Aretha had been watching this couple for quite a while now, long before their paths began to meet again, long before they even realized how cruel fate could be.
They had first caught her attention one afternoon, in the staggering silence of a funeral hall. It wasn't the ceremony or the sorrowful faces of the mourners that had drawn her in—it was her.
Jaemi.
The woman who had fallen to her knees on the ice-cold tiles, her sobs tearing through the quiet air like a storm no one could contain.
There she sat as she cried, voice thick with raging grief. She screamed and sobbed, creating a scene right at the center of the hall. The dream of becoming a mother was something she thought she could reach just so easily, yet in this unfair world she lived in, those who never deserved to be one could bear one; while some people like her, really did just have the best of bad luck.
Her wails had been raw, desperate—too painful for the living, too loud for the dead. Her body trembled as she clutched at the fabric of her dress, nails digging into the cloth as though holding onto something— just anything—that would hopefully stop the ground from caving in beneath her. But nothing could.
Not when the truth had already swallowed her whole, that stupid premature menopause.
Aretha had seen grief before—had watched lovers mourn, had witnessed hearts break into irreparable pieces—but something about Jaemi's suffering had stuck. Perhaps it was the way her fingers curled against the floor as if trying to claw back what had been stolen from her. Or the way her voice cracked when she whispered, "Why me?"
Perhaps it was the quiet inevitability of it all.
The moment Aretha had set her eyes on her, she knew.
This woman was bound to experience the kind of heartbreak that would hollow her out completely.
And so, she watched.
She observed as fate drew its cards for her, as the story of her pain played out like a script already written.
And just at the corner of one of the walls in the funeral hall—stood Seunghyeok.
From the moment Aretha began watching them, she had a hunch about the heavy, devastating truth behind the choices he had made.
Seunghyeok had always been a man with quiet eyes and a restless soul, but beneath the surface, a secret had been bothering him that same day he saw Jaemi, hollowing him out from the inside.
A rare, terminal brain condition.
A genetic disorder laced into his blood, inherited from a father he had never met, a ticking time bomb buried deep within him since birth. The disease lay silent in his body, unseen, unnoticed—until the day the doctor had looked him in the eye and told him his time was running out. That same day Jaemi found out about her condition, was also the day the doctors told Seunghyeok he had at least three months left to live—If they're being optimistic.
There was no fixing it. No cure, no miracle, no chance to turn back the clock.
And what struck him hardest wasn't the fear of death—but the realization that he had never truly lived. With the least amount of hope he had left, he ought to go on a journey, not just to find answers, but to find himself. He went searching for the man who had given him this disease. His biological father. A stranger by blood, yet the only person who could hopefully explain why out of anything he could've inherited, he had his disease.
He wasn't exactly sure what he wanted out of it, he didn't know whether knowing more about the disease would make dying easier. Seunghyeok also wasn't exactly scared, he had always wondered how his last moments would feel like. Would it fill him with adrenaline like how a drop from a rollercoaster makes your stomach coil? Or would it be as freeing as removing the heavy burden of thick wet clothes during winter storms?
In the midst of his own desperation, he had found her once again.
He had been there that day—the day Jaemi cried like a toddler throwing tantrums.
He had stood at the edge of that funeral hall, watching from afar as she shattered before his very eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, Seunghyeok felt something real.
Because he knew that grief.
He knew what it was like to want something so badly it ached. To long for something that was stolen before you could even reach for it. That moment Seunghyeok couldn't help but chuckle, he remembered how he told her that day they broke up that nothing would ever work out for the both of them, cause if you were to guess the most unlucky people in the world their names would be spelled out by the clouds.
He hadn't planned to take her with him.
But in that moment—when he saw the way she curled into herself, the way she drowned in her own sorrow—something inside him shifted.
Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was selfish.
But that night, he made a choice.
So, being the reckless, irresponsible man he was painted as, he took her back.
He told himself it was for her sake. That he was doing her a favor, pulling her away from a life where she would never be accepted—where her in-laws despised her, where she was nothing but an unwanted wife who could never bear a child. But deep down, beneath the layers of logic and reason, there was something else.
A quiet, lingering thought that haunted him.
If I don't have much time left… then let me spend it with her.
He told himself it wasn't love.
But Aretha knew better.
The entire day had been an agonizing battle against his own body. Seunghyeok had felt the symptoms creeping in from the moment he woke up—the dull, persistent ache at the back of his head, the way the world tilted slightly off-center every time he tried to move. He willed himself to stay still, to act as if everything was fine, but his body betrayed him. His vision blurred in and out of focus without warning, a constant reminder that reality itself was slipping beyond his grasp.
Then came the nosebleeds—thick streaks of crimson dripping onto his hands, staining his sleeves, splattering against the cold porcelain of the sink he clutched for support. He wiped the blood away carelessly, but it only smeared, a grotesque sight of what he already knew was coming.
He knew time was running out, that this pleaded a silent cue to leave.
No matter how much he wanted to pretend, no matter how much he craved the warmth of Jaemi's presence for just a little longer, the inevitable loomed over him like a ghost threatening him with every passing second.
But she didn't know.
She had no idea about the disease eating away at him from the inside—the terminal condition that had marked him for death long before he had a chance to fight it. And he had no intention of telling her.
He had convinced himself it was for her sake. That she didn't need another burden weighing on her, another wound to carry, another person to grieve. That sparing her from the knowledge of his death sentence was the only kindness he could offer.
But if that was true, then why did it still hurt like hell?
And so, Seunghyeok did what he did best.
He let her down. He tossed her aside. He left her behind just as he had done before—discarding her as if she had never mattered, as if she wasn't the only thing keeping him from leaving this world. Because this was what he was good at, wasn't it? Leaving. Destroying. Ruining things before they could ruin him first.
Aretha, from where she watched, already knew.
She had always known.
Even if, by some cruel twist of fate, Seunghyeok did survive his illness—even if a miracle somehow granted him more time—this relationship was already a lose-lose situation with no victors.
She had seen the cracks in them long before either of them had. Seunghyeok, with his avoidant attachment, running at the first sign of vulnerability. Jaemi, with her pride and her inability to admit mistakes. Two people who loved in ways that only led to destruction. A match struck in the midst of a storm—burning brightly, beautifully, but never meant to last.
And that was why she was here. As the Queen of Hearts, it was her purpose—to separate them.
She didn't force the breakup. She didn't make the decision for them. She simply cast the spell of breaking them apart then left the rest to fate. The choice, the pain, the heartbreak—it all belonged to them. If she wanted to, she could interfere. She could tweak the way their story ended, shift the pieces ever so slightly so that their parting wasn't so bitter, so jagged.
But she wouldn't.
Because watching a love story crumble—watching lovers tear themselves apart, their own choices leading to their downfall—it was a form of entertainment she could never turn away from.
Even if she, too, had to suffer for it.
Still, as she observed Seunghyeok's pathetic attempt at "protecting" Jaemi, as he twisted his love into cruelty just to push her away, Aretha wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar and scream in his face.
You're a coward.
You think you're protecting her, but you're only making it worse.
You think this is mercy, but it's just another way for you to run.
But she wouldn't say it.
She didn't have to say it—he already knew.
The wind howled through the empty stretch of the seaside, whipping through Aretha's long locks as she sat fazed, her gaze fixed on the scene before her. Seunghyeok's retreating figure, stiff with determination, grew smaller with every step, while Jaemi crumpled onto the sidewalk behind him, her legs no longer able to hold the weight of her anguish.
She screamed his name, her voice raw, torn straight from the depths of her breaking soul. It cut through the salty air, a sound so desperate, so aching, that even the waves seemed to hesitate before crashing onto the shore.
A sharp pain struck Aretha's chest, violent and unrelenting, as though someone had plunged an invisible dagger straight through her ribs. The force of it made her grip onto the wooden bench beneath her, fingers digging into the worn surface as the pain crawled upward, searing through her veins, reaching her mind.
She let out a low, pained grunt, her breath uneven as her eyes stayed locked on Seunghyeok.
He didn't look back. Not even once.
Because he couldn't.
He forced himself forward, every step heavier than the last, his hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides. If he looked back—even for a second—he knew he would lose himself. He knew he would come running, falling at her feet, begging for forgiveness, telling her everything—his illness, his fears, his love, the truth he had buried so deep inside of him that it had almost convinced him it wasn't there at all.
And that? That would only make things worse.
So he walked away.
And just when he was far enough, when the distance between them felt too far, the weight of it all crushed him.
The sob tore out of him before he could stop it. A strangled, breathless cry, spilling out in violent hiccups as he staggered forward, vision blurred—not from his illness this time, but from the sheer force of his grief.
His shoulders shook as tears streamed down his face, endless, unstoppable. He barely noticed the way strangers turned their heads, some watching with quiet concern, others whispering judgments under their breath. He didn't care.
Because nothing—nothing—could hurt more than walking away from the only person he had ever truly wanted to stay with.
His steps quickened, desperation pushing him forward, until his legs carried him into a run. He ran as if trying to outrun his own pain, his own cowardice.
Aretha watched, her own body betraying her.
The pain had nowhere to go. It settled into her like an open wound, a slow and torturous thing that refused to heal. She had felt this before—too many times to count—but no matter how many heartbreaks she had witnessed, no matter how much she had grown used to the suffering, it still hurt.
She stood, the agony in her chest making it impossible to remain seated. Her breathing came uneven, labored, as the weight of both their pain—Jaemi's devastation, Seunghyeok's anguish—was sent crashing back to her like a tidal wave.
Her body knew what her mind already accepted.
This will hurt for a while.
Familiar as it was, she could never grow numb to it.
Despite her every effort to mask her emotions, to keep her expression cold and blank, the pain pressing on her chest grew heavier with each passing second. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, stubbornly resisting their fall—until one escaped. It trailed down her cheek, leaving a glistening path against her rose-tinted skin, betraying the carefully crafted facade she clung to. "Is that a tear I see?" A voice, low and taunting, slithered into her ear.
Aretha's breath caught in her throat, her entire body stiffening at the sudden presence. Her soul might as well have left her body with how her heart lurched. She snapped her head to the left, only to be met with an all-too-familiar, grinning face.
Eros.
He stood behind the bench, leaning forward just enough for his presence to be felt, his lips curled into a teasing smirk. His eyes glinted with amusement as if he had just caught her in some forbidden act.
Aretha exhaled sharply, her tense shoulders loosening just slightly as she turned away from him, her gaze falling back to the broken figure of Jaemi. The woman was still sprawled on the ground, her sobs unrelenting, shaking her entire body as grief poured out of her in thick, heavy waves. Aretha pressed her palm against her chest, rubbing the lingering ache, trying to soothe something that couldn't be soothed.
Eros let out an exaggerated gasp, taking a dramatic step back. "Wait—are you actually crying?" He covered his mouth with his hand, feigning shock, though the glint of curiosity in his eyes was real.
He knew of the Queen's mission. He knew she was here to break couples apart. But he didn't know the full extent of it—she never let him in that far. Never once had he seen her like this. This, vulnerable.
Aretha shot him an irritated glare, the brief flicker of raw emotion wiped clean in an instant.
"What do you want?" she snapped, her voice sharp, though the subtle tremble at the end betrayed her. She hastily wiped at her face, erasing any evidence of her moment of weakness.
Eros faltered. For once, he seemed unsure of what to say, the usual mischief in his eyes dimming as he truly read her. The energy around her was heavier than before, weighted with something deeper than heartbreak, something more personal.
A rare silence stretched between them.
Then, as if deciding against pressing further, Eros let out a casual hum and shrugged. His hands fit into his pockets. His usual cocky demeanor returned, though there was something gentler in the way he carried himself now.
He had read the room and for once, he chose not to push.
Eros wasted no time, practically launching himself onto the bench beside her, his excitement barely contained. His body was practically vibrating with urgency, legs bouncing slightly as he leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"Uh, okay, so—which side of Earth did you even find Silas?" His voice was edged with something between intrigue and concern, as if he had just stumbled upon something that wasn't supposed to exist.
Aretha barely reacted, her gaze still locked on the distant waves, her face carefully composed.
Eros wasn't having that. He pressed on, hands moving wildly as he spoke.
"Are you even sure he's human?"
That got a reaction—subtle, but there. Aretha's fingers curled slightly on the bench's wooden surface, knuckles pressing faintly against the grain.
"I mean, I was with him earlier! Three hours ago!" Eros continued, eyes widening as if reliving the moment. "Right after you ditched me at the café—after those, uh… dates." He winced slightly, voice dipping at the mention of his latest matchmaking failures.
Aretha gave him a brief, unimpressed glance.
But Eros was quick to shake it off, his hands flailing as if brushing the subject away. "That's not the point."
He turned to her fully now, his body tense with urgency. "I was with him and a few doctors, right? Just casually observing. And while I was checking their histories—because, you know, I thought, why not match some of them up?—I noticed something weird about Silas."
Aretha didn't move, but Eros could tell she was listening.
"His hologram? It glitched."
Finally, she turned to him, eyes slightly narrowing.
Encouraged, Eros pressed on. "And I don't mean like a little blink or some minor distortion. I mean full-on scrambled, like static on an old TV. His love history? Completely blank. No past relationships, no emotional ties, nothing. Just, error codes. And that's not normal."
A small, almost imperceptible crease formed between Aretha's brows.
"I mean, you don't have one cause you're meant to not have any," Eros added, gesturing vaguely at her. "But that's because you're some deity."
Aretha ignored the jab. Instead, she slowly turned away from him, eyes drifting downward in thought. Her fingers drummed lightly against the bench, a habit she only did when deep in contemplation.
Eros watched her closely.
She knew something. Or at the very least, she suspected something.
But she didn't speak.
Instead, with a quiet sigh, she straightened her posture and looked ahead at the horizon. The sun was barely clinging to the sky now, its last rays shining weakly across the sea. The colors were muted, washed out, as if the world itself was slowly folding into darkness.
The winds of dusk blew past between them. Then, finally, with an exasperated roll of her eyes, Aretha muttered, "You talk too much."
Eros scoffed, though there was amusement in his voice. "And you avoid too much."
Neither of them spoke after that. But the silence between them wasn't empty—it was thick, heavy with quiet thoughts. Because in that moment, despite all of Eros' rambling, one question lingered louder than the rest. Who exactly was Silas? Eros couldn't help but contemplate.
Aretha let out an exasperated sigh, her expression flat and unamused as she finally turned to face him. "It's probably a you problem," she said, her voice dripping with indifference. "Your senses for these holograms could've malfunctioned."
Eros visibly stiffened. He hated that idea. He hated the mere possibility that it could be his mistake—that maybe, just maybe, his once-flawless abilities as Cupid were starting to slip. He didn't want to consider that his gift—the very essence of who he was—was fading. It made his throat tighten, made his fingers twitch as he clenched his hands into fists on his lap.
His pride wouldn't allow it.
"W—Whatever," he scoffed, though the slight stutter betrayed the crack in his confidence. He quickly straightened his back, masking his unease with forced nonchalance. "Can't you just give me his background details so I can make sure?"
It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was a necessity. He needed to confirm that his instincts weren't failing him, that this nagging feeling about Silas was just paranoia. Maybe Silas was just really reserved—just another intimidating guy with a guarded past.
Aretha, however, remained unimpressed.
Without a word, she stood, her gaze locking onto the horizon, where the last remnants of daylight melted into the sea. There was something unreadable in her expression—something distant, as if her mind had drifted somewhere far beyond Eros' reach.
"I don't disclose personal staff details to anyone," she finally said, her voice even, cool.
Eros' brows furrowed. That was a standard answer, a deflection—but something about the way she said it felt off. She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Her gaze was sharp. Cold. A silent warning.
"Why don't you befriend him if you're that curious?"
A slow, almost mocking smile curled her lips—a challenge, not an invitation.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette fading into the dimming light near the trees, leaving Eros alone on the bench, frowning.
Confused. Bothered.
And, despite himself—more intrigued than ever.