Gazing at the wall clock for what feels like the hundredth time, your fingers twitch against the fabric of your dress. The rhythmic ticking echoes in the silence of the house, each passing second weighing heavily on your chest. Anxiety coils in your stomach, twisting tighter with every minute he doesn’t return.

Your eyes drift toward the locked door, a lump forming in your throat.

Where is he? Why isn’t he home yet?

The questions plague your mind, and no matter how hard you try to push them away, they refuse to leave. A terrifying thought creeps in, uninvited and merciless.

What if something happened to him?

Your breath hitches, and instinctively, your hands clasp together in silent prayer.

Please, just let him be safe. Let him come home.

The eerie stillness in the room amplifies the storm brewing inside you, and just when you feel like you’re drowning in worry—

Ding-dong.

The shrill chime of the doorbell startles you. Your head snaps up.

Heart hammering against your ribs, you rush to the door and pull it open.

And there he is.

Your husband, Jungkook.

The first thing you notice is how utterly exhausted he looks. His usually composed and immaculate appearance is in complete disarray—his crisp, ironed tuxedo now a wrinkled mess, his neatly combed hair damp with sweat and falling over his forehead. His tie hangs loose, and his once-polished shoes are scuffed and slightly muddy. The faint scent of rain and exhaustion clings to him.

It’s an image so foreign to the man you know.

Jungkook, the man who thrives on control and perfection, now looks anything but.

You hesitate for a moment before stepping aside, giving him space to enter.

"Welcome home… J-Jungkook," you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

Six months of marriage, yet his name still stumbles off your tongue, as if your lips refuse to shape it properly. As if speaking it aloud solidifies the painful truth of this cold, distant relationship.

He doesn’t acknowledge your greeting. No nod, no word of response—just a fleeting glance before he steps inside, shoulders heavy with fatigue.

But you’re used to this.

It has always been this way.

Your conversations—or the lack of them—are an endless cycle of silence and dismissive replies. You have tried, countless times, to bridge the distance between you, but before you can even get close, he shuts you out.

Still, you try again.

Jungkook exhales a heavy sigh and drops onto the couch, rubbing his temples. You linger for a moment before retreating into the kitchen. Within seconds, you return, a glass of cold water in hand.

"J... Jungkook."

His gaze lifts to you, eyes dull with exhaustion. He takes the glass without hesitation, tilting his head back and draining it in one go.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of your dress. Summoning the courage you rarely find, you ask, "I-I guess there was a lot of work at the office today?"

A pause.

Then—

"Hmm."

Just that.

A single, indifferent hum.

A weight settles in your chest.

Why, Jungkook? Why is that always your answer?

You swallow the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to try again. "Uhmm… dinner?"

He barely glances at you. "No, I already ate. You carry on—I’m tired."

And just like that, he turns away, walking towards the bedroom without sparing you another glance.

You stand frozen, staring at the empty space he left behind. The glass in your hands feels unbearably heavy.

A bitter laugh almost escapes you.

Of course.

You lower your gaze to the dining table, where the dishes you had carefully prepared remain untouched. You spent hours in the kitchen, perfecting every dish, hoping—just hoping—that tonight, he would sit with you. That he would take a bite of the food you made with so much love.

But he never does.

Your appetite vanishes. Moving numbly, you gather the plates and place them in the fridge for another day.

Not that it matters. He rarely eats what I make anyway.

You once dreamed of quiet, intimate dinners together. Of sharing stories about your day, of hearing him praise your cooking, of soft laughter filling the space between you.

But none of those dreams have ever come true.

Because deep down, you know—he never truly accepted you as his wife.

Unlike him, you gave your heart away the day you married him. Every part of you belongs to this marriage, yet it feels like you’re the only one fighting for it.

And still, you wait.

Holding onto the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he will change.

---

The bedroom is dimly lit when you enter, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Jungkook is already asleep, his back turned to you.

Silently, you tiptoe toward the closet, grab your nightwear, and take a quick shower. When you return, you drape your damp towel over the chair before slipping under the covers beside him.

Yes, you both sleep in the same bed—but only because of your mother-in-law.

She frequently drops by unannounced, her sharp eyes scrutinizing every detail of your married life. She expects to see a happy couple, so you pretend.

You pretend to be the loving wife.

He pretends to be the dutiful husband.

But it’s all a lie.

Nothing about this marriage is real.

Not the affectionate smiles you forced in front of his mother. Not the way you shared a bedroom. Not the soft goodnights you whispered, knowing they would never be returned.

Everything was a carefully crafted illusion.

Lying on your side, you turned toward him, your gaze lingering on the man who, in so many ways, still felt like a stranger.

Jungkook.

In the daylight, he was unreadable—cold, distant, a figure of precision and control. He moved through life with an almost ruthless perfection, his emotions locked behind a wall so high you could never hope to climb it. But like this, under the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains, he was different.

Asleep, he was just a man.

His long lashes rested against the sharp planes of his face, his lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His dark hair, always styled to perfection, was now a mess, unruly strands curling over his forehead. He looked so at peace, so unguarded—so heartbreakingly opposite of the man you knew when his eyes were open.

He was a contradiction. A mystery you had married but never unraveled.

Carefully, your fingers ghosted over his forehead, tucking a loose strand of hair back into place. It was barely a touch—so light, so fleeting—but it was enough to make your chest ache.

If only he would let me in.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of your own loneliness press down on you. And then, in the quiet of the night, you let the words slip—the ones you could never say when he was awake.

“When will you realize you have a wife?” your voice was barely above a whisper, fragile like the hope you clung to.

“When will you finally look at me—not through me?”

Your throat tightened, a raw ache spreading through your chest.

“Will you ever speak to me with kindness? Will you ever say my name the way a husband should?”

Silence.

Only the rhythmic sound of his breathing filled the space between you, his obliviousness carving another wound into your already fragile heart.

“I am waiting, Jungkook,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Waiting for the day you’ll see me. Waiting for the day you’ll care. Waiting for you, even if it takes forever.”

And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all.

That despite everything, despite the coldness, the distance, the

way he never spared you a second glance—you still loved him.

Curling into yourself, you closed your eyes, letting sleep claim you.

Hoping.

Waiting.

For him.

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