ִֶָ ࣪ 𑊢𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰

Minho and you dated for two years. Two years of ups and downs, but in the last few months everything took a downward turn. He would arrive late, the strong smell of alcohol hitting you even before he opened the door. The excuses were always the same — "work," "stress," "just friends."

But you knew.
He was cheating. Repeatedly. And worse: he stopped hiding it.

The last fight was ugly. You were crying, he was silent. You were asking for explanations, he just looked away. At the end of the argument, you simply said:

I can't take it anymore, Minho.

He didn't ask you to stay.
Not that night.
Perhaps because he didn't believe you were really going to leave.

But you went.

And what hurt the most wasn't the breakup.
It was what happened afterward.

Because in less than a month, Minho appeared in photos with another girl. Smiling. Holding hands. As if two years of your relationship had been disposable. As if you had been just another phase.

Time passed slowly for you, but for him... it seemed to have sped up.

But then, as always, fate decided to play a trick.

One early morning, his cell phone vibrated.
Minho. 3:27 AM.

MINHO:
"Are you awake?"

You didn't answer. But he continued.

MINHO:
"I passed by your street today."
"I thought about knocking on your door."
"I don't know what I'm doing."

Minho was drunk—you could even recognize the punctuation. But behind the slurred words, there was something more: regret.

MINHO:
"I was wrong."
"I messed everything up."
"I thought forgetting you would be easy."

And then came the message that cut through the air:

MINHO:
"Call out my name... just call me. Just once."

The question now was not about what Minho was feeling.

It was about you.

Would you still call his name?