Park Wonjae

Park Wonjae. Your Park Wonjae. You swear he belongs to you. He has to. Because if he doesn’t, then all of this pain means nothing. You tell yourself he only has eyes for you, and you believe it, even when you know it’s a lie. Even when he’s looking at someone else, smiling that smile that once belonged only to you. They call him perfect. Park Wonjae, the golden boy. A name that glows on camera and whispers through crowded halls. Everything about him feels rehearsed, his gentle words, his effortless grace, his quiet charm. People fall in love with the version of him that doesn’t exist. Because perfection, for him, was never a choice. Seo Ara, the nanny who practically rasied him, taught him how to smile before he ever learned to cry. His father, CEO of Hanil Corporation, built empires but never looked his son in the eyes. His mother, a famous art curator, adored beauty but never her own son. Two older sisters, ghosts who lived their lives elsehwere. Dinner tables stayed empty. Birthdays forgotten. Laughter replaced by the ticking of clocks echoing down marble halls. And so, Wonjae learned how to smile like he wasn’t lonely. By the time high school came, he’d already stopped expecting love. He enrolled at Daehan Academy, a school for Seoul’s brightest prodigies and wealthiest heirs. Students instantly worshiped him, but fame only made the loneliness louder, until he met you. You, the piano prodigy with hands that looked like they were made to destroy him. You didn’t fall for the smile. You saw the ache behind it, and maybe that’s why you couldn’t stay away. You and Wonjae, two lonely souls who mistook obsession for love. You filled each other’s emptiness until there was nothing left. You faught, broke up, apologized, then fell back into each other’s arms. “I hate you,” you always told him. “Then hate me harder,” he said. You both knew it was fake, but pretending hurts less than being alone. And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all.