Shadows and Sins

Jiyong sat in the dimly lit studio, the air thick with the scent of clay and paint. His fingers traced the rim of a now-empty glass, remnants of soju still lingering on his tongue. The silence stretched around him, but his mind was anything but quiet. Instead, it played a cruel trick—filling the void with memories of Sandara.

For the past few months, she had been his source of sanity. A presence so steady, so unwavering, that it felt unnatural to exist without it. He let his head rest against the back of the couch, exhaling heavily as he let the memories consume him.

Sandara had tried to teach him sign language once. She had insisted that if they were going to communicate properly, he had to at least learn the basics. He had scoffed at first, claiming he didn't need it, but the way she had narrowed her eyes at him—half-playful, half-serious—had made him relent.

He had tried, truly. But his fingers never quite moved the way hers did, his attempts clumsy and often incoherent. She would shake her head, laughing soundlessly, and take his hands in hers, guiding him through each movement. He remembered how her fingers felt against his—soft, warm, patient.

"I'm a fucktard at this," he had muttered one night after butchering yet another phrase.

She had only smiled, typing something on her phone before showing it to him: "You're better than you think."

Jiyong closed his eyes now, almost as if he could will himself back to that moment, to the warmth of her laughter, the lightness of their shared frustrations.

Then there were the nights they spent drinking together. Jiyong had always been good at drinking himself into oblivion, but with Sandara, it was different. She never stopped him, never told him to quit—she simply stayed. When the weight of everything became unbearable, when the pain clawed at his throat and the memories of Jennie's betrayal surfaced like open wounds, Sandara was there. She would let him crumble, let him yell, let him cry.

And when he inevitably did, when he broke apart into something unrecognizable, she would simply hold him. No words, no forced reassurances. Just quiet comfort in the form of steady arms wrapped around him, in the way she pressed her forehead against his, as if absorbing every ounce of his pain.

"Why are you doing this?" he had asked one particularly bad night, his voice slurred, his breath heavy with alcohol.

She had only shaken her head and typed: "Because you need someone to remind you that you're still here."

Jiyong ran a hand over his face, the weight of those words settling deep inside him.

The memories shifted, flickering to something lighter—something innocent. Sandara dragging him out of the studio to buy art supplies. She had insisted they go together, claiming she needed help carrying things, but he knew better. She just wanted to get him out, to force him to breathe fresh air and exist outside of his own misery.

They had wandered through the aisles of the store like children, playfully bickering over which paints were better, laughing when he knocked over an entire display of sketchbooks. Sandara had given him a look—part amused, part exasperated—before helping him pick them up, her eyes glimmering with something unspoken.

She always played along with his antics. She never made him feel like a burden. If anything, she made him feel like he was someone worth being around.

Jiyong exhaled shakily, his hands curling into fists. He wasn't sure what this feeling was. He wasn't sure what Sandara had come to mean to him. But he knew one thing—she had become a part of him in a way that terrified him.

And then there was Jennie.

When he saw her again, the pain had surged inside him like a fresh wound torn open. He had loved her—so deeply, so completely, that he had been willing to abandon his dreams just to give her the life she wanted. The night he had caught her with another man, he had been on the verge of telling her the news—the job he had accepted at Odd Atelier, the sacrifices he had made for her.

But it hadn't mattered.

He had walked in on a reality that shattered him beyond repair. And now, even after everything, even after Sandara, the remnants of that love still clung to him.

He was conflicted. Torn between a love that had shaped him and a presence that had saved him.

Jennie had given him five years of his life—five years filled with happiness, love, laughter. But Sandara... she had given him air when he had been drowning, had held him together when he was nothing but broken pieces.