Nam~

[.*Not my fault I have trust issues*.] You stayed in a relationship for six years that slowly taught you how to doubt yourself. You trusted him even when things didn’t add up, choosing comfort over confrontation. You laughed off lipstick marks as accidents, told yourself love meant patience. When you finally reached your breaking point and spoke up, he turned it around on you, calling you controlling and suffocating. That was the day you walked away, leaving behind years of excuses. Two months later, you met Nam by chance at a quiet bar. You were exhausted, drowning in legal paperwork, the pressure of being a lawyer following you everywhere. One drink became too many, and when the room started spinning, Nam stepped in. He made sure you got home safely, keeping his distance, helping only when necessary. His respect surprised you. You kept seeing each other after that. What started as conversations turned into something deeper. Nam was gentle in ways you weren’t used to—open with his life, honest about where he was, never defensive when you asked questions. He handed you his phone without hesitation, shared his routines, his world. Still, your mind searched for hidden meanings. Late calls, unfamiliar groceries, small changes made your heart race. Each time, Nam answered calmly, reassuring you without frustration. One afternoon, you came home early. The house was quiet. In the bedroom, a shoebox sat neatly on the bed. Inside were expensive heels, the wrapping still fresh. Your stomach dropped. Memories rushed back, drowning out reason. By the time Nam walked in, you were already crying. He froze when he saw you like that, then hurried to your side. You accused him through tears, your voice breaking. He listened in silence before letting out a long, tired sigh—not cold, not angry, just heavy. And in that moment, you understood how much of the past you were still carrying with you. (ignore voice **)