Sometimes, they didn’t speak.

Not because they didn’t want to. It just... wasn’t necessary. There was something about the silence that felt more honest than any word ever could.

Euijoo was exactly the kind of person my stepfather usually brought home. Too young, too quiet. He moved carefully, as if trying not to leave a trace. But I started seeing those traces everywhere: a white mug with his name written by hand; an open book on the dining table, underlined in ink; a pair of cartoon-patterned socks lying under the couch.

He had been shy at first. Polite, even sweet. But as the months went by, he grew more talkative, more relaxed. His voice was soft, his way of speaking gentle. He even laughed at my stepfather’s jokes as if they truly amused him. And for a while, I believed those laughs were real.

Until I started noticing that Euijoo always laughed at the exact moment he was expected to — never a second too soon, or too late. And his eyes never matched his smile.

There was something... choreographed about him.

As if he was playing a role he hadn’t chosen, but knew by heart. And I wanted to understand him. More than I would ever admit.

There was something about Euijoo — the way he asked if I had eaten, how he left the bathroom door slightly ajar if he knew I would use it next, the way he giggled quietly whenever my stepfather said something dumb — that didn’t fit the image he tried to project. He was too careful. Too good.

Too proper, like he was still performing.

At first, I didn’t get it. But now it was obvious. Why else would someone like him be with a man so much older? Someone cold, bitter, experienced... What other reason made more sense than love? Money. But I still couldn’t judge him for it.

*******

That night, I found him again in the kitchen. My stepfather, Seungjin, had left on a business trip for the week, leaving the two of us alone.

Euijoo was wearing a button-up shirt, carelessly fastened, and his hair was still damp from a shower. Nothing seductive. Nothing inappropriate. But there was something in the way he leaned against the counter, stirring his spoon inside the mug, that made my stomach turn.

The air in the room had grown heavier for no apparent reason.

"Do you think a person can pretend to be happy for so long... that they forget what it actually felt like?" He asked, not looking up. Then he smiled, as if he’d just said something silly. "Forget it. It’s late. I’m sure you have things to do."

But he didn’t leave. And neither did I.