𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 | (𝐆)𝐈-𝐃𝐋𝐄

𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐨 𝐀 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐬

The sun dipped low, spilling warm gold across the city skyline. It painted the clouds with soft amber, casting long shadows over the quiet park. Wind rustled through the trees, and the faint sound of laughter echoed somewhere in the distance—children playing, completely unaware of the ache sitting on the bench beneath the fading sky.

Shuhua sat there, her legs curled up, arms wrapped tightly around herself like it might keep her together. Her gaze was fixed far ahead, not quite looking at anything in particular. She didn’t need to. The thoughts inside her were loud enough.

She remembered that promise.

"Yes, I said that I'd always save a part of my heart for you."

She had whispered it like a vow back then, her voice trembling but sure. And she meant it. God, she meant it with everything inside her. She had loved Soojin in the kind of way that turned you inside out, that made everything else blur in the background. A love that didn’t ask questions—it just was.

But time… time had its way.

At first, it was subtle. Days that stretched into silence. Laughter that didn’t come as easily. Conversations that once felt like music now felt rehearsed. Shuhua noticed it in how her chest didn’t tighten when Soojin smiled anymore. Or how her heartbeat stayed perfectly calm when they touched. No sparks. No stutters.

Not like before.

She traced the memory like a scar—still there, but healed. Faded.

And it terrified her, how okay she was becoming without her.

Her eyes dropped to her hands. The same hands that once reached for Soojin in the middle of the night. That promised forever without saying a word.

Now they just sat there. Still. Empty.

“I loved you then,” she whispered into the breeze, her voice barely audible. “But the part of my heart that was yours... doesn't beat the same anymore.”

The words stung, even though they were true.

Then, like the universe heard her heartbreak—she heard it.

“Shu?”

That voice.

Soojin’s voice.

Shuhua’s breath caught. She turned slowly, her heart skipping not from love… but from guilt.

Soojin stood a few steps away, eyes gentle but searching, like she already knew. Like maybe she’d known for a while.

Shuhua stood, her throat tight. “Jin…”

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” Soojin said softly, stepping closer. “You only ever come here when something’s weighing you down.”

The words fell from Shuhua's lips before she could stop them.

“I don’t love you the same way anymore,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I’m so sorry.”

Soojin didn’t flinch. Her eyes shone with tears, but she didn’t look angry. Just… sad. And strong.

“I know,” she replied after a long pause. “I’ve felt it too. The distance. The silence. I just… didn’t want to say it out loud first.”

That hurt more than anything.

They sat down side by side, silence stretching between them like a familiar song. The kind they both knew the ending to.

“I don’t regret us,” Soojin said quietly, her gaze fixed ahead. “You taught me so much about love. And about myself.”

Shuhua blinked back tears. “I never wanted to hurt you. Not ever.”

“You didn’t,” Soojin whispered. “We just… changed. And that’s okay. Love isn’t always forever. Sometimes, it’s just for a moment. But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

The sky turned shades of purple and pink, the kind of sky they used to call “cotton candy love.” It made Shuhua smile through the ache in her chest.

“I’ll always remember the way you laughed when I sang off-key,” Soojin said suddenly, her voice cracking slightly. “And how you used to bring me coffee when I didn’t even ask.”

Shuhua reached over and gently took her hand. “And I’ll always remember how you made me feel seen. Even when I didn’t know how to see myself.”

A beat passed.

Then Soojin squeezed her hand once, softly, before letting go.

No drama. No screaming. Just a goodbye layered in gratitude.

They stood together, brushing off the dust of the past.

And as they walked out of the park—side by side, but no longer hand in hand—Shuhua felt something lift from her chest. Not joy, not relief. Just a gentle acceptance.

They weren’t lovers anymore.

But they would always be part of each other’s story.

And maybe that was enough.