I feel Jungho's presence move away, heading toward his car. Suha walks beside me, calm and polite, her steps as light as ever. She doesn't show even a trace of what she just heard from him, but I'm not oblivious.
I always notice small changes. I trained myself to read people without looking like I'm trying.
By the time we reach my car, the sky has deepened into a lazy shade of evening blue. Suha settles into the passenger seat with quiet motions, as if trying not to disturb anything. I close the driver's door, start the engine, and the car hums to life.
The first few minutes are wrapped in silence.
I usually prefer quiet. I like the way it mutes the world. But today it feels different. Like the silence wants something from me.
I rest one hand on the steering wheel and loosen the tie around my neck with the other.
I keep my eyes on the road, fingers loose on the steering wheel.
Then I speak.
"What did he say?"
My tone doesn't change. Not suspicious. Not emotional. Just direct.
Suha turns her head toward me. Her expression is calm, almost studied, like she's deciding which version of the truth to speak.
A beat passes.
Then she says, "Nothing important. Just asked how things are going after the marriage. That's all."
I don't react for nearly ten seconds.
I don't look at her. My face stays the same—composed, unreadable.
But I'm not sure if she thinks I believe her or if I just accept the lie because I don't want to open something I tightly shut years ago.
Eventually I nod once. "I see."
Silence again. But it feels different now. Softer in some places, heavier in others.
Suha looks out the window. Streetlights pass in streaks of yellow, glowing against the darkening sky. The restaurant's warm atmosphere feels far behind us.
"Was it uncomfortable?" I ask.
"What was?"
"Talking to him."
She blinks, caught off guard. "No. Not really."
"That's good."
I say it calmly, but she probably feels something unspoken behind those two words. I have a way of removing emotion from my tone while still sounding like I mean every word.
She glances at me again. "You don't like when he brings up private things, right?"
I let out a small exhale. Not a sigh, not frustration—just a quiet release of air. "He likes to overstep sometimes."
"Because he cares."
I don't reply. I press the accelerator a little harder, the car gliding down the clearer part of the road.
Silence lingers.
Suha lowers her eyes. She probably still hears Jungho's voice in her head, calm yet filled with concern as he told her everything about my childhood—the violin competition, the disappointments, the comparisons, my empty eyes, the fall from the balcony, the question I asked afterward.
Her fingers curl slightly in her lap.
She has no idea how much I'd prefer she never knew any of that.
And I'm not sure what to do with the fact she does.
I slow the car as we reach a long stretch of quiet road. The glow from the streetlights washes over my face, revealing details I usually keep hidden. A faint crease between my brows. The slight tension in my jaw. The sharp lines of someone who carried too much weight for too long.
"What did he want to talk about?" I ask again, softer this time.
Her heart probably skips. I can feel it in the way she shifts. She shouldn't lie twice. But she clearly thinks the truth is too raw to bring up inside a small car.
So she keeps her voice steady. "Just asked if we're adjusting well."
I make a quiet sound. Something between acknowledgment and disbelief. But I don't push.
I'm not the type to interrogate people.
I'm the type to retreat, observe, wait.
Suha looks at me. "Why do you look like that?"
"Like what."
"Like you don't believe me."
I keep my eyes on the road. "I believe you said what you wanted to say."
Her chest tightens a little at that. I can feel it even without looking.
"Jay…"
I wait.
She swallows. "He didn't tell me anything bad about you."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
"So what are you worried about?"
My grip tightens around the steering wheel for a moment before loosening again. My voice stays calm when I finally answer.
"I don't like when people try to explain me."
Suha blinks. "Explain you?"
I nod slowly. "There's nothing to explain."
The way I say it—flat, detached, as if I truly believe it—probably makes her chest ache. I genuinely think my past isn't worth mentioning. That my childhood disappointments are unremarkable. That my pain is something I should hide, not acknowledge.
She doesn't argue. She doesn't say, "Your pain matters." That would feel too heavy right now.
Instead she says softly, "I won't ask."
My expression doesn't change, but something in my posture eases just a little.
"Good," I say quietly.
Neither of us speaks for a while after that.
But the silence feels calmer, less suffocating.
We pass through the familiar neighborhood road, the houses standing quietly under the dim streetlight. I park the car in front of our place and turn off the engine. The car settles into stillness.
Suha unbuckles her seatbelt. "We're home."
I make a small sound of acknowledgment. I don't move. I stare at the dashboard for a moment, lost in thought.
Then I say, "If he ever makes you uncomfortable… you can ignore him."
Suha looks at me, surprised. "He didn't make me uncomfortable."
"He can be too direct."
"So can you."
My eyes flicker toward her. "Is that a problem?"
"No," she says, soft and honest. "It just means you don't hide things when you ask them."
I don't reply.
My throat moves slightly, like I want to say something else but don't know how.
She reaches for the door handle. "Let's go inside."
I finally nod and step out.
The night breeze is cool. It brushes through my hair as I walk around and lock the car. We move toward the house, footsteps echoing softly on the pathway.
Before reaching the door, I speak again. "You don't have to lie for him."
Suha freezes.
She turns to me slowly. "I wasn't lying."
I look at her directly this time. My eyes steady, dark, unreadable. But something small and vulnerable slips through the cracks.
"You're not good at hiding things," I say softly.
Her breath catches.
I'm not accusing her. Not angry.
Just stating something I observed.
She steadies herself. "Jay… I just didn't think it was the right moment to talk about it."
I study her face, trying to understand the intention behind her words.
"Whatever he told you," I say quietly, "you don't need to carry it."
"I'm not carrying anything."
"You are."
Her eyes soften. She steps closer. "Jay. You're not a burden."
For the first time that night, my face shifts. Only a little. My eyes lower, and the usual coldness cracks just slightly, revealing an ache I've been hiding for years.
The moment lasts only a breath.
Then I look away. "We should go inside."
"Okay."
We enter the house. The lights turn on, washing the room in warm yellow. I slip off my watch, place my keys on the table, and head toward my room without another word.
But I stop halfway.
"Suha."
She looks up. "Yes?"
I don't turn around, but my voice is low and steady.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Don't know."
Then I walk into my room.
She stands there for a moment, holding onto those words.
I didn't tell her anything.
But tonight, I let her see the outline of a door I keep locked, even if I didn't open it.
And for someone like me…
That's more than enough.