Chapter 3: My Friend.😭
1544 Words
The most friendly but not very good at keeping instructions among the sisters, that's Luna
That morning, she didn’t exactly “sneak out” like a criminal. It was more calculated than that. You know that kind of careful movement someone makes when they don’t want questions, not necessarily because they’re doing something wrong, but because explaining it would be exhausting? That was Luna.
She slipped out of her grandparents’ house just after sunrise, when the house was still in that half-awake state—doors not fully shut, voices not fully formed. The air outside was cool, carrying that early-morning stillness that makes everything feel private.
Her destination wasn’t far. Just a few blocks. Close enough that it didn’t feel like rebellion… but far enough to feel like hers.
Now, the guy she went to see—let’s call him Jihoon, again—it wasn’t some childish crush anymore. That’s the difference here. With Luna, you’re not dealing with giggles and awkward hand-holding. This had weight. Choice. Awareness.
She knocked once, then pushed the door open when he answered, like she’d done it a hundred times.
“You’re early,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Or you’re slow,” she shot back, walking in like she belonged there.
That dynamic? That’s where you see it. Comfort mixed with tension. The kind where neither of them is pretending anymore.
They settled into the small living room, sunlight stretching across the floor. Luna kicked off her sandals, tucking one leg under herself.
“So,” she started, smirking slightly, “Noa screamed yesterday.”
Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “Again?”
“Over a kitten,” Luna said, shaking her head. “A tiny one. It barely even moved.”
He laughed, low and amused. “Your sister might be a lost cause.”
“No, seriously,” Luna leaned forward, animated now. “It just looked at her, and she froze like something out of a horror movie. I almost felt bad… almost.”
“Almost?” he teased.
She grinned. “Okay, I laughed.”
That’s the surface. Easy conversation. Familiar rhythm.
But here’s where it shifts.
Because at some point, conversations like that don’t stay light. Not when there’s already something unspoken sitting between you.
Jihoon watched her a little longer than usual. Not obvious—but enough.
“You didn’t just come here to gossip about your sister,” he said.
Luna didn’t answer immediately. She leaned back instead, exhaling slowly.
“I needed quiet,” she admitted.
And that’s honest in a different way. Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just… real.
He nodded, like he understood more than she said out loud. Then he moved closer—not suddenly, not in a way that demanded attention. Just enough to shift the space between them.
“You have that here,” he said.
Now listen, this is where people often rush scenes like this. They jump straight into intensity. But the truth is, the strongest moments come from restraint.
Luna turned her head slightly, their eyes meeting. There was no question in it. No confusion.
Her hand rested on the couch between them, fingers brushing his—not fully holding, not pulling away either. That in-between space? That’s where everything lives.
“You’re dangerous when you’re quiet like this,” she murmured.
Jihoon smirked faintly. “And you came anyway.”
She didn’t deny it.
And when he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was intentional. Like both of them had already decided before this moment even started.
The kiss wasn’t about discovery anymore. It was about recognition.
Her hand moved to his shirt, gripping slightly—not out of hesitation, but control. Like she was grounding herself in something real.
And his response? Steady. Confident. Not overwhelming, not careless. Just… present.
That’s what makes it mature. Not how far it goes—but how aware they are of each other in it.
You get the sense that Luna isn’t just reacting. She’s choosing. Every second of it.
And that matters, especially when you look at what’s happening on the other side of this story.
Because back in that bedroom, everything is the opposite.
Mrs. Janny’s space felt like time had stopped—but not in a peaceful way. More like something had been paused mid-collapse.
She lay sideways on the bed, not asleep, not fully awake either. Just… existing in that quiet that gets too loud when you’ve been thinking too much for too long.
Four years is a long time to be wrong about someone.
And it’s not just the betrayal that hurts. It’s the realization that all those small moments—the excuses, the missed calls, the emotional distance—you explained them away. You built logic around them just to survive them.
That’s what she did with Kelvin.
“On duty,” he always said.
And you know what? That phrase becomes a shield. It shuts down questions. Makes absence feel like sacrifice instead of neglect.
But absence has a pattern. And eventually, patterns tell the truth.
Her phone vibrated beside her.
Now here’s where it gets interesting—the name wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t someone close. It was just work. Kate.
That’s what makes it unsettling. Because when news like this comes from someone outside your emotional circle, it feels more… factual. Less distorted by feelings.
Janny picked up the phone slowly.
“Janny… are you okay?”
That message alone? It already tells you something is wrong. Nobody asks that without context.
Her reply was simple. Almost defensive. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”
And then the waiting started.
Those typing dots? They can mess with your head. You start filling in the gaps before the message even arrives.
And somehow, your body reacts before your mind catches up. That chill she felt? That wasn’t random. It was instinct.
When Kate finally sent it—“He’s getting married tomorrow”—Janny didn’t explode.
That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. Shock doesn’t always look like screaming. Sometimes it looks like stillness. Like your brain refusing to process something that doesn’t fit into reality yet.
But then came the second message. And that’s where everything broke.
“Vera.”
You don’t need a long explanation after that. Because betrayal hits differently when it comes from someone who sat in your pain with you.
Vera wasn’t just a friend. She was a witness. To Janny’s loneliness. To her confusion. To her attempts to hold her marriage together.
That’s what makes this cruel. It wasn’t hidden in the shadows. It was right there, disguised as support.
Four years. That number matters. Because it lines up too perfectly with everything Kelvin claimed.
Every absence suddenly had a location. Every excuse suddenly had a face.
And those twin boys—Berry and Edwin—they weren’t just children. They were proof. Living, undeniable proof that this wasn’t a mistake or a phase. It was a whole other life.
Now imagine sitting in a room where every memory you trusted starts rewriting itself in real time. That’s where Janny was.
The air felt heavier because her understanding of her own past was collapsing.
When she checked the invitation, it wasn’t just confirmation. It was presentation. Clean. Beautiful. Celebratory. Like none of the damage behind it mattered.
That’s when the sound left her. Not a controlled cry. Not something graceful. Just raw pain. The kind that comes from somewhere deep in your chest, where logic can’t reach.
Her mother and Joy rushing in—that moment shifts the scene. Because suddenly, Janny isn’t alone in her pain anymore.
Joy’s reaction? Immediate anger. That’s the protective kind. The kind that doesn’t process—it just defends.
But Grandma… she’s different. She doesn’t rush to rage. She sits. Holds Janny’s hand.
That’s experience talking. Because she knows something important—pain like this doesn’t get fixed by shouting at it. It gets steadied.
“Would you rather live your whole life with a man who could betray you like this?”
That question isn’t comforting. It’s grounding. It forces Janny to look forward instead of backward.
And that’s where the shift begins. Not healing. Not yet. But clarity.
Because for the first time, the illusion is gone. Kelvin isn’t a question anymore. Vera isn’t a misunderstanding. They are exactly what their actions say they are.
And weirdly enough, that kind of truth—no matter how painful—gives you something solid to stand on.
When Janny looked at her mother, then at Joy, something clicked. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough.
Because while she lost a husband and a friend, she didn’t lose everything. And sometimes, that’s the difference between breaking completely… and starting over.
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