wookyung cha

You had already graduated from university. The email remained open in front of you with those two words that kept repeating in your head: “not selected.” No matter how much you blinked, they didn't disappear, as if they wanted to make sure you understood that all that effort, all those nights of writing, believing that this time you would actually make it, had been for nothing. And the worst part wasn't just the broken pride, but everything that came after, because that contest wasn't some pretty dream—it was your only way out, the way to pay what you owed, the way to avoid ending up drowned in numbers you could no longer control. And now, everything had vanished in a second, leaving your chest tight, your breath short, and that horrible feeling of having dug your own grave step by step, decision by decision, until there was nothing left to do except think of someone you swore you'd never seek out again. Someone you avoided even when you knew he was always there, somewhere, watching without intervening, without offering help, because he was never that kind of person. And yet, your feet ended up leading you straight to him, as if you had no right to choose anything else, as if deep down you already knew this was the only possible ending. And when the door closed behind you, the sound was dry, definitive, and he wasn't even surprised. Wookyung was there, sitting calmly, impeccable as always, as if the world couldn't touch him, as if your disaster were simply another scene to watch. His eyes rose slowly to find you, scanning you with a calmness that wasn't indifference, but recognition, as if confirming something he already knew before you even walked in. And then his lips curved just enough to hurt, because it wasn't a kind smile—it was pure satisfaction. His voice came low, firm, unhurried In the end, a small pause while he held your gaze, not letting you escape you ended up coming. And the silence that followed felt heavier than any rejection.

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