Yul Ciealce

The moonlight pours into the room, soft and silver, but its gentle touch is drowned out by the artificial glow of the lamp overhead. The elegant walls, painted in sterile creams and cold marbles, seem to wrap around you like a silent, unfeeling observer. The papers scattered across the desk are disheveled, mocking in their chaos, as if laughing at the unraveling scene before them. It's like the world is falling apart—and you're the only one who notices.

How did it get here?

It wasn't always you and him against the world. In fact, it was never like that to begin with—quite the opposite.

He was born the only heir to a powerful conglomerate family, and the cold, metallic scent of wealth and pressure was forced into his palms long before he was old enough to form dreams of his own. Business meetings replaced bedtime stories. Tutors took the place of loving arms. He was expected to master instruments, win trophies, and memorize numbers before anyone ever taught him what love felt like. His mother and father were like business partners, detached and indifferent, never sparing each other—or him—a sliver of warmth. He was an ornament, a golden coin passed back and forth, admired for its value but never held with care. So he grew up fast. Hardened. Knowing the world would eat him alive if he didn’t outpace it.

And then there was you.

Just like him, you were born into a world of gleaming gold and high expectations. But unlike him, you weren’t the heir. You were the youngest—forgotten in the shadows of louder, brighter siblings. In a home full of brilliance, you were barely a flicker. You clawed your way through childhood, striving to be seen, to be enough. You became a prodigy out of necessity, not choice. But no matter how many achievements you stacked, all you ever earned were nods of polite acknowledgment or the dismissive wave of a hand. You were raised by nannies who smiled only when you played the sweet, cheerful child they preferred—so you stayed that way. You learned to make others laugh. You learned that joy, even forced, was more palatable than pain.

People smiled at you. Some rolled their eyes. But not him.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t scoff. He looked at you with nothing but cold calculation. You barely noticed him at first, but fate pushed your paths together. He was in every club—perfection demanded it—and that included yours. A club you created only to have a place to nap in peace. Somehow, through hours shared in the same room, the threads began to form.

At first, he hated you. He hated the way your grin never seemed to waver, how you said sorry too much, how your silly doodles and lazy jokes filled the silence. And he made sure you knew it. But rather than push you away, his disdain only deepened your resolve. You wanted to smile for both of you. Maybe that’s where it started.

In his darkest moments, when failure clawed at his throat and the world turned its back on him, you were there. You didn’t lecture. You didn’t fix anything. You just sat beside him, gently reached for his trembling hand, and whispered a dumb joke that somehow patched a hole no one else had even seen. And the first time he smiled, barely a twitch at the corner of his lips, something fluttered in your chest. Maybe that’s when you fell.

Best friends through high school. Lovers in college. And now, here you are—living the “real life.” You’re engaged. He’s yours. You’re his.

His family didn’t embrace the idea out of love. They only accepted you because your net worth matched theirs. But not everyone did.

He inherited the company. You stood by his side. You weren’t just his fiancée, you were his partner. You worked together, slept side by side, dreamed out loud. It felt like the world couldn’t touch either of you.

Until it did.

The company hit a storm. Numbers sank. Smiles faded. But yours didn’t.

You stayed bright, kind, sweet through it all—encouraging employees, pouring warmth into a cold office, doing whatever you could to help. But not everyone appreciated it. Some whispered behind your back. “Annoying.” “Childish.” “Too much.” They tossed their work on you like trash and rolled their eyes when you weren’t looking. It stung, but you swallowed the pain. You persisted—for him.

You even did all the chores at home. You knew this wasn’t just hard on you.

He, as chairman, had the heaviest load. He barely slept. He was gone more than he was present. Even at home, he was working. Always working. And then the whispers reached his ears. The rumors about you. The complaints. The jabs.

And they stuck.

They clung to his pride like thorns. Suddenly, the memory of kneeling before you and sliding on that ring—it humiliated him. He forgot what you were doing behind closed doors, forgot the silent sacrifices you made while smiling.

He forgot, and he snapped.

You come home late. Again. You’d been stuck re-checking reports, scanning data, fixing mistakes that weren’t yours. You’re exhausted, but excited—you missed him. You missed him so much. Your shoes come off at the door as always, and you hurry down the hallway to see him, heart pounding with affection.

He’s in the home office. Still working.

You slip your arms around his back, resting your cheek against him. You begin to chatter, talking about your day, your voice light and affectionate. He’s missed so many of your stories. You just want him to smile again.

But instead of "hello," instead of a glance or a kiss or a single kind word—he shoves your arms off of him.

His eyes are blazing.

"Could you please shut up?"

The venom in his voice makes your stomach drop. Your breath catches. He turns around now, fists clenched, chest heaving.

"You’re so annoying and cloying. Don’t you think it’s time for you to finally grow up and stop acting like such a child?!"

His words slap the air like thunder, echoing in the room that once felt like home.

And just like that, it’s cold. The light disappears. Your world—the one you built with him—splinters. You blink, not even crying yet, just stunned.

He stares at you like you’re nothing. Like he never loved you at all.

And that, somehow, hurts more than anything he could’ve said.