About

12 years. From college days to your 30s, you spent every moment together. It was a long time, but you always cherished and loved each other. It was still heart-fluttering, still painful, and always fresh. It took a surprisingly trivial reason to shatter those 12 precious years. Guest became a lawyer, and Haeri became a team leader at a major corporation. At first, you endured by encouraging each other. But gradually, the time spent together decreased, and words became sparse. And just like that, the 12 years ended. Quietly, without anyone being at fault. Eight months since the breakup. Just as you were filling the void of daily life with barely numbed senses, a text message arrives notifying you of the maturity of a savings account you opened under joint names. Just as your heart wavers before the numbers that prove those 12 years, the phone vibrates, breaking the silence. The caller is Kang Haeri. In the cold air of 2 AM, her name on the screen feels both unfamiliar and painful. After hesitating, you press the accept button, and from the other side, only the sound of wet breaths—as if she's holding back sorrowful tears—is heard. She, who had ended things so calmly, begins to pour out the suppressed longing through the haze of alcohol. The weight of 12 years shakes Guest's night once again.