Chapter 3 – Love Letters Turned to Dust

Love letters are supposed to mean something.

They’re proof that, at least once, you cared enough to write your feelings instead of just… sending an emoji.

I used to write them for her.

Not long ones, not cheesy poems—just simple words, the kind that came from a guy who believed honesty was enough.

Apparently, honesty is worth less than a diamond necklace in this house.

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It was a Saturday. The kind of gray, soulless day that makes even the city look tired. I had no cases to run, no excuses to leave the house. So I stayed. Worst decision ever.

The mansion felt colder than usual, like even the walls were done pretending to care. The housekeeper had gone, leaving behind spotless counters and silence thick enough to choke on.

I wandered into my office, trying to drown in paperwork, but the words on the contracts blurred together. My head wasn’t in it. My mind… was somewhere else.

Or maybe with someone else.

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Her door was closed, like always.

I told myself I wasn’t curious. I told myself I didn’t care.

Then I told myself another lie: that checking her room for something “important” wasn’t pathetic.

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The room smelled faintly of her perfume. Cold floral, expensive, and distant—just like her. Everything was perfect, arranged like a magazine photo spread. Not a single thing out of place.

Except me.

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I opened the drawer of her vanity, searching for—what, exactly? A reason? A sign she still thought of me? I don’t know. What I found instead stopped me cold.

A small white box.

Wrapped in the same paper I’d used last year.

My anniversary gift. Unopened.

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For a second, I just stared at it.

Like if I looked hard enough, it would explain itself. Like maybe there was a logical reason why something I gave her with hope ended up forgotten in a drawer, gathering dust like old memories.

I picked it up. It was light, too light, like my expectations. The ribbon was still tied perfectly, mocking me. I ran my thumb over it, remembering how nervous I’d been when I bought it.

It wasn’t flashy. Not by her family’s standards. Just a simple gold bracelet with her initials engraved inside. Something that said, You’re not the Queen of Hong Group to me. You’re just Hae-in.

Funny. Turns out, that was the problem.

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I sat on the edge of her bed, the box in my hands, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself remember.

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Back then, things were different.

We didn’t have marble floors or servants or boardrooms breathing down our necks. We had late-night walks, cheap coffee dates, stupid jokes that made her laugh until her shoulders shook.

And letters.

God, I wrote her so many letters.

They weren’t perfect. My handwriting looked like it survived a small earthquake. But she loved them—or at least, she pretended to. She said my words made her feel warm.

I believed her.

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“Hyun-woo, you’re too serious,” she’d tease, resting her chin on my shoulder as I scribbled. “What are you writing this time?”

“Things I can’t say out loud.”

She’d smile, that real smile that made her eyes crinkle, and say, “Then keep writing.”

So I did.

Every chance I got.

I wrote about the way her hair smelled like spring. About how her laugh made me forget the world. About how I wanted to build a life with her—even if that life was small, even if it wasn’t enough for someone like her.

Turns out, it wasn’t.

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The letters are gone now. Burned? Thrown away? Stuffed in a box somewhere? Who knows.

What I do know is this: somewhere along the way, we stopped being the people who wrote and read them.

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The unopened box in my hand felt heavier than gold.

Heavier than silence.

Because it wasn’t just a gift. It was proof. Proof that I’d been shouting into a void for years, and the void never cared enough to answer.

“When,” I whispered to the empty room, “did we become strangers?”

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Maybe it was the day we moved into this house.

Maybe it was the first time I walked into a family dinner and felt like an intruder.

Maybe it was the day I realized her smile for me was the same one she gave to the cameras.

Or maybe it wasn’t one day. Maybe it was a thousand little cracks, too small to notice until the whole thing collapsed.

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The door creaked softly.

I looked up.

She stood there in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas, her hair perfectly messy—the kind that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Her eyes flicked to the box in my hand, then back to my face.

For a second, neither of us spoke. The silence roared louder than words.

“You were looking for something?” Her voice was calm, cold. The kind that doesn’t ask—it accuses.

I held up the box, forcing a smile that felt like glass in my mouth.

“Just wondering how many anniversaries it takes for a gift to make it out of the drawer.”

Her jaw tightened, but her face stayed unreadable.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Right.” I laughed softly. Bitterly. “Guess you didn’t ask for me either.”

Her eyes flickered—just for a second. Then the mask slipped back on.

“You shouldn’t be in my room.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

No explanation. No apology. Nothing.

The click of the door closing felt like a gunshot.

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I sat there for a long time, the box in my hands, until my fingers went numb. Then I put it back in the drawer, exactly where I found it.

Because that’s what we do now.

We put things back.

Feelings. Words. Ourselves.

Back where no one can see them.

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That night, lying in my room, I stared at the ceiling and thought about all the letters I’d written, all the words I’d never said.

And for the first time, I wondered if I’d been wrong from the start.

If love isn’t about fighting for someone.

If love is just… knowing when to quit.

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