I handed him my resignation letter today. I thought his face would twist in anger, but it didn’t. Instead, I saw shock... pain... as if soone had torn his heart apart in front of .
This was the man who never trembled, never bent—not even for billion-dollar deals. Yet the mont I slipped that letter into his hands, he dropped to his knees before . With tears in his eyes, he begged—begged not to leave him.
And still, I walked away.
How could I stay, knowing that my presence would only bring him more pain? But how could I leave, when leaving carved hollow inside? In that mont, I beca soone I could hardly recognize—heartless, cruel, shattering the man I once loved by my own hand.
I left him crying in that office, wailing in despair, his voice echoing behind . His eyes—those eyes full of helplessness and ruin—still haunt .
What did I gain from it? Nothing but this ache. This unbearable loneliness.
Tonight, as the train sways beneath , I feel my heart breaking all over again. I never imagined love could be this painful.
Kaya stared at the blurred writing, the ink smudged by tears. Whoever wrote it had cried so hard that even the elegant cursive had turned shaky, trembling strokes—so different from the neat, graceful handwriting on the first page.
Why? Why was it him? It should have been . Why the hell did he have to be the one to get hurt? Why couldn’t it be instead?
Today... my beloved—the man I wanted to protect—was hit by a car.
And all because of . Because I, this foolish, blind idiot, thought that staying away from him would sohow make things better. Because I cared too much about what others thought, and in doing so, I forgot to listen to my own heart.
Did I... doubt my love for him? Even for a second?
The writing on the page suddenly stopped, cut off mid-sentence, as though the writer couldn’t go on. The next three pages were filled with only half-finished words, broken pleas. "I..." over and over. Then another page: "Why did it have to be him?"
Kaya didn’t understand what had happened. Not until shw turned the fourth page.
This ti, the handwriting was steady again.
Dear Diary,
I know I’ve left so much unsaid. I haven’t told you what happened in the past few days—and that’s my fault. But what can I do? I’ve fallen for such an idiot.
Just a week ago, when I was leaving my new company—yes, the place I just started working—I ran into him. My husband best friend ... ahem i an my future husband’s My best friend, Kyle.
Kyle, the one everyone always said was the most laid-back guy in the room. He never shouted, never cried, always calm—completely opposite of the stubborn idiot I love.
But that day... his face was different. He looked tired, heavy, and there was sothing in his eyes that made feel uneasy.
When I asked him what was wrong, he sighed and finally told .
He said that ever since I walked away, he hasn’t been the sa. That idiot of mine stopped eating. He hasn’t stepped out of his room for days—forget going to the company, he won’t even answer a single phone call. Because of him, clients have started pulling out, deals have broken down, and still, he doesn’t care.
Kyle said that whenever anyone tries to go near his room, all they hear are the painful cries of a man who never used to cry in front of anyone.
I couldn’t believe it. That man who used to stand tall in front of the whole world, who would never let his pride bend, was now breaking apart because of .
And suddenly, I hated myself more than ever.
So I decided to et him and asked Kyle to pass the ssage. That day, Kyle left with the happiest smile I had seen on his face in weeks. And just an hour later, that idiot rushed into the café near my company.
I was sitting there, sipping on my cold coffee, when I saw him—and for a mont, I couldn’t even recognize him.
The man I knew was always neat, always so damn perfect—clean-shaven, well-dressed, his suits pressed to perfection, his slightly blue eyes bright like glass. But the one standing at the entrance that day... was soone else entirely.
His beard was grown out, his once-perfect suit was wrinkled and loose, like it hadn’t been touched in days. His eyes—God, his eyes—were sunken, rimd with dark circles that told he hadn’t slept, maybe hadn’t even lived, since the day I left.
And the way he looked at ... it was enough to shatter my heart all over again.
He didn’t even dare to walk up. He just stood there, keeping a small distance between us, his hand hanging by his side, his fingers twitching nervously, like so guilty child who was too afraid to ask for forgiveness.
Dear Diary,
After a long silence, he finally ca closer and sat in front of . His black coffee sat there untouched, and the steam slowly faded away, but his eyes... his pale, tired eyes never left .
Before I could even say anything, he just... started talking. His voice was so broken, trembling. He told he didn’t know why his mother had said all those things, but he went to her, asked her, even argued with her. And not just her—he went to my father too.
My father, diary. The man I myself never dared to face. And yet he... he did it. Just for .
He kept talking, and every word felt like a knife and a balm at the sa ti. He said no matter what anyone thought, he only loved . That without , he could never love anyone else.
I tried, I really did, to push him away again. I told him that I wasn’t perfect, that he deserved better than soone like .
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