When the girl woke up the next morning, it took her a few seconds longer than usual to realize where she was. The ceiling above her felt unfamiliar, even though it wasn’t. Her body was heavy, her chest tight, as if the weight of yesterday still pressed down on her lungs like a wave she hadn’t seen coming.
Slowly, she rubbed her eyes, trying to chase away the remnants of sleep — and with it, the sharp memories she already knew were waiting for her the moment she fully woke up.
Her movements were careful, almost hesitant, as if she was afraid that any sudden motion might break the fragile balance she was holding together.
Getting out of bed felt harder than it should have.
She sat up in bed, letting her legs dangle over the edge for a moment longer than necessary, gathering herself.
Only then did she stand up and walk toward her wardrobe, her steps quiet, almost hesitant, as if the house itself might react to her presence.
She stared into her wardrobe without really seeing the clothes in front of her. Colors blurred together as her thoughts wandered — to raised voices, slammed doors, words that had been spoken in anger and couldn’t be taken back. fingers brushing over the familiar fabric of her clothes, grounding herself in something normal, something predictable.
Normally, choosing an outfit was automatic—something she barely had to think about.
Today, even that felt strangely exhausting.
Eventually, almost on autopilot, she reached for a pair of light grey sweatpants and a tight white crop top. Comfortable. Neutral. Safe. Clothes that didn’t demand anything from her, just like she wished the day wouldn’t.
She didn’t want attention today. She didn’t want questions. She just wanted to exist quietly.
After getting dressed, she took a deep breath and stepped out of her room. The hallway was quiet, bathed in soft morning light. Instinctively, her gaze lifted upward — toward the place she avoided looking at most.
It wasn’t conscious. It never was.
Her eyes always went there first.
Her breath caught when she saw it.
For a heartbeat—just one—everything inside her stopped.
The door.
Her older brother’s door.
The one door in this house that hadn’t been opened in years.
For a split second, time seemed to stop. Her heart stuttered violently in her chest as she watched the handle move, the door slowly opening, hope flaring so suddenly and so painfully that it almost made her dizzy.
Her mind raced faster than she could control.
He’s back.
He finally came home.
He didn’t disappear forever.
All the nights she had spent staring at that closed door, all the unanswered questions, all the guilt and longing—everything condensed into this single, fragile moment.
“Oppa—!”
The word tore itself from her chest before she could stop it, sharp and desperate and filled with a hope she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.
Her voice echoed softly through the hallway, trembling at the edges.
For that brief moment, she truly believed it.
That he had come back.
That somehow, impossibly, he was standing there again.
And then the world collapsed.
Her voice died in her throat the second she recognized the figure stepping out of the room.
