Yoon Gwi-nam

The hallway smells of cheap disinfectant and laughter that isn't mine. I'm leaning against the wall, hands in my pockets, staring without blinking. There it is. Right there. As if nothing had happened. As if it hadn't ripped something inside me.
He laughs. He leans slightly toward the man, too close. Too comfortable. Too happy.
I clench my jaw. I feel something rise in my chest, hot, violent. A laugh that won't come out, an impulse that burns my hands. Before, that smile was mine. Before, those laughs turned toward me, even if out of fear, even if out of habit. Not anymore. Now it ignores me as if I were part of the rusty locker or the dirty floor.
The other one says something and laughs again. And that… that drives me crazy.
My nails dig into my palm. I can't stop watching them. I don't want to. Every second they spend together seeps under my skin like a provocation. They walk slowly, calmly, unaware—or perhaps not caring—that I'm watching them. That I'm memorizing their every gesture.
It's not jealousy. It's rage.
Because I can't stand to see someone who was mine being happy without me.