Jihan’s POV
It’s been a month since that night.
Almost two, if I’m being honest with myself.
I count the days the way you worry a loose tooth—tongue pressing against it over and over, half-hoping it’ll fall out just so the waiting can stop.
A whole month, and I haven’t seen Wonbin even once.
Not in passing.
Not by accident.
Not even in my dreams, which feels crueler somehow.
Not that I want to.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
I convinced Grandma to delay the engagement—to give me time.
Time to breathe.
Time to think.
Time to convince myself that nothing irreversible cracked open inside me that night and stayed that way.
She agreed easily, too easily, like she already knew I was unraveling and didn’t want to look too closely.
What I didn’t expect was how empty everything would feel without him.
At first, the space he left felt like relief.
No familiar alpha scent curling into my lungs.
No pull in my chest that made my feet hesitate whenever I thought about leaving the house.
No voice that made me want to turn around even when I was already halfway gone.
But relief doesn’t last.
It turns sour.
Quiet.
Heavy.
I don’t tell anyone what happened.
Not Grandma.
Not Chansoo.
Not Yunjoo.
I take it all and fold it inward, neat and careful, the way I’ve always learned to do—like pain is something shameful if you can’t explain it properly.
So when my body starts betraying me, no one connects it to that night.
They just think I’m tired.
Sensitive.
Overthinking again.
I let them believe it.
The first time I get dizzy, I tell myself it’s nothing.
The second time, Yunjoo watches me a little too closely and suggests a doctor.
The third time, Chansoo gets annoyed and tells me to stop pretending I’m fine.
By the fourth time, I’m alone in my room, knees on the cold tile, vomiting until my throat burns raw and my hands shake so badly I have to brace myself against the wall.
Food tastes wrong after that.
Not spoiled—just foreign.
Like my mouth knows before my brain does that something isn’t right.
I force myself to eat anyway, because Grandma notices everything, and the effort alone leaves me exhausted and shaking.
Now it happens every morning.
I wake up nauseous, drained before the day even begins, my body heavy like it’s made of wet sand.
I just stare at the ceiling and wonder when pretending will finally cost me more than telling the truth.
I want to take a pregnancy test.
The thought alone makes my hands sweat.
Because if it’s positive, then everything I’ve been avoiding becomes real in a way I can’t undo.
And if it’s negative… I don’t know if I can survive the relief or the disappointment.
Either way, I don’t win.
I stop going to school not long after.
At first, it’s just a few days.
Then weeks.
My body refuses to cooperate—sleeping too much, not enough, crying quietly into my pillow where no one can hear me.
I’ve never felt this useless.
This small.
It helps—if I can even call it that—that everyone else is busy.
Chansoo and Yunjoo have their own lives.
Grandma doesn’t question my request to switch to homeschooling.
She doesn’t comment when I order foods I’ve never liked before or leave half of them untouched.
Her silence feels like mercy.
But it doesn’t last.
Chansoo shows up one afternoon without warning, walking straight into my room like he always has.
He stops short, frowning, sniffing the air once… twice.
“Why do you smell so weird?”
My heart slams into my ribs.
“What?” I force out.
“I mean—you smell different,” he says, stepping closer.
“Are you still sick?”
I shake my head too fast.
“No. Maybe it’s the cologne.”
He hums, considering, then shrugs.
“Yeah. Maybe. You don’t smell bad. Just… different.”
Different.
The word echoes in my chest.
He sits beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
I tense without meaning to, muscles tight like I’m bracing for something I can’t name.
“Grandma said you switched to homeschooling,” he says.
“Did something happen?”
“No,” I lie.
“I just want to go at my own pace.”
He nods like he understands.
Chansoo always does.
It makes me feel smaller somehow—like he sees more than I want him to.
“You still need people,” he says gently.
I swallow.
“I know.
I just don’t know who to go to.”
“Then why don’t you ask your fiancé to—”
“No.”
The word comes out sharp, panicked.
“That’s not a good idea,” I rush to say.
“I don’t want to see him. I mean—he’s fine. He’s okay. I just… don’t think he wants to be in this.”
Because the truth is worse.
I do want to see him.
And I’m terrified of what will happen if I do.
Chansoo sighs.
“You know you can’t avoid him forever. Christmas and New Year already passed.”
I know.
“You didn’t come to the dinners,” he continues.
“Aunt Mihyun’s worried. They don’t want to force you.”
He hesitates.
“She even mentioned an agreement without a wedding.”
My breath catches.
“That’s… possible?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Nothing’s official yet.”
Nothing is official.
Which means I could run.
But where would I go?
And what would I say?
My thoughts scatter when Chansoo suddenly jumps on the bed and plops down on top of me for a hug.
I flinch violently.
Panic flashes white-hot through me as I shove him away, hands flying to my stomach on instinct.
“Yah!” I snap.
“Don’t do that!”
He freezes, concern flooding his face.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I lie, too quickly.
“You’re just annoying.”
But my hands don’t move.
“Grandma says you’re not eating,” he says softly.
“Is it because of that?”
“Maybe,” I mutter.
“ But I’m eating fine.”
He looks me over, then smirks.
“Well, you do look fat, hyung.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I go quiet.
I’ve always been conscious about my body.
Always careful.
Always aware.
And now, hearing that, even as a joke, makes my chest ache with fear.
Is it showing?
Is something changing already?
“Can you leave?” I whisper.
“I want to sleep.”
I turn away, pulling the blanket over myself like armor.
He doesn’t argue.
He just leaves.
When the door clicks shut, I curl in on myself, one hand pressed protectively over my stomach, the other clutching my shirt like it might anchor me.
I think of Wonbin then—not his face, not even his voice—but the way my body used to lean toward him before my mind could decide even on the short period of time we have been together.
The way something in me recognized him instinctively and panicked at the same time.
I wanted to run.
I still do.
But there’s something inside me that keeps pulling in the opposite direction, aching, familiar, terrifyingly alive.
And I don’t know what scares me more— that I have no one to run to…
or that I know exactly who I want to, and can’t.