He brushed past her without a word, and moved towards his bed to check the paintings. Jihyo watched him nervously, but he continued saying nothing and proceeded to pack the paintings to where they were.

“I asked, why did you keep my paintings?” she repeated.

Still, he said nothing, moving towards his desk now. He flipped through his books, as if to search for something, then packed them back again.

“I’m talking to you!” she yelled, exasperated. “Why aren’t you replying?!”

He cleared his throat. Jihyo waited for his reply, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he held up the Arabic dictionary that Jihyo was suspicious of earlier. He looked at her silently, his expression unreadable.

You already know, his eyes said.

Jihyo’s heart sank. She had expected the answer, but it still hurt.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Are you the one who framed my father?”

He stared at her for a long while.

“I asked who are you!” she screamed, tears streaming down. He had held his hand out to her when she had no one. She believed him, trusted him, and maybe, possibly fell for him. But he betrayed her. He was using her. She wanted him to explain, to deny her accusations, to seek forgiveness. She wanted to be given the chance to forgive him, because even if he betrayed her, he was all she had now.

He shook his head; the movement was so infinitesimal she thought she had imagined it. But it was what she wanted to see. It was what she