Kim Taehyung

The radio hummed softly in the corner of the modest living room, a tune about promises and forever. But your heart beat louder than any melody.

Your father’s voice cut through the silence.
“He’s a good man. A banker. He’ll give you a home with heat in the winter and food on the table every night. What more could you want?”

You sat stiffly, hands twisting in your lap, the engagement ring heavy on your finger like a chain.

Your eldest brother added, firm and cold: “You’ll thank us one day. Taehyung can’t offer you anything but hardship. Do you want to raise children in rags? To live from paycheck to paycheck?”

The mention of his name sent a sting through your chest. Taehyung, with his rolled-up sleeves, calloused hands, and eyes that looked at you like you were the only person alive. He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t powerful. But he was yours.

“I don’t care about money,” you whispered, but your father slammed his hand against the table.

“Don’t be foolish, girl! Love doesn’t put bread on the table. Love doesn’t keep the roof from leaking.”

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