while washing dishes because she realized Wonyoung would rather hurt herself than feel like a burden.

So Yujin adapted quietly.

Without making it obvious.

She started walking slightly slower so Wonyoung wouldn’t have to ask.
Started tying Wonyoung’s shoelaces on walks casually while talking about other things so it felt less humiliating.
Started warming blankets in the dryer before bed because the pain worsened whenever Wonyoung got cold.

She learned every version of Wonyoung’s silence too.

The exhausted silence.
The hurting silence.
The frightened silence she tried hardest to hide.

And through all of it, Yujin refused to fall apart in front of her.

Not because she wasn’t devastated.

There were nights she sat alone inside their parked car gripping the steering wheel while sobbing hard enough to make herself sick before returning upstairs with a steady expression like nothing had happened. There were hospital bathroom breakdowns. Pharmacy aisle breakdowns. One memorable breakdown beside the frozen food section because Wonyoung’s favorite snacks suddenly felt unbearable to look at.

But never in front of Wonyoung.

Never where she could see.

Because Yujin realized quickly that every tear on her own face transformed into guilt and pain on Wonyoung’s.

And she could survive fear.

She could survive exhaustion.

But she could not survive watching the person she loved apologize for dying.

Mornings became difficult.

The illness settled into Wonyoung’s bones like winter.

Some days she couldn’t walk without pain. Some days her hands trembled too badly to hold cups properly anymore. Some days even standing at the kitchen counter exhausted her enough that Yujin had to guide her gently back toward bed afterward.

Yet somehow, impossibly, there were still moments of softness threaded between the grief.

Spring remained Wonyoung’s favorite season.

It had arrived gently that year, warm air drifting through the open windows carrying the smell of rain-damp pavement and blooming trees from somewhere down the street. One of Wonyoung’s favorite songs played softly from her phone propped against the counter, low enough to blend into the morning instead of overwhelming it.

Every year, without fail, she played the same spring playlist once winter ended and danced terribly around the apartment while cleaning. Even after getting sick—even after treatment hollowed exhaustion beneath her eyes—she still insisted on opening windows every morning once the weather warmed.

“You’re letting pollen inside,” Yujin complained automatically one morning.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing,” Yujin grumbled. “Pollen exists purely to attack people with allergies for no reason.”

Wonyoung laughed softly beneath the spring sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows. “You sound personally victimized and you’re not even allergic.”

“Maybe I am allergic and this is how I find out.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“That’s rich coming from the woman who thinks pigeons are operating a surveillance network.”

Wonyoung immediately pointed at her triumphantly. “See? You remember my theories because deep down you know I’m right.”

“I remember them because they’re insane.”

And somehow that only made Wonyoung laugh harder.

Toward the final months, Wonyoung could no longer dance the way she used to.

The illness had settled too deeply into her body by then. Sudden movements hurt. Standing for too long exhausteda her. Some mornings she woke already tired.

But sometimes Yujin would still catch her swaying unconsciously to music while cooking or waiting for water to boil—small movements now, careful ones, like her body was trying not to disturb itself too much.

That morning, Wonyoung stood near the stove in one of Yujin’s oversized sweaters, sleeves falling past her wrists. The breeze moved softly through her hair while she hummed under her breath, swaying side to side with absentminded slowness.

And for one suspended moment—

She didn’t look sick.

Not like a patient.

Not like someone dying.

Just Wonyoung.

Just the woman Yujin had fallen hopelessly in love with years ago in a rain-soaked alley surrounded by spilled oranges.

Yujin’s chest tightened painfully.

Because lately every beautiful thing came attached to grief before it had even finished happening.

Even this.

Especially this.

The sunlight.

The music.

The fragile outline of Wonyoung’s shoulders beneath soft fabric.

Before she could think too hard about it, she crossed the kitchen quietly and held out one hand.

Wonyoung looked up immediately, surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Dance with me.”

Wonyoung blinked once. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

A tiny smile appeared almost instantly at the corners of her mouth.

“Yujin,” she murmured fondly, “we’re literally in the kitchen.”

“And?”

“You hate dancing.”

“I hate dancing publicly.”

Wonyoung laughed softly under her breath before slipping her hand into Yujin’s anyway.

Warm fingers.

Familiar fingers.

Yujin pulled her gently closer.

Carefully.

Always carefully now.

One arm settled around Wonyoung’s waist while the other held her hand loosely between them, and slowly—so slowly they barely moved at all—they began swaying together beneath the morning light.

No dramatic steps.

No elegance.

Just closeness.

Wonyoung rested her head against Yujin’s shoulder after a moment with a quiet sigh, and Yujin immediately tightened her hold instinctively, her body had long learned how to protect her without needing thought anymore.

The song continued softly around them.

Outside, somewhere below the apartment, someone laughed on the street. A bus passed. Wind stirred the curtains.

Life continuing.

But inside the kitchen, time seemed to loosen its grip for a little while.

And maybe that was why the moment remained carved so permanently into Yujin afterward.

Wonyoung swayed lazily in Yujin’s arms, her socked feet brushing against the floor. “You know,” she murmured after a while, “for someone who claims to hate dancing, you’re being suspiciously affectionate right now.”

Yujin scoffed quietly. “I’m making a sacrifice.”

“How brave of you.”

“You should appreciate my suffering more.”

Wonyoung laughed softly against her shoulder, and the sound alone nearly unraveled Yujin completely.

God.

Even now.

Even after hospitals and medications and sleepless nights and fear curling permanently beneath her ribs—

Wonyoung could still make her feel twenty-one again.

Still make her feel like a stupid girl in an alleyway staring too long at a beautiful stranger holding bruised oranges against her chest.

“You’re smiling,” Wonyoung said suddenly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Wonyoung leaned back slightly just to look at her face properly, clearly seeing her wife’s smile and flushed cheeks. “Wow,” she whispered dramatically. “I think…you have a crush on me.”

Yujin barked out a laugh. “We’re literally married.”

“And yet the feelings persist even after all this time.”

“You’re actually unbearable.”

“And gorgeous. Don’t forget gorgeous.”

“That part’s unfortunately true.”

Wonyoung grinned triumphantly before settling back against her chest again, entirely too pleased with herself.

The kitchen smelled faintly of strawberries and coffee. Sunlight drifted warm across the floorboards while the curtains lifted gently in the breeze.

For a little while, the illness faded quietly into the background.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But distant enough that Yujin could almost pretend they were simply themselves again.

Because that was the strange thing about love, she realized.

Even while on the brink of losing each other, they never stopped being them.

Wonyoung still complained dramatically whenever cold air touched her skin. Still ordered expensive desserts and then stole bites from Yujin’s too. Still eyed pigeons on the sidewalk with deep personal distrust.

And Yujin still laughed every single time.

Still rolled her eyes fondly.

Still reached for her automatically in crowds.

Still loved her with the same overwhelming helplessness as the girl who had asked for a stranger’s number beside spilled oranges and rainwater.

“You know what I just realized?” Wonyoung murmured sleepily.

“Hm?”

“You fell in love with me that day in the alleyway because I’m funny.”

Yujin snorted. “That is absolutely not why.”

“It’s a huge reason.”

“You accused pigeons of organized surveillance the first day we met.”

“And you were charmed.”

“I was concerned.”

“You asked for my number.”

Yujin had no response to that.

Wonyoung tipped her head back just enough to squint at her playfully. “You know, for someone so emotionally repressed, you were weirdly bold that day.”

She laughed quietly. “You practically jumped over the gate to ask for my number.”

Yujin groaned softly and immediately hid part of her face against Wonyoung’s shoulder. “Please don’t remind me. I still think about that sometimes at night.”

“That was genuinely insane behavior.”

“I panicked.”

“You looked like you were escaping prison.”

“That’s enough.”

Wonyoung smiled then.

Not teasing this time.

Just soft.

Warm.

“But I’m glad you asked,” she whispered.

The words settled somewhere deep inside Yujin’s chest.

And suddenly she found herself holding Wonyoung a little tighter.

For once, she stopped thinking.

Stopped calculating medication times and upcoming appointments and pain levels and survival rates and futures she was too frightened to imagine anymore.

She stopped counting how many good days Wonyoung had left.

She stopped being afraid.

There were no counted days there at that moment.

No hospitals.
No prognosis.
No terrifying inevitability waiting quietly at the edges of their lives.

Just Wonyoung.

Her wife warm and breathing and real inside her arms.

The person she loved most in the world swaying gently with her in a sunlit kitchen while spring air drifted softly through open windows.

And suddenly that was enough.

More than enough.

Yujin lowered her head slightly until her nose brushed Wonyoung’s hair.

“I love you,” she whispered without thinking.

Wonyoung tilted her face upward immediately.

Soft eyes.

Sleepy smile.

“I know.”

Then after a moment, quieter:

“I love you too.”

Yujin kissed her forehead gently.

And for those few minutes, they allowed themselves to exist outside of grief.

Not patient and caretaker.

Just two people deeply, helplessly in love.

Toward the final year, love became quieter.

Not smaller.

Never smaller.

But quieter in the way exhausted things become quiet.

The illness had settled too deeply into their lives by then to be treated like an interruption anymore. It existed everywhere now—in the careful pace of Wonyoung’s steps, in the medication alarms that divided their days, in the way Yujin instinctively woke at the slightest sound during the night.

They were both so tired.

That was the truth neither of them admitted out loud often enough.

Wonyoung was tired from pain.

Yujin was tired from fear.

And unfortunately, exhaustion has a cruel way of sharpening even small emotions into something painful.

At first, the arguments were minor.

Little things.

Yujin forgetting to eat because she was too focused on medication schedules. Wonyoung waking up at three in the morning only to find her still sitting upright beside the bed watching her breathe instead of sleeping.

“You need to stop doing that,” Wonyoung whispered one night, voice rough with exhaustion.

Yujin looked up immediately from the chair beside the bed. “Doing what?”

“Watching me like I’m about to disappear.”

Yujin swallowed hard. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Silence stretched between them.

The room was dim except for the faint glow of the hallway light spilling through the cracked door. Wonyoung looked pale beneath the blankets, dark circles hollow beneath her eyes from another day of pain severe enough to leave her trembling.

Still, she stared at Yujin stubbornly.

“You haven’t slept properly in days.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Wonyoung’s expression tightened immediately at the sharpness in her voice.

And guilt hit Yujin instantly afterward.

Because she hadn’t meant it like that.

She was just so tired.

So frightened all the time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered immediately, rubbing both hands over her face. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

But the sadness remained in Wonyoung’s eyes anyway.

And somehow that hurt worse than anger ever could.

Other fights arrived during worse moments.

Painful moments.

The kind neither of them truly meant.

One afternoon, Wonyoung’s hands shook too badly to button her own cardigan.

Yujin noticed instantly and moved automatically to help her.

Usually Wonyoung let her.

That day she jerked away sharply instead.

“I can do it myself.”

“Baby—”

“I said I can do it myself.”

Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

Not from anger.

Humiliation.

And suddenly the entire room filled with it.

The unbearable grief of losing pieces of yourself slowly while the person you love watches helplessly beside you.

Wonyoung turned away quickly after that, fumbling harder with the buttons while frustration visibly built beneath her skin.

Her fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

The cardigan slipped.

And then—

“Forget it!”

The outburst startled both of them.

Wonyoung shoved the sweater away violently before pressing trembling hands against her eyes.

“I can’t do anything anymore,” she whispered brokenly.

Yujin’s heart physically hurt hearing it.

Immediately she crossed the room and reached for her hands despite resistance.

“Hey,” she whispered softly. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“It’s not.”

“You have to help me with everything now.”

Yujin shook her head instantly. “I want to.”

“But I don’t want you to have to.”

And there it was.

The real wound beneath all of it.

Not just pain.

Not just illness.

Guilt.

Wonyoung had begun carrying guilt everywhere toward the end. Heavy, invisible guilt that sat behind her ribs no matter how often Yujin tried to love it away.

Guilt for being sick.

Guilt for surviving painfully.

Guilt for watching Yujin exhaust herself caring for her.

And sometimes that guilt transformed into anger simply because anger hurt less than helplessness.

The worst fight happened during rain.

Yujin remembered that clearly.

Rain hammering softly against the apartment windows while another terrible pain flare tore through Wonyoung badly enough that even morphine barely dulled it.

The entire evening had already been difficult. Wonyoung hadn’t eaten properly. She could barely walk without assistance. Every movement hurt.

And Yujin—

God.

Yujin had been terrified all day.

Terrified in the quiet suffocating way she often became now whenever Wonyoung looked too pale or too tired or too fragile.

By midnight, neither of them had slept.

Wonyoung sat curled against the headboard breathing shakily while Yujin hovered nearby asking questions every few minutes.

“Does your chest hurt?”
“Can you breathe okay?”
“Do you need water?”
“Should I call the hospital?”

Finally—

“Stop it.”

Yujin froze.

Wonyoung’s eyes were bright with pain and exhaustion.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered harshly.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to die.”

The words hit like a slap.

Immediately silence swallowed the room.

Because that was the one fear Yujin had spent months trying desperately not to let Wonyoung see.

“I’m not,” Yujin said quietly.

“Yes, you are.”

“I said I’m not.”

“You don’t sleep anymore. You barely eat. You watch me constantly like if you look away for one second something horrible will happen—”

“Because something horrible is happening!”

The words escaped louder than intended.

Both of them froze afterward.

Rain filled the silence.

Yujin immediately wished she could take it back.

Wonyoung looked wounded instantly—not by the volume, but by the truth inside it.

And suddenly guilt crashed over Yujin so violently she could barely breathe.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No.” Wonyoung looked away quickly. “You’re right.”

That hurt more than if she had yelled back.

Yujin stood there helplessly for another moment before quietly grabbing a blanket from the chair nearby.

“I’m gonna sleep on the couch tonight,” she whispered.

Wonyoung didn’t answer.

So Yujin left.

The couch was too small.

Uncomfortable.

But she barely noticed.

Rain continued outside while darkness swallowed the apartment, and Yujin lay awake staring at the ceiling feeling like her chest had been hollowed out completely.

She hated fighting with Wonyoung now more than anything.

Because every argument carried terrifying weight suddenly.

Every harsh word felt dangerous.

What if this became the last thing they said to each other?

The thought alone made her nauseous.

Still—

she didn’t go back.

Because she knew Wonyoung needed space sometimes too.

So she stayed there in silence listening to the rain and trying very hard not to cry.

Sometime later—maybe an hour, maybe less—soft footsteps appeared quietly near the living room entrance.

Yujin looked up immediately.

Wonyoung stood there wrapped in a blanket, one hand braced weakly against the wall.

Pale.

Exhausted.

Beautiful.

Yujin sat up instantly. “Wonnie, why are you walking around? You should’ve called me.”

Wonyoung ignored the question entirely.

Instead she whispered softly:

“Come back to bed.”

The words nearly broke her.

Yujin stood immediately and crossed the room toward her carefully. “You didn’t have to come out here.”

“I know.”

Wonyoung’s eyes looked glassy in the dim light.

For a second neither of them spoke.

Then quietly, almost too quietly:

“I’m sorry.”

Yujin’s chest tightened painfully.

“No,” she whispered immediately. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“But I yelled at you.”

“You were hurting.”

“I still yelled.”

Yujin looked at her for one long aching moment before gently brushing loose hair behind Wonyoung’s ear.

“You’re allowed to be angry sometimes,” she whispered. “You’re allowed to feel awful about this.”

Wonyoung’s mouth trembled suddenly.

And then finally—

finally—

she broke.

Tears slipping silently down her face while she leaned forward against Yujin’s chest like she no longer had enough strength to hold herself upright.

Yujin wrapped both arms around her instantly.

Held her carefully.
Tightly.

And only then did she realize Wonyoung was crying soundlessly.

The kind of crying pulled from somewhere too exhausted for sobbing anymore.

“I’m scared,” Wonyoung whispered against her shirt. “I’m so scared all the time.”

Yujin closed her eyes immediately.

Because she was scared too.

Terrified.

Every second.

But instead of falling apart, she only tightened her hold gently and kissed the top of Wonyoung’s head.

“I know,” she whispered shakily. “I know, baby.”

They returned to bed afterward tangled quietly together beneath blankets while rain softened outside the windows.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Wonyoung curled instinctively against Yujin’s chest, breathing unevenly while Yujin stroked slow fingers through her hair until eventually the trembling eased. The room remained dark except for the faint silver glow of rainlight slipping through the curtains, and somewhere in the silence between them, grief softened briefly into something more fragile.

Something tender.

Wonyoung lifted her head first.

Yujin still remembered the way her eyes looked then—wet lashes, flushed cheeks, exhaustion threaded through every inch of her, and yet somehow still unbearably beautiful to her.

Like this.

Like always.

Carefully, Wonyoung reached up and touched Yujin’s face with trembling fingers.

Not asking for anything.

Just touching her.

Yujin leaned into it immediately.

And then they kissed.

Slowly at first.

There was no urgency in it. No desperation. Just quiet closeness. Familiarity. The aching need to feel each other alive and real for a little longer.

Rain hummed gently outside while Yujin held her like something precious, kissing tears from the corners of Wonyoung’s eyes and cheeks whenever they slipped free again. At some point Wonyoung whispered “I love you” against her mouth so shakily it nearly destroyed her.

Yujin answered every single time.

Again and again.

Like prayer.
Like a promise.
Like she could somehow love hard enough to keep death away from them.

Later, Yujin would think it felt almost like the first time they had ever made love to each other.

Because every touch carried meaning too large for words suddenly. Every kiss felt frighteningly careful, like they were trying to memorize each other through their hands. Wonyoung clung to her quietly throughout it, breathing unevenly against her shoulder while Yujin held her with impossible gentleness, terrified of hurting her and equally terrified of letting go.

And for a little while, neither of them cried anymore.

There was only warmth.

Only skin and touches and kisses and whispered affection and the sound of their breaths and the rain.

Only the unbearable miracle of still having each other.

Afterward, Wonyoung lay tucked against Yujin’s chest while exhaustion finally pulled at her body heavily again.

Yujin held her close beneath the blankets, fingers combing slowly through her hair while Wonyoung traced sleepy shapes against her ribs absentmindedly.

“I love you,” Wonyoung whispered again into the darkness.

Yujin closed her eyes tightly for one brief second before kissing the top of her head.

“I know,” she whispered back shakily. “I love you too. So much.”

And then she held the love of her life through the night while silently breaking apart where Wonyoung could not see.

There were good days.

Enough good days to fool them sometimes.

Days Wonyoung laughed so brightly Yujin almost believed they had outrun it somehow. Days the sunlight hit her face in the kitchen and she looked so painfully alive that hope returned against Yujin’s will. Days they walked slowly to the grocery store together with Wonyoung tucked warmly beneath Yujin’s arm, arguing over snacks and expensive desserts like nothing terrible was happening to them at all.

On those days, they almost resembled the people they used to be.

They cooked dinner together carefully, Yujin chopping vegetables while Wonyoung sat perched on the counter because standing too long hurt her back now. They watched movies in bed afterward while Wonyoung complained about bad writing and tucked her freezing feet beneath Yujin’s legs for warmth despite Yujin’s dramatic protests.

“Your feet are actual weapons,” Yujin muttered one night.

“You love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately.”

Wonyoung laughed softly against her shoulder.

And for a few suspended hours, the apartment still felt like home instead of somewhere grief had begun quietly moving into.

But then there were bad days.

Days the pain settled into Wonyoung’s bones so deeply she could barely breathe through it.

The cancer spread quietly.

Cruelly.

First her spine.

That was when standing became difficult. Some mornings Yujin woke to find Wonyoung already sitting upright in bed because lying flat hurt too much. Her lower back ached constantly now—a deep, relentless pain no heating pad or medication ever fully erased. Walking across the apartment exhausted her. Climbing stairs became nearly impossible without stopping halfway to breathe.

Then her ribs.

After that came the fractures.

Tiny ones at first. Hairline fractures from movements that should not have caused damage at all. Coughing too hard once left her curled trembling against the bathroom sink afterward because even her own body had become dangerous to itself.

Yujin became terrified of everything.

Terrified of slippery floors.

Terrified of sharp corners.

Terrified of the way Wonyoung flinched instinctively whenever she moved too quickly.

By then her body had already begun changing visibly too.

The illness hollowed her out slowly.

Sharp collarbones emerged beneath pale skin. Her wrists became frighteningly delicate in Yujin’s hands. Some nights while helping her change clothes, Yujin caught sight of bruises blooming darkly along her hips and ribs from almost nothing at all.

And still Wonyoung apologized whenever Yujin noticed.

“Sorry,” she whispered one evening while Yujin carefully rubbed ointment over purple bruising near her spine.

The word nearly destroyed Yujin every time.

Then her lungs.

That was the worst part.

Because suddenly it wasn’t only muscle pain anymore.

It was breathing.

Fluid began gathering around her lungs toward the final months, making every breath shallower than the last. Some nights Yujin woke instantly because Wonyoung’s breathing sounded wrong beside her—too uneven, too strained—and panic slammed through her body before she was fully conscious.

There were emergency hospital visits at three in the morning beneath violent fluorescent lights.

Oxygen tubes.

Wheelchairs.

Nurses speaking gently while adjusting morphine dosages.

Stage IV.

Metastatic.

Terminal.

Yujin learned new words she wished she had never heard before.

Lesions.

Palliative care.

Life expectancy.

The doctors stopped speaking in years.

Then they stopped speaking in months.

After that, everything became counted carefully.

Good mornings.

Pain levels.

Hours slept.

Breaths.

Days.

Still—

there were moments of unbearable tenderness threaded between the suffering.

One evening near the very end, Yujin knelt quietly on the apartment floor helping Wonyoung put on her coat and shoes before a hospital appointment.

The task should have taken seconds.

Instead, it took nearly ten minutes because Wonyoung’s hands were trembling too badly again.

Yujin noticed the frustration immediately.

The way Wonyoung’s jaw tightened.

The way she stopped looking directly at her.

Without a word, Yujin gently took the shoelaces from her fingers.

“I can do it,” Wonyoung whispered automatically.

“I know.”

But she didn’t resist this time.

Yujin tied the laces carefully while kneeling there between her knees, movements practiced now after months of learning how to help without making it feel humiliating.

When she looked up afterward, her chest tightened painfully.

Wonyoung looked so tired.

Dark circles hollowed beneath her eyes now permanently. Her body seemed smaller somehow each week, swallowed slowly by oversized sweaters and blankets and illness. Even sitting upright exhausted her lately.

But her eyes—

Her eyes were still the same.

Still warm.

Still unbearably gentle whenever they looked at Yujin.

“You don’t have to do everything for me,” Wonyoung whispered quietly.

Yujin stared at her for a long moment before lowering her gaze again, focusing carefully on tightening the knot properly because suddenly her vision had begun blurring.

“I know,” she said softly.

Then after a moment:

“I want to.”

Silence followed.

And then Wonyoung cried.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just silent tears slipping helplessly down her face while she pressed trembling fingers against her mouth like she could stop herself from falling apart.

Yujin’s chest cracked open instantly.

Immediately she leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against Wonyoung’s knee while wrapping both hands around hers.

“It’s okay,” she whispered shakily, though neither of them believed that anymore. “Baby, it’s okay.”

But Wonyoung only cried harder.

Because they both understood now what love could not fix.

No matter how gently Yujin held her.

No matter how fiercely she stayed.

No matter how desperately they loved each other through every terrible day—

the illness was still taking her away piece by piece.

And somehow that made every small act of tenderness feel even more sacred.

The shoelaces.

The forehead kisses.

The whispered i love yous before sleep.

As if loving each other carefully enough might preserve something even after everything else was gone.

Toward the final months, Germany became their last fragile thread of hope.

Not hope for a cure anymore.

They were already past that.

By then the cancer had spread too far through Wonyoung’s body for anyone to speak in optimistic terms. The lesions along her spine had worsened. Her ribs remained dangerously fragile. Fluid gathered around her lungs often enough that breathing itself exhausted her some days.

But there was treatment there.

Experimental pain management.
Advanced palliative care.
Specialists willing to try newer methods to lessen the suffering.

So Yujin took her to Germany anyway.

Because even if she could not save Wonyoung anymore, she could still fight for her comfort.

Still fight for gentler days.

Still fight for moments where Wonyoung smiled instead of grimaced in pain.

The hospitals there were beautiful in a way hospitals should not have been.

Bright white walls. Large windows overlooking quiet streets. Doctors speaking softly in accented English while discussing treatment plans that sounded both hopeful and devastating at the same time.

Yujin sat through every consultation gripping Wonyoung’s hand beneath the table so tightly their fingers hurt.

There were long discussions afterward in hotel rooms and quiet cafés.

Risk percentages.

Possible complications.

Pain reduction estimates.

How much time the treatments might buy her.

Time.

Always time.

Measured now in increments small enough to break Yujin open.

After several exhausting hospital visits in a row, Yujin noticed the way Wonyoung had begun retreating into herself again.

She still smiled for Yujin.

Still joked occasionally.

But exhaustion lingered heavily beneath everything now.

The kind beyond sleep.

So one afternoon, despite the winter cold biting through the city streets, Yujin bundled Wonyoung carefully into one of her thick scarves and took her out anyway.

“You’re kidnapping me,” Wonyoung mumbled weakly while Yujin adjusted the scarf around her neck.

“Yes.”

“You admit it so easily.”

“I’m committed to honesty.”

Wonyoung laughed softly at that.

And God.

Yujin would have crossed oceans just to hear that sound again.

The cold air of Germany brushed gently against Wonyoung’s face as they wandered slowly through the quaint streets together. The city looked almost unreal beneath pale winter sunlight—old stone buildings lined with ivy, narrow alleyways glowing softly beneath hanging lamps, little bakeries spilling warmth and sugar into the cold air every time doors opened.

Despite everything, Wonyoung felt calmer there.

Away from hospital rooms.

Away from monitors and medication schedules and doctors speaking carefully around the word terminal.

Here, for a few hours, she could almost pretend she was simply traveling with the woman she loved.

And Yujin worked desperately to preserve that illusion for her.

She took Wonyoung everywhere she still had strength to go.

Museums where they wandered slowly hand in hand between paintings older than both of them combined. Quiet gardens dusted with winter frost. Historic streets frozen beautifully in time.

Places untouched by illness.

Places where nobody looked at Wonyoung with pity.

One afternoon they wandered toward a famous bridge crowded with thousands of locks clipped tightly against iron railings, glittering beneath weak sunlight like tiny fragments of memory.

Wonyoung stopped almost immediately.

“Oh,” she breathed softly.

The bridge stretched endlessly before them, every lock carrying names and dates and promises left behind by strangers who had once loved each other enough to make permanence out of metal.

Yujin glanced sideways at her.

“What?”

“It’s pretty.”

“You’re pretty.”

Wonyoung groaned instantly. “That was terrible.”

“It worked though.”

“You’re lucky I’m vulnerable right now.”

“You’ve always been vulnerable to me.”

Wonyoung rolled her eyes fondly, though the corners of her mouth lifted anyway.

Eventually they bought a lock from a nearby vendor.

Simple silver metal.

Nothing extravagant.

But somehow it still felt important in Yujin’s hands.

“What should we write?” Wonyoung asked quietly while turning the lock over between cold fingers.

Yujin looked at her for a long moment before smiling softly.

“Something simple.”

“Your ideas are always suspicious when you say that.”

“Rude.”

“You once described plain toast as a complete meal.”

“It technically is.”

Wonyoung laughed under her breath again before leaning slightly into Yujin’s side for warmth.

Together they engraved their names carefully into the metal.

Yujin & Wonyoung.

Forever wasn’t written there.

Neither of them dared.

But it existed anyway in the way Yujin looked at her afterward.

In the trembling carefulness of her hands.

They fastened the lock onto the bridge together quietly, fingers brushing against cold iron.

A symbol of their love.

Their time.

Everything they had built together despite the ending waiting ahead of them.

Wonyoung turned afterward to stare out over the river below while wind curled softly through her hair.

The water stretched endlessly beneath the pale winter sky.

Beautiful.
Quiet.
Unreachable.

And while her attention drifted elsewhere, Yujin quickly pulled a pen from her coat pocket.

Carefully, hidden from Wonyoung’s view, she turned the lock slightly and wrote small words against the back.

I hope we can see the next spring together.

Her hand shook while writing it.

Because by then Yujin no longer prayed for miracles.

Miracles were too large now.
Too impossible.

She only prayed for time.

Another spring.

Another month.

Another morning waking beside her.

Later that evening, after the bridge and the lock and the cold river wind had left both of their cheeks pink beneath wool scarves, they wandered quietly through the city without much destination in mind.

Germany looked different at night.

Softer somehow.

The narrow alleyways glowed gold beneath hanging lamps while distant café windows fogged warmly against the cold. Cobblestone streets stretched endlessly beneath their feet, damp from an earlier drizzle, and somewhere nearby someone played faint violin music that drifted softly through the winter air.

Yujin walked slower these days for Wonyoung without even thinking about it anymore.

Always matching her pace instinctively.

Always close enough to catch her if she stumbled.

Tonight, Wonyoung’s hand remained tucked firmly inside Yujin's coat pocket while Yujin held onto it there, their fingers intertwined beneath layers of fabric and warmth.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Not because the silence was uncomfortable.

Because it wasn’t.

Silence had become another language between them over the years.

Comfortable.

Lived-in.

Tender.

At some point, Yujin began whistling quietly beneath her breath.

Terribly.

Wonyoung immediately looked up.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. "Even after all these years, you still whistle like that.”

Yujin looked offended. “Like what?”

“Like a divorced grandfather feeding ducks at a park.”

“That is incredibly specific.”

“And accurate.”

Yujin snorted softly while Wonyoung laughed beneath the scarf wrapped around her mouth.

God.

That laugh.

Even now, even with illness curled deep into her bones and exhaustion permanently shadowing her body, Wonyoung still laughed the same way she had years ago in that alley behind their apartment building after dropping oranges everywhere.

Warmly.

Fully.

Like she loved being alive whenever Yujin made her smile.

The sound of Yujin's whistling still echoed softly down the quiet street while they continued walking.

And without warning, Wonyoung's chest tightened painfully.

Because that was the terrible thing about loving someone this deeply.

Pieces of them began attaching themselves permanently to ordinary things.

A whistle.
A scarf.
The way Yujin always shoved her hands into her coat pockets when cold.

The pencils she carried everywhere absentmindedly, always underlining favorite sentences in books until the pages became crowded with graphite and thought.

Wonyoung remembered countless mornings waking to find books scattered around their apartment with Yujin’s messy pencil marks beneath lines about love and happily ever afters and eternity.

Without realizing it, she squeezed Yujin’s hand a little tighter.

Yujin glanced sideways immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“I’m literally just walking.”

“Exactly. Very suspicious behavior.”

Yujin huffed out a laugh while rolling her eyes fondly.

Then suddenly Wonyoung stopped walking altogether.

Yujin looked at her immediately, concern flashing instinctively across her face now whenever she paused too abruptly.

“What’s wrong? Does something hurt?”

The question came so quickly.
So automatically.

Wonyoung’s chest ached.

Not from illness this time.

Love.

She stepped closer instead of answering.

Yujin frowned slightly in confusion as Wonyoung slowly reached upward with careful trembling fingers toward the collar of her coat.

One of the buttons had been fastened unevenly.

Normally, this would have been Yujin’s job.

Yujin fixing her scarves.
Buttoning cardigans carefully when her hands hurt too much.
Tying shoelaces while pretending not to notice the embarrassment burning in Wonyoung’s eyes.

But tonight—

tonight Wonyoung wanted to take care of her too.

Even in some small way.

“You buttoned this wrong,” she murmured softly.

Yujin blinked. “Oh.”

“Disaster.”

“Are you judging me right now?”

“Severely.”

Yujin laughed quietly under her breath while standing perfectly still, allowing Wonyoung to fix it.

Her fingers moved slowly now because of the tremors.

Still, Yujin never rushed her.

Never once looked impatient.

She simply watched Wonyoung carefully beneath the glow of the streetlights with that same unbearably gentle expression she had carried for months now.

Like every second together mattered.

And maybe it did.

Wonyoung adjusted the collar carefully afterward, smoothing the fabric flat against Yujin’s chest before letting her hand linger there a moment too long.

Warmth beneath wool.
A heartbeat beneath her palm.

Yujin covered her hand quietly with her own.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Yujin lifted their joined hands automatically and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles.

“You’re staring at me weirdly,” she murmured.

Wonyoung smiled faintly. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“And yet you married me willingly.”

True.

Painfully true.

Wonyoung stepped closer until their foreheads brushed lightly together in the cold air.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The city hummed quietly around them.
Streetlights glowed softly overhead.
Snow threatened somewhere high above the clouds.

And there, in the middle of a foreign alleyway far from hospitals and fear and countdowns, Wonyoung memorized her again.

Yujin’s warmth.

Yujin’s voice.

Yujin’s terrible whistle.

All the small ordinary places where their love had chosen to stay.

The months passed afterward in a slow, agonizing blur.

Germany helped.

That was the cruel part.

The treatments there actually helped.

Not enough to save her—not enough to stop what was happening inside her body—but enough to lessen the pain for a little while. Enough to buy softer days. Longer stretches of sleep. Mornings where Wonyoung could smile without immediately wincing afterward.

Yujin clung to those improvements desperately.

She celebrated tiny victories now.

A meal finished completely.

A night without vomiting.

A walk made from the bed to the window without needing to stop halfway.

But even while the pain eased slightly, the illness continued quietly taking everything else.

Wonyoung’s body deteriorated piece by piece beneath her hands.

Eventually walking became impossible altogether.

The lesions along her spine had weakened her too severely by then. Her legs no longer held her weight safely, and even sitting upright for long periods exhausted her. The cancer in her lungs made breathing difficult again despite treatment. Some days speaking for too long left her coughing weakly into trembling hands while Yujin tried very hard not to panic visibly beside her.

Toward the end, most of her days were spent in bed.

And somehow that was the part Yujin adjusted to least.

Not the medications.
Not the hospital visits.
Not even the oxygen tanks quietly humming beside the walls.

The bed.

Seeing Wonyoung there constantly.

Still.
Fragile.
Growing smaller against white blankets week by week.

It felt wrong every single time.

One evening near the end of winter, pale light spilled softly through the hospital room windows while snow drifted lazily outside.

Wonyoung lay resting quietly against the pillows, her body too weak to do much besides sleep now. Her skin had become almost translucent beneath the dim light, collarbones sharp against the thin fabric of her hospital gown. Bruises lingered beneath her arms from repeated needles and blood draws. Even lifting her hands seemed exhausting some days.

Still beautiful.

Still unbearably beautiful to Yujin somehow.

Yujin sat beside the bed exactly where she always did, one hand resting gently over Wonyoung’s while reading through the latest test results the doctors had left behind.

Her face remained carefully neutral while scanning the pages.

Wonyoung knew that expression by now.

It was the face Yujin made whenever she was trying not to fall apart.

Wonyoung opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the soft afternoon light before turning her head weakly toward her.

“Darling,” she whispered.

Immediately Yujin looked up.

Every single time.

Always instantly attentive now.

“What is it?” she asked softly, already leaning closer. “Are you hurting?”

The concern in her voice made Wonyoung’s chest ache.

Even now.
Even after months of exhaustion and fear and grief slowly hollowing them both out—
Yujin still sounded like this whenever she spoke to her.

Gentle.

Careful.

Loving.

Wonyoung managed a faint smile.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

It was only half true.

Nothing really felt okay anymore.

Still, she reached slowly for Yujin’s hand, their fingers intertwining weakly beneath the blankets.

Yujin’s hands felt colder lately.

Wonyoung noticed things like that now.

The dark circles permanently shadowing her eyes.

The way her shoulders remained tense even while sitting still.

The tiny tremor in her fingers whenever she thought nobody was looking.

Yujin never broke in front of her.

But Wonyoung knew anyway.

She saw the exhaustion hidden beneath forced smiles. Heard the crack in Yujin’s voice when she whispered her name thinking she was asleep beside her. She remembered those first months after the diagnosis too—lying awake quietly while hearing muffled sobs outside their bedroom door because Yujin thought crying in another room would somehow protect her from it.

It broke Wonyoung’s heart every single time.

Even now, sitting beside her hospital bed reading devastating medical paperwork like it was ordinary, Yujin still pretended strength for her sake.

“Tired?” Yujin asked quietly, brushing loose hair gently away from Wonyoung’s forehead.

“A little.”

“You should rest more.”

Wonyoung smiled faintly. “You sound like me now.”

“That’s horrifying.”

A weak laugh escaped her.

God, Yujin would say ridiculous things anywhere.

Even here.

Even now.

For a moment silence settled softly between them.

Outside the snow continued falling beyond the windows while machines hummed quietly nearby.

Then Wonyoung spoke again.

“Have you been sleeping?”

Yujin hesitated just slightly too long.

“I’m fine,” she answered softly.

A Lie.

Wonyoung could hear it instantly.

“You’re not.”

“I’m okay, Wonnie.”

“You haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You’re the one in the hospital bed right now.”

The words came out more strained than intended.

Immediately guilt flashed across Yujin’s face afterward.

But Wonyoung only looked at her sadly.

Because they had both become experts at carrying pain silently for each other.

And it was exhausting them both.

“Yujinnie,” she whispered softly. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Yujin looked down immediately.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Yes, you are.”

Silence.

Wonyoung squeezed her hand weakly.

“You think I can’t tell when you’re scared?”

That nearly broke her instantly.

Yujin laughed once under her breath—a tiny ruined sound—and looked away toward the window sharply like she could hold herself together through sheer force.

But Wonyoung saw the tears gathering anyway.

“I just want to be here for you,” Yujin whispered shakily. “That’s all.”

And God.

The love inside those words hurt almost more than cancer itself.

Wonyoung’s eyes filled slowly with tears.

“I know, baby,” she whispered. “I know how hard this is for you.”

That did it.

Yujin’s composure shattered so quietly Wonyoung almost missed the exact moment it happened.

Her shoulders trembled once.
Then again.

Suddenly she lowered her head against Wonyoung’s hand, gripping it tightly while tears spilled helplessly onto the blankets.

“I want more time,” she whispered brokenly against her skin. “More days… more months… I just want you.”

Wonyoung felt her own heart splitting open listening to her.

“I can’t lose you,” Yujin choked out softly. “I don’t know how to live without you.”

Tears slipped silently down Wonyoung’s face.

“You lived before me,” she whispered gently through tears. “You’ll live after me too.”

“But not like this,” Yujin shook her head immediately. “I can’t unknow you. I can’t unknow this. Us. I can’t un-love you.”

The raw desperation in her voice filled the room completely.

Wonyoung reached up slowly then, fingertips brushing carefully against Yujin’s cheek.

Her tears would not stop.

They just kept escaping no matter how hard she tried to hold them back.

“It’s okay,” Wonyoung whispered softly. “It’s okay to be scared.”

Yujin let out another broken breath before leaning forward until their foreheads rested together carefully.

“Are you scared?” she whispered after a long silence.

Wonyoung closed her eyes briefly.

“…I don’t think I’m scared of dying anymore,” she admitted quietly.

Then softer:

“What scares me is leaving you behind.”

Yujin broke all over again after that.

And they stayed there together for a very long time—crying quietly, holding onto each other beneath pale winter light while the truth remained suspended silently between them.

Not spoken directly.

Not fully acknowledged.

But there all the same.

Love could not save them from this.

And still—

they loved each other enough to make even the ending feel unbearably beautiful.

Three nights later, Wonyoung died in her sleep.

The morning before had been strangely beautiful.

Snow had melted outside the hospital windows sometime during the night, and pale sunlight filtered softly through the room that morning for the first time in weeks. The world beyond the glass looked gentler somehow, touched faintly by the beginning of another season.

Another spring.

Yujin stopped at a flower stand before arriving at the hospital that day.

Without thinking too hard about it, she bought a single daisy.

Wonyoung’s favorite.

The florist wrapped it carefully in brown paper while Yujin stood there half-awake from another sleepless night, hands trembling slightly around her wallet.

When she entered the hospital room later, Wonyoung had been awake already.

Weak.
Pale.
Small against white blankets.

But awake.

Her eyes softened immediately upon seeing Yujin.

“You disappeared,” she murmured softly.

“I committed crimes for this.”

Yujin held up the daisy awkwardly.

Wonyoung stared at it for a second before laughing quietly beneath her oxygen tube.

Even then.

Even barely breathing properly, she still laughed at Yujin’s stupidity.

“You stole a flower?”

“Several, actually.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“But romantic.”

“That’s debatable.”

Still smiling faintly, Wonyoung reached slowly toward the flower. Her fingers trembled visibly now even during small movements, and Yujin immediately moved closer to help guide it gently into her hands.

For a long moment, Wonyoung simply looked at the daisy resting against her lap.

Then up at Yujin.

Something unbearably soft crossed her expression.

“It’s pretty,” she whispered.

Yujin swallowed hard.

She wasn’t looking at the flower in her hand, but at her.

Wonyoung herself looked heartbreakingly beautiful beneath the morning light.

Yujin stayed beside her all day.

Of course she did.

There was nowhere else she could possibly have been.

The hours passed quietly between them beneath soft hospital light. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they simply held hands in silence while machines hummed gently nearby.

Yujin talked more than usual that night.

Maybe some hidden part of her already knew.

She told Wonyoung everything.

Little things.
Stupid things.

Stories from years ago before they met. Complaints about terrible hospital coffee. The memory of their first apartment and how Wonyoung once nearly started a kitchen fire trying to make caramel from scratch because “recipes are merely suggestions.”

“That happened one time,” Wonyoung whispered weakly.

“You almost poisoned us.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

Wonyoung smiled softly with her eyes closed while Yujin continued talking.

And talking.

Because silence terrified her now.

Silence meant thinking.

Thinking meant fear.

So Yujin filled the room with her voice instead.

She talked about spring arriving outside.
About places they still hadn’t traveled.
About the bridge in Germany and the lock hidden somewhere among thousands of others.

At some point, Wonyoung stopped answering properly.

Not abruptly.

Just gradually.

Her eyes drifted shut more often between sentences. Her breathing remained shallow beneath the oxygen tube while Yujin continued stroking slow fingers through her hair.

Still talking softly.

Still holding her hand.

Still pretending this was another ordinary night instead of the edge of everything.

Eventually Wonyoung whispered one final sleepy:

“Keep talking.”

Yujin smiled shakily.

“Okay.”

So she did.

Even after Wonyoung stopped speaking entirely.

Even after her breathing softened quieter and quieter beneath the machines.

Yujin remained there holding her hand, whispering gently into the dim hospital room while the city slept outside the windows.

Telling her stories.
Telling her memories.
Telling her over and over:

“I love you.”

Like prayer.

Like pleading.

At some point during the early morning hours, tears slipped silently down Yujin’s face while she whispered into the darkness:

“Please.”

Just that.

Please.

Please let her stay.
Please let there be another spring.
But miracles did not come.

And sometime before dawn, while Yujin still sat there holding her hand—

At the age of thirty-four, Wonyoung took her last breath quietly in her sleep.

Yujin did not understand it immediately.

Because for several long moments, Wonyoung still looked exactly the same.

Still warm beneath her hands.
Still beautiful.
Still hers.

Yujin kept talking softly at first.

Absentmindedly.

Thinking Wonyoung had simply fallen deeper asleep.

Then gradually—

horribly—

she realized.

After that, everything inside her broke in a way that never fully healed again.

But she still didn’t call the nurses.

Didn’t press the emergency button.
Didn’t alert the doctors.

Instead, trembling violently, Yujin climbed carefully onto the hospital bed beside her wife.

And held her.

Tightly.

The daisy lay forgotten beside the pillow while Yujin buried her face against Wonyoung’s shoulder and finally wept without restraint for the first time in months.

Not quiet tears anymore.

Not hidden grief swallowed carefully behind bathroom doors and forced smiles.

It was raw and endless and unbearable.

She cried until she could barely breathe.
Cried while clutching Wonyoung’s body close beneath the blankets.
Cried into her hair while whispering broken apologies and desperate i love yous into skin already cooling beneath her lips.

And still—

she did not let go.

The nurse found them hours later after sunrise.

Yujin was still lying there in the narrow hospital bed holding Wonyoung against her chest exactly the same way she had all night.

After the funeral, people slowly stopped visiting.

Meals stopped arriving.

Flowers began wilting one by one inside the apartment until the air smelled faintly of dying petals and candle smoke. The world continued exactly as it always did—buses running outside the windows, neighbors laughing in hallways, someone playing music too loudly two floors below.

Cruelly.

Efficiently.

As if the universe had not just taken the love of Yujin’s life and left her hollowed open beside the wreckage.

Yujin couldn’t move forward with it.

She wandered through the apartment like a ghost for days afterward, touching objects absentmindedly as if they might anchor her somewhere.

Wonyoung’s cardigan still hanging over the dining chair.

Her slippers beside the bed.

The mug she used every morning still resting near the sink with lipstick faintly stained along the rim.

Everywhere she looked, Wonyoung remained.

And somehow that made the silence worse.

One evening, while the sky darkened slowly outside, Yujin found herself back inside their bedroom without remembering walking there.

The hospital bag still sat untouched near the dresser.

She hadn't unpacked it after Germany.

Yujin stared at it for a long time before kneeling slowly beside it, fingers trembling while unzipping the side pocket.

Inside were receipts.

Medication pamphlets.

A hair tie.

And beneath everything else—

an envelope.

For Yujin.

Wonyoung’s handwriting.

The sight of it nearly knocked the air from her lungs.

Yujin remembered seeing the envelope once before.

Several nights ago.

On the hospital bedside table beneath the vase holding the daisy she had brought that morning.

At the time, she hadn’t touched it.

Couldn’t.

The possibility of what it contained had terrified her too much. So she left it there untouched beside Wonyoung’s sleeping figure while pretending there would still be more time later.

There wasn’t.

Now, sitting alone on their bedroom floor with dusk gathering around her, Yujin held the envelope in both shaking hands and realized this was the last thing Wonyoung would ever say to her.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe properly.

Because opening it made everything final somehow.

As long as the letter remained sealed, some irrational part of her could still pretend Wonyoung might walk back through the apartment door at any second complaining about cold weather and pigeons and overpriced chocolate.

But eventually—

slowly—

Yujin opened it.

Several folded pages slipped into her lap.

The paper smelled faintly like Wonyoung’s perfume.

That alone almost destroyed her.

Her vision blurred before she even reached the first line.

My Yujin,

If you are reading this, then it means I was right—you waited too long to open it because you were scared.

Yujin laughed through a broken choking sound immediately.

Tears slipped down her face before she could stop them.

I wrote this from my hospital bed while you slept beside me in that uncomfortable chair you refused to leave for weeks.

You looked terrible, by the way.

Your hair is a mess. Your neck hurts because you kept falling asleep sitting upright. You keep pretending you're fine every time the nurses asked.

You were never very good at lying to me.

Yujin covered her mouth shakily.

A memory crashed into her instantly—

Wonyoung half-awake beneath pale hospital light while Yujin adjusted blankets around her at three in the morning. The way Wonyoung had reached weakly for her wrist and whispered, “You need sleep too.”

Yujin had smiled and lied softly:
“I slept earlier.”

I know my time is running short. I think we both knew long before we ever said it out loud.

And as heartbreaking as it is, I need you to understand something now that I’m gone:

You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

Yujin’s shoulders shook violently.

She pressed trembling fingers against her eyes, but the tears only kept coming harder.

I am writing this letter while fearfully waiting for our last goodbye.

I think I already know what that night will feel like.

The silence.
The sound of your voice trying not to crack while you keep talking because you are afraid to stop.
The feeling of being held in your arms for the last time.

It hurts me now just imagining it.

But despite all that… I realized I do not want my final memories I have of you to belong to grief.

I want them to belong to you.

To us.

Yujin bent forward suddenly, forehead pressing against the edge of the bed while she tried desperately to steady her breathing.

But the memories kept coming anyway.

Wonyoung laughing breathlessly in a rain-soaked alleyway surrounded by spilled oranges.

You practically jumped over the gate to ask for my number.

Yujin whistling badly through quiet German streets while Wonyoung accused pigeons of organized surveillance.

Spring mornings in the kitchen.

Wonyoung fixing the crooked button on Yujin’s coat with trembling fingers while snow threatened overhead.

I remember the first time we met.

You looked half annoyed and half panicked helping me pick up oranges from the ground.

And then you looked fully panicked when you thought I was leaving forever and practically climbed over a gate to ask for my number.

I knew then that there was something strangely beautiful about the way you loved.

So earnest.
So reckless.
Like once your heart decided someone mattered, you stopped knowing how to hold yourself back.

Yujin laughed weakly through tears.

“God,” she whispered hoarsely. “You made fun of me until the end.”

And somehow she could hear Wonyoung laughing in response.

I remember your terrible whistling in quiet alleyways.

I remember the underline marks you made with pencils in books because you always carried pencils everywhere like a strange little grandfather.

I remember our names written side by side in margins and notebooks and receipts.

I remember the shoelaces you tied for me with those careful worried hands near the end, pretending it did not break your heart each time.

I remember the night we danced in the kitchen while spring air drifted through the windows.

I remember the way you held me afterward like you were trying to keep every broken part of me together through love alone.

Baby…

You did.

The words blurred completely beneath tears.

Yujin pressed the letter against her chest, shaking so hard it hurt.

I know you think you failed because you could not save me.

But look at me.

Please.

You gave me more life than any illness ever took away.

Even at the end, when my body was failing me piece by piece, I never once felt unloved.

Not once.

Yujin broke completely after that.

A shattered sob escaped her chest while she folded over the letter like she could somehow crawl back into the life where Wonyoung still existed.

Outside, rain began tapping softly against the apartment windows.

I need you to keep living after me.

Open the windows when spring comes.

Complain about pollen for me.

Play the songs I like even if you complain about them.

Water the plant in the kitchen because you know you always forget otherwise.

And when the flower petals falls again someday, I hope you will still look outside first because you know how much I loved it.

And Please—

please eat properly.

Not just coffee.

Not just convenience store food because you’re too sad to cook.

Eat real meals.
Sleep in the bed instead of falling asleep on the couch with your neck hurting afterward.
And please… don’t shut yourself away from everyone who loves you.

Let Rei force you outside sometimes.
Let Liz talk too much at dinner.
Let Gaeul sit quietly beside you when words feel too heavy.

You do not have to carry grief alone just because you carried me alone for so long.

I know you, baby.

I know your first instinct will be to lock all of this inside yourself until it hurts too much to breathe around it.

So this is me asking you one last time:

Please don’t.

Love people.
Let them love you too.

And, my love--

don’t be too sad after I’m gone.

Because out of all places, this is where I will stay.

In your terrible whistle.
In your books.
In spring songs.
In shoelaces tied carefully with love.

More than anywhere else—

I will stay there with you.

Yujin could barely see anymore.

The apartment had dissolved completely into tears and silence and memory.

So please,

don’t cry too long, my Dear.

I loved you enough for an entire lifetime.

And if there is another life down the road after this one—

find me there too.

Yours always,

Wonyoung

Spring returned anyway.

Yujin hated that at first.

The trees outside their apartment bloomed exactly on schedule. Warm air drifted through open windows. People filled cafés again wearing lighter clothes and softer smiles while music spilled into the streets beneath pale evening skies.

The world had not stopped for Wonyoung.

For a long time, Yujin resented it.

She resented how ordinary everything looked without her.

Months passed strangely after the funeral.

Not cleanly.
Not gracefully.

Grief did not move in straight lines the way people promised it would.

Some mornings Yujin woke up almost okay before remembering halfway through brushing her teeth that Wonyoung was gone, and suddenly the entire day collapsed around that realization all over again.

Other days she laughed unexpectedly at something Rei said over lunch and immediately burst into tears afterward because for one terrifying second she had forgotten to miss her.

But slowly—

very slowly—

she learned how to survive the shape of absence.

Not heal.

Never heal.

Just survive.

Their friends, Rei, Liz, and Gaeul stayed close during those months in quiet, careful ways.

None of them pushed too hard.

They simply remained.

Gaeul came by the apartment often under the excuse of bringing groceries Yujin had forgotten to buy herself. Liz dragged her outside whenever she spent too many consecutive days indoors. Rei still sent terrible memes at three in the morning because, in her own words:

“Wonyoung would haunt me if I let you become emotionally constipated forever.”

Yujin had laughed so suddenly she almost choked on her drink.

Then cried immediately afterward.

Rei cried too after realizing what she’d done.

Eventually all four of them ended up crying around Yujin’s kitchen table while half-eaten takeout grew cold between them.

It was awful.

And strangely comforting.

One evening near the beginning of April, the four of them walked together through narrow streets glowing softly beneath sunset light after dinner.

At some point, Yujin began whistling absentmindedly under her breath.

Immediately, Liz groaned.

“Oh my god. You sound like an old man.”

Rei pointed accusingly. “Wait, Wonyoung used to say that!”

Yujin stopped walking.

For one brief terrible second, grief surged upward so sharply she thought it might split her open right there on the sidewalk.

But then—

unexpectedly—

she laughed.

A real laugh.

Small.
Shaky.
But real.

“She said I sounded like a divorced grandfather feeding ducks,” Yujin murmured.

Gaeul snorted instantly.

“That is so specific.”

“She was insane,” Yujin whispered softly.

The girls fell quiet afterward.

Not uncomfortable silence.

Just understanding.

The kind shared only between people who loved someone together.

That night, after returning home, Yujin opened the windows for the first time in weeks.

Spring air drifted gently through the apartment carrying distant city noise and the scent of rain somewhere nearby.

The plant in the kitchen was alive somehow.

Barely.

Yujin stared at it suspiciously.

“You’re annoyingly difficult to kill,” she muttered while watering it carefully.

And suddenly—

without warning—

she could almost hear Wonyoung laughing again.

Not vividly.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to warm the silence instead of emptying it.

Later that month, Yujin found herself returning to the alley where they first met.

The city looked different now.

Older somehow.

Or maybe she was simply older without Wonyoung beside her.

She stood there quietly beneath evening light while memories moved around her gently like ghosts.

Spilled oranges.
Rainwater.

Laughter.

You practically jumped over the gate to ask for my number.

Yujin smiled despite herself.

Then, after a long moment, Yujin stepped toward the old tree near the corner of the alley.

It stood exactly where it always had, branches swaying softly above the narrow street where oranges had once rolled across wet pavement years ago.

Slowly, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the small pocketknife she still carried absentmindedly these days.

For a second, she just stared at the bark silently.

Then carefully—

gently—

she carved:

Jang Wonyoung
Ahn Yujin

Side by side.

The letters came out slightly uneven because her hands still trembled sometimes when thinking about her too long.

When she finished, Yujin rested her palm lightly against the carved names while evening wind moved softly through the alley.

Out of all places, this is where I will stay.

In these memories.
In these streets.
In these small ordinary corners of the world they had once loved together.

Yujin smiled faintly through the lingering ache before tracing her thumb once across Wonyoung’s name.

Somewhere nearby, pigeons gathered noisily along the sidewalk.

Yujin looked at them immediately with narrowed eyes.

“…You guys still plotting?” she muttered.

“She was right about you guys being suspicious.”

And somewhere deep inside the silence afterward—

it almost felt like Wonyoung laughed with her.

And for the first time since losing her—

the memory did not destroy her completely.

It simply stayed beside her.

Warm.
Achingly familiar.

Yujin stood there for a long time after carving their names into the tree.

Evening had begun settling softly over the alleyway now, the sky washed in pale gold and fading blue while spring wind moved gently through the branches overhead.

Somewhere nearby, children laughed.
A bicycle passed.
The city breathed quietly around her.

Life continuing.

Yujin tilted her head back slowly and looked up at the darkening sky.

For a moment, she imagined Wonyoung beside her again—

complaining about the cold,
making fun of her whistling,
slipping warm fingers into her coat pocket just to steal her hand.

The ache in her chest remained.

Maybe it always would.

But it no longer felt like drowning.

Just love.

Love with nowhere left to go except memory.

Yujin smiled faintly to herself before speaking softly into the evening air, like Wonyoung was still close enough to hear her.

“I’ll be okay now,” she whispered.

The words trembled slightly.

But true.

“And you were right.”

Her eyes drifted upward toward the first stars beginning to appear.

“You stayed.”

Wind rustled gently through the trees overhead.

And standing there beneath the quiet spring sky, Yujin finally understood:

Love did not end when a person left.

Sometimes it simply changed shape.

Becoming light in old alleyways.
Music drifting through open windows.
Pencil marks beneath favorite lines.
The instinct to look for someone beside you even after years.

Becoming every ordinary place they had once touched together.

Yujin closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the cool evening air.

Then softly—

“Wait for me a little longer, okay?”

A small smile touched her mouth afterward.

Not broken this time.

Just full.

Content.

Like somewhere deep inside herself, she could still feel Wonyoung’s hand finding hers beneath the spring light.

Notes:

actually i hope no one reads this because what the hell was that 😭

anyways… while polishing this fic, i kept having the urge to write wonyoung’s perspective through all of this too… but maybe that’s too sadistic even for me LMFAO. Lemme know if it’s something u guys like to see.

this whole thing was honestly just a little experiment...i probably should stop posting random draft works like this 😭 but if yall wanna see more short fics / abandoned ideas / other ungodly sins sitting in my notes app, lemme know maybe i’ll start releasing them slowly into the world…

until next time :’) peace and love <3

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