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# Chapter 163: The Truth That Hits a Wall
What had her mother said to Kang Riu? The question circled endlessly through Seo-ah’s mind. But she already knew the answer. Her mother had told her everything in that hospital corridor, the moment she’d grabbed her and spoken Kang Riu’s name aloud. “That man isn’t trying to save you. He’s pulling you deeper into the abyss.”
Seo-ah gazed at the Han River. The reflected lights on the water trembled without ceasing—as if everything in this world was unstable. As if nothing could ever be fixed.
“Tell me what your mother said,” Kang Riu repeated. His voice was no longer a cry. It was worse. Like the silence before something shatters. Seo-ah felt the weight of that silence—invisible as air, yet solid as stone pressing against her chest.
“What your mother said doesn’t matter,” Seo-ah replied.
“Then what does?” he asked. His eyes found hers in the darkness, piercing through like a predator’s gaze—independent, alive, hunting.
“What matters is knowing what we’re doing,” she finally said. In that moment, she realized her voice was trembling. Like his hands. Like they were vibrating at the same frequency. And that terrified her most of all, because it was proof they’d already crossed a point of no return.
Kang Riu turned back to her. His face drew closer—close enough that she could feel his breath, close enough to see herself reflected in his pupils. But the reflection wasn’t the Seo-ah she knew. It was paler. Smaller. More faint.
“Even if we know what we’re doing, we can’t stop,” he whispered.
“Why?” she asked. But that was a lie too. She already knew why. Because she couldn’t stop for the same reason.
His hand moved toward her face as if of its own accord, independent from his mind. Seo-ah didn’t pull away. She could have—but she didn’t. Because avoidance itself was another choice, and she didn’t want to choose anymore.
His fingers touched her cheek. Warm. And that hurt more. Because warmth was a lie. All warmth was a lie. All contact was a lie. All love was a lie. And Seo-ah was drowning in that lie.
“What exactly did your mother say at the hospital?” he asked again, his voice soft—the most effective weapon to destroy her. Softness. The sharpest blade.
She couldn’t answer. Or wouldn’t. Because the moment she spoke, everything would end. And Seo-ah didn’t want it to end. The end was too certain. Too clear. She could only survive in uncertainty. In that gray space.
“My mother said you’re killing me like my father did. Slowly. But surely.”
Finally, the words came. And in that instant, Kang Riu’s hand dropped from her cheek as if she’d burned him. As if that single sentence had incinerated him completely.
He stood slowly—so slowly, as if his body had suddenly grown heavy, as if he’d aged decades in seconds. Seo-ah saw his back. And in that back, she saw herself. The same despair. The same weight. The same death.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “I’m killing you.”
His voice held no emotion now. A simple statement of fact. Like saying the sky is blue.
“And you’re killing me,” he continued.
“And we call it love.”
He took a step toward the Han River. Then another. As if walking into the water. As if that were the only solution.
Seo-ah’s heart stopped. Not metaphorically. It actually felt like it stopped. Like some hand was pressing down on her chest.
“Riu,” she said. Not his name—a cry. A prayer.
He stopped at the river’s edge. Close enough to take one more step. Seo-ah stood. She was surprised her legs still obeyed her. As if her body still belonged to her. As if she were still alive.
“Come back,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, still facing the water. Not looking at her.
“Because of me.”
But that was a lie. The reason he needed to come back wasn’t because of her. It was because of herself. So she could keep living. So she could keep burning. Like a matchstick. Burning for nothing.
Slowly, he turned. His face looked ghostly in the darkness. Like he was already dead. Already gone.
“Why don’t you leave me?” he asked. And it was the most honest question he’d ever asked.
She had to answer. Honestly.
“Because if I leave, I think I’ll really disappear,” she said.
“And you’re already disappearing,” he said.
“I know,” she answered.
“And yet?” he asked.
“And yet I’m still here,” she said.
He sat back on the bench. This time right beside her. As if it were already decided. As if this moment had always been written. Seo-ah sat too. Beside him. And they looked at the Han River again.
“What did you say to my mother?” Seo-ah asked. Now it was her turn to ask.
“What would I say?” he replied.
“You know. There’s something,” she said.
“Yeah. There is,” he admitted.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. And goodbye.”
Seo-ah’s heart stopped again. This time for real.
“Goodbye?” she repeated.
“I have to leave you. So I don’t kill you,” he said.
That’s when she understood. This was the end. The real end. No more gray space. No more uncertainty.
“You can’t do that,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because you forgot what I told you?” she asked.
“What?”
“My father is inside me. And if you leave me, I’ll really become him,” she said.
Kang Riu’s face looked at her. Desperation and hope mixed together in his expression. As if they were the same thing. As if desperation and hope weighed exactly the same.
“Is that why you’re holding me here?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Then?”
“That’s why you’re paralyzed. Why you destroy yourself trying to save me. And we know this. We know it. And we’re doing it anyway,” she said.
They looked back at the river. Both of them. They entered silence again. But this silence was different. This was the silence of decision. Of surrender. And in that silence, they both understood: they couldn’t escape anymore. They’d gone too deep. And this wasn’t the end—it was another beginning.
Her phone rang. Seo-ah’s phone. 1:47 AM. Do-hyun’s name on the screen.
The moment she saw it, something shattered. Like breaking glass. Like the world splitting in two.
“Answer it,” Kang Riu said.
“No,” Seo-ah said.
“Answer,” he repeated.
She picked up.
“Noona!” Do-hyun’s voice was screaming. Filled with terror.
“Mom… Mom…” he started, but couldn’t finish. Because he was crying. A seventeen-year-old boy’s tears.
“Do-hyun, what is it? What happened?” Seo-ah asked. But she already knew. Her body already knew.
“Mom collapsed. They took her to the ER. The doctor said…” Do-hyun’s voice broke.
“What did the doctor say?” Seo-ah asked. And in that moment, Kang Riu grabbed her hand. Like he was holding her so she wouldn’t drift away. Like it was the only way.
“The doctor said… Mom…”
“Mom what?”
“Mom had a stroke. And… and…”
“And?”
“She might not wake up,” Do-hyun said.
And the world ended. The lights on the night river, Kang Riu’s hand, Seo-ah’s breath. Everything stopped. Like someone had pressed pause on the universe.
“Noona… please come. Please. Please…” Do-hyun’s voice echoed through the speaker. But Seo-ah couldn’t hear it. Because she was already leaving her body. Abandoning herself and drifting away.
“I’ll drive,” Kang Riu said.
“Where?” Seo-ah asked. But that was a lie too. She already knew. The hospital. And once they got there, all of this would really end.
He lifted her to her feet. Like she was a doll. Like she was his. And she didn’t resist. Because there was no energy left to resist.
They got in the car. Black. Kang Riu’s car. It always appears. Like it materializes whenever she needs it. Like all of this was already scripted.
He drove. 1:50 AM. Seoul’s night streets. The road seemed endless. Like an infinite loop. Like they’d never reach the hospital.
“Your mother will wake up,” Kang Riu said.
“How do you know?” Seo-ah asked.
“Because she needs to see you. Because she has more to tell you,” he said.
“Tell me what?”
“I don’t know. But she has words left. And they’ll matter to you,” he said.
Seo-ah repeated those words silently. Like an incantation. Like a spell that could save her.
The car kept moving. Toward 2 AM. And in that time, Seo-ah realized she was burning. Like a matchstick. For nothing. And that flame would never go out.
Because it had already become her.
# The Night That Never Ends
The lights on the Han River flickered in the black water. The same rhythm as her heartbeat. 1:47 AM. The numbers on the phone screen meant nothing.
Seo-ah’s hand didn’t let go of Kang Riu’s. Like she was holding it so it wouldn’t slip away. Like that was the only way. His hand was warm. So warm it felt like a lie. It had to be a lie. Warmth couldn’t exist in a moment like this.
She already knew what Doh-hyun would say. But she had to answer anyway. Had to pretend she had a choice.
“The doctor said…” Do-hyun’s voice cracked. Seo-ah had switched to speaker. Kang Riu could hear everything. His face tensed for a moment, then smoothed again. That calmness scared her more.
“The doctor said… Mom…”
Seo-ah’s throat closed. She already knew what came next. But she was terrified that hearing it would make it real. Until now it had been a nightmare. Do-hyun’s call. The emergency room. The doctor’s voice. A nightmare. But the next words would turn nightmare into reality.
“Mom?” she asked. Her voice sounded like a stranger’s. Like someone else was moving her lips.
“Mom had a stroke. And… and…”
The silence between them. An eternity. Like the world had stopped breathing. Like everything paused before the next words.
“And?” she asked again. Smaller this time. As if speaking louder would bring reality faster.
“She might not wake up,” Do-hyun said.
In that instant, the world truly stopped. Really stopped. The lights on the night river, Kang Riu’s hand, her own breath. Everything froze. Like someone had hit pause on existence itself. Like someone’s will was preserving this moment forever.
The sound drained from Seo-ah’s ears. No—the sound was still there. Do-hyun’s crying, beyond the phone. But she couldn’t hear it. Like she was leaving her body. Abandoning herself and floating away.
I should have been there.
The thought seared through her mind. Her mother had suggested going out for dinner. Seo-ah had said she was tired. Too much work. Exhausted. Why did she make excuses? Why didn’t she take her mother’s hand?
“Noona… please come. Please. Please…”
Do-hyun’s voice kept echoing. Still. Always. She had to respond. But she couldn’t. Like she was sinking in something heavy and thick. Like it was choking her.
“I’ll drive,” Kang Riu said. He was already moving. Lifting her body to its feet. Like she was a doll. Like she belonged to him. His hand was still warm. Warm and firm and certain.
“Where?” she asked. But that was a lie. She already knew. The hospital. The white corridors. The doctors’ faces. Her mother lying in a bed.
Everything will really end when we get there.
He pulled her toward the car. She didn’t resist. There was no energy left to resist. All of it drained away. Like her body had a hole in it. Like she was shrinking.
The car. Black Ssangyong Korando. Kang Riu’s car. It always appears. Like it materializes whenever she needs it. Like all of this was already written. She’d imagined this scenario so many times. When her mother got sick. When her mother was gone.
But reality is always colder than imagination.
Kang Riu drove. 1:50 AM. Seoul’s night roads. Toward Gangnam. Where the hospital was. The road looked endless. An infinite loop. Like they’d never arrive.
His hands moved the steering wheel perfectly. Too perfectly. Like he’d done this before. Like he’d been waiting for this moment. Did he know? Did he anticipate driving her to the hospital like this?
How could he have known?
“Your mother will wake up,” Kang Riu said suddenly. His voice was so calm it was unsettling.
“How do you know?” Seo-ah asked. Her voice came out rough. Why could he be so certain? Why did he accept this like it was inevitable?
“Because she needs to see you,” he said. His eyes stayed on the road.
“She has more to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
Seo-ah’s hands gripped his arm. Like it would keep her from falling apart.
“I don’t know. But she still has words left,” Kang Riu said. A traffic light changed from red to green. His foot pressed the accelerator.
“And they’ll matter to you.”
Seo-ah repeated the words silently. Like a spell. Like it could save her.
Mom will wake up. Mom will wake up. Mom will wake up.
But the spell didn’t work. Like it was already broken. Like she was already beyond its reach.
Seoul’s night cityscape flowed past the car window. Building lights, streetlamps, traffic signals. It all looked blurred to her. Like she was underwater. Like she was seeing the world through a filter.
What was Do-hyun doing right now at the hospital? Holding Mom’s hand? Calling her name? Or just sitting there? That’s all a fourteen-year-old could do.
When had Seo-ah last seen her mother? This morning in the kitchen. Mom was drinking coffee. What was she wearing? Seo-ah couldn’t remember. Details that seemed unimportant now felt most crucial.
“Kang Riu,” Seo-ah said.
“Yeah?”
“What if…” she started. But she couldn’t finish. What if Mom doesn’t wake up? What if this is real? What if my life ends here?
“What if what?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
Kang Riu didn’t look at her. But his hand found hers. While driving. Like it was the most natural thing. Like it was already decided.
The car kept moving. Toward 2 AM. And in that time, Seo-ah realized she was burning. Like a matchstick. For nothing. For Mom. For Do-hyun. For herself.
That flame would never go out.
Because it had already become her.
Kang Riu’s car cut through the night city. And inside it, Seo-ah couldn’t tell if she was truly alive. Like she was already dead. Like she’d become a ghost. A ghost searching for someone waiting to wake up in some hospital room.
The night continued.
And Seo-ah kept burning.