“If you were just some fictional character, you wouldn’t be struggling with this right now.”
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 3.>
Seon-woo casually ignored the system’s stubborn notification. He kept twitching the fingers of his still-unmoving right hand. At the same time, he spoke calmly.
“So stop thinking like that now.”
After a brief hesitation, he finished his sentence.
“Just think of it as a terrible dream.”
Even to him, the words sounded a bit much. But that was what Gwak Seon-woo wanted to say most in that moment—and also what he imagined a true Gwanggong would’ve said.
Whether it was due to that alignment of thought or just coincidence, the system fell silent—at least for that moment. This time, it was Eun-jae who spoke.
“That’s a pretty cruel thing to say.”
“I know. Telling someone they’ll meet someone better, or that they should move on and start fresh—that’s the most shameless, hypocritical crap you can say.”
At Seon-woo’s unflinching reply, Eun-jae silently looked his way.
“Still, that’s how I feel right now.”
That gaze didn’t make him shrink back. Eun-jae let out a faint laugh and leaned his head back. A long silence stretched between them. Then, in a voice that sounded uneasy, he spoke.
“I don’t know whether I should be glad that it turned out this way, even if it’s so late… or if I should ask why it had to be now of all times.”
It wasn’t something Seon-woo could answer immediately, nor something he could ignore. He simply looked at Eun-jae’s face in silence.
“I don’t know if this is some change of heart you’ve had… or if you were always like this while I was locked away. If this is just who you’ve always been, I really wouldn’t know.”
And I probably never will, he added. Though his expression seemed bitter, his voice was noticeably calmer than before.
“If you weren’t this kind of person… then you would’ve loved me the way I remember you did.”
Seon-woo flinched ever so slightly. Not because it hurt, but because he didn’t want to spiral back into the same old loop of conversation. Thankfully, Eun-jae moved things forward with his next words.
“But then again, if that were true, I probably never would’ve fallen in love with you.”
Just as the light faded slightly from Seon-woo’s eyes, Eun-jae ran his hands roughly through his own hair, messing it up completely.
“I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s hard.”
Was that his version of closure? That thought crossed Seon-woo’s mind, but he didn’t feel the urge to cut the conversation short. Not exactly. Maybe he would never fully understand the other person—and that wasn’t just Eun-jae’s story. It applied to Seon-woo, too.
“Seems like only the people I could never love ended up loving me… and the ones I was drawn to never even looked back at me.”
At the tragic-sounding words, Seon-woo’s body stiffened for a moment. But even then, what struck him most—what he was quietly grateful for—was that this time, Eun-jae hadn’t said he loved him. Instead, he’d used the word drawn.
With a bitter expression, Eun-jae continued speaking. “I kept thinking about whether I should resent you for being this kind of person… or be thankful.”
Only then did Seon-woo respond. “What about now?”
Whichever way Eun-jae answered, Gwak Seon-woo couldn’t truly blame him. That made Eun-jae’s resigned reply feel almost like a relief. “I’m trying to see it as a good thing.”
His voice sounded weary, yet oddly unburdened. At last, Seon-woo’s frozen expression relaxed. Judging by how tense his entire body had been without even realizing it, he must’ve been more anxious than he thought.
Watching him, Eun-jae lightly scolded with mock exasperation. “You look way too relieved. Even I can tell.”
To be honest, Seo Eun-jae had never been particularly good at reading Gwak Seon-woo’s expressions. Whether that was due to his own lack of awareness, or because the image of the Gwanggong he had built up in his mind obscured his judgment, wasn’t clear. Either way, for even him to notice now, Seon-woo must have really been showing it.
Rather than awkwardly clearing his throat, Seon-woo put on a shamelessly neutral face. Eun-jae, unfazed, just shrugged like it didn’t matter and asked casually, “So, what are you going to do from here?”
Because the question sounded offhanded, Seon-woo responded right away. “What do you mean?”
Eun-jae narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his expression vaguely cunning. “You still look unwell.”
He wasn’t wrong. Seon-woo’s right arm still wouldn’t move, and whether it was a side effect from the drop in his Gwanggong Score or something else, his entire body ached with minor pains and persistent headaches. But he couldn’t let any of that show on the surface. Eun-jae, however, asked again in a probing tone, as if he already knew without being told.
“Are you really okay staying like that forever?”
Coming from someone who had just spoken like he was ready to let everything go, the question was dripping with lingering regret. That irony made Seon-woo chuckle under his breath. The answer came easily.
“I thought I was the kind of person who’d compromise, even if I didn’t like it—just to avoid suffering through things… Turns out I’m not.”
His tone had relaxed without him realizing it. But he didn’t feel the need to be on guard anymore. With a faint shrug, Seon-woo responded. Because his right arm was paralyzed, only his left shoulder rose—and that made the gesture look a little off.
“It’s something I’ll have to endure.”
Eun-jae silently looked at Seon-woo’s face. Then, in a voice that carried a forced seriousness, he murmured, “Then, for the last time.”
And with just those words, he leaned in close.
Seon-woo made no effort to hide his baffled expression. “What the hell? To a patient, seriously?”
Still close, Eun-jae shot back with a question of his own. “Why not? Even if it’s the last time?”
He looked almost innocent. If this had been the first time Seon-woo had ever seen that face, he might’ve believed this expression was all there was to Seo Eun-jae. Seon-woo responded calmly.
“If I was going to accept you just because it’s the last time, I wouldn’t have made such a scene in the first place.”
“Fair point.”
Eun-jae agreed without argument and reached out his hand. With a touch as if handling delicate, tear-prone fabric, he wrapped his fingers around the back of Seon-woo’s neck.
Seon-woo wanted to push him away immediately, but his left arm was hooked up to an IV, and his right arm was still paralyzed, refusing to cooperate. No matter how persistently he tried to will strength into his right hand, all he could manage was the faintest of tremors. He furrowed his brow in irritation.
Eun-jae gazed softly into Seon-woo’s face. It was a painfully contrived look—like something ripped straight from a melodrama. The kind of gaze you only see in sappy romance movies. It made Seon-woo’s stomach turn. He was impressed, in a way—how could someone keep making that face even when the reaction was this bad?
< Gwanggong Score has increased by 5. >
Right on cue, the system awarded him a boost. Still stubbornly trying its best to coax Gwak Seon-woo back into submission. But the system’s efforts had no real effect. If anything, the bump in score made it slightly easier to move his right hand.
As Seon-woo focused on reviving sensation in his fingers to shove Seo Eun-jae off, he heard him mutter,
“See? Just one touch from me, and your expression gets softer like that…”
He wasn’t wrong. Maybe it would always be like this—forever. Maybe the system would keep interfering like this, tormenting him every time he was near Gwak Seung-hyeon.
The thought of it did make the future feel a bit suffocating.
But whether it was the system that gave out first or Seon-woo himself, whoever broke down—it didn’t matter. That was a problem for later. He didn’t feel like giving up just yet.
That was all. Seon-woo answered like someone who hadn’t hesitated in the slightest.
“I’ve never been someone with a soft expression.”
Eun-jae silently stared at Seon-woo’s face. Then, slowly, he responded.
“No, you haven’t.”
By then, strength had mostly returned to Seon-woo’s right hand. Just as he was about to finally push Seo Eun-jae away, Eun-jae opened his mouth.
His face had taken on the look of someone about to say something serious. It made Seon-woo instinctively pause for a moment.
But before Eun-jae could speak, the hospital room door swung open.
The person who entered did so hastily, without even taking time to register the situation inside. At the sound of the door and the footsteps, Seon-woo reflexively turned his head. And more than just a reflex—his eyes widened in shock.
“Director, right now…”
The one hurriedly speaking was none other than Gwak Seung-hyeon.
“Right now…”
He echoed the word as if to himself, then abruptly stopped in his tracks.
As Seon-woo looked at Seung-hyeon’s blank expression, a wave of confusion and unease washed over him.
The relief of seeing him was fleeting. Before Seon-woo could even register the emotion, his mind was already tangled in a rush of thoughts.
The last expression he’d seen on Seung-hyeon’s face before passing out— And the image of Seo Eun-jae standing right in front of him now— They flashed through his mind in rapid succession.
How must he look right now? He shouldn’t have hesitated. Even if it was just a few seconds earlier, he should’ve pushed Eun-jae away.
No, wait… would Gwak Seung-hyeon really misunderstand what he saw? Maybe not…
No, who am I kidding.
That mannequin-still expression on Seung-hyeon’s face— It looked like he’d already misunderstood a hundred times over. And honestly, the situation couldn’t have looked worse. No one could blame him.
Seon-woo hurriedly opened his mouth, ready to say It’s not what it looks like— But just like always, Seung-hyeon was faster.
“Did I interrupt something important?”
He repeated his own words quietly, as if chewing on them. His expression was unreadable.
Then Seung-hyeon took a step back.
The door shut behind him the very next second— And with it, his face disappeared from view.
