Chapter 2: The one left behind yet by side

Back in the city she had abandoned, Sanlang was a masterpiece of suffering. A walking, talking, devastatingly handsome tragedy. If heartbreak were a fashion statement, he'd be strutting down the runway in a custom-made suit of despair.

He had tried—tried so damn hard—to pretend life was fine without Noor. He went to shoots, flashed those perfect smiles, let the world think he was thriving. But the second he stepped into his penthouse, the mask slipped. And what was left? A man drowning in self-inflicted misery.

His once-spotless home now looked like the crime scene of a tragic love story. Unwashed dishes? Check. Clothes scattered everywhere? Check. A couch that had become his second bed? Triple check.

Even his reflection mocked him. "Get a grip, man," the mirror seemed to say. But did he listen? Of course not. Instead, he stared at himself, running a hand through his messy hair, whispering, "She left me." Like a character in one of his own dramas.

Sanlang had developed a new hobby: suffering attractively. It required no effort—he just had to exist. His friends had stopped trying to cheer him up, mainly because he responded to their pep talks with existential monologues that could put a philosopher to shame.

"Bro, just move on."

"Move on?" Sanlang scoffed, dramatically staring into his whiskey glass like it held the answers to the universe. "You don't just move on from someone like her. She's in my blood, my bones, my—"

"Okay, enough." His chugged his drink, probably regretting .

At night, Sanlang lay in bed like some tragic poet, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment with Noor. Sometimes he'd text her, only to delete it before sending. Other times, he'd consider calling—but no, that would make him weak. Instead, he settled for the time-honored tradition of stalking her online like a true masochist.

No updates. No hints. Nothing.

He sighed, rolling onto his side. "I bet she's suffering too," he muttered, before dramatically sighing again.

Sanlang was sprawled across his ridiculously expensive couch, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The penthouse was dark, curtains drawn like he was mourning the death of joy itself.

Enter Liang.

His best friend, manager, and unfortunate witness to this whole mess, Liang stepped inside, took one look at the disaster that was Sanlang, and sighed. Loudly.

"Alright, that's it. Get up."

Sanlang, still staring at the ceiling, dramatically exhaled. "Why?"

"Because you look like a widower in a period drama."

"Maybe I am."

Liang groaned. "It's been weeks, Sanlang. Weeks. You're rich, famous, and still devastatingly attractive—"

"Thanks."

"—but you're also pathetic."

Sanlang sat up, rubbing his face. "She left me."

"Yes, I know. You've said it approximately fifty times in the past hour."

Sanlang leaned forward, eyes dark. "She left, Liang. Do you understand? Noor. My Noor."

Liang crossed his arms. "Uh-huh. And instead of doing something about it, you're here, living like a man who lost a war."

"I did lose a war." Sanlang took a slow sip of whiskey, gaze distant. "The war of love."

"Oh my God." Liang pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, get up. Shower. Change your clothes. We're going out."

Sanlang raised a brow. "Where?"

"A bar. A club. Literally anywhere that doesn't smell like heartbreak and expensive liquor."

Sanlang scoffed. "You think I can just drink her away?"

Liang smirked. "No, but at least if you're going to be miserable, do it in a less depressing setting."

Sanlang looked at his glass, then at Liang. "Will I still be sad?"

"Absolutely."

Sanlang sighed. "Fine. But if one more person tells me to move on, I will start monologuing about how my soul aches."

Liang grabbed his coat. "I'd expect nothing less."

---

Meanwhile, Noor...

In the city she now called home, Noor was living the dream—if the dream was a minimum-wage job, a tiny hotel room, and a constant state of exhaustion.

If Sanlang was a masterpiece of suffering, Noor was a work-in-progress disaster. A woman running on coffee, sheer willpower, and the stubborn refusal to acknowledge her feelings.

The job at the café barely covered her expenses, but hey, at least the customers didn't ask too many questions. Not that she'd give answers.

"Rough night?" Her coworker nudged her as she nearly dropped a cup.

"You have no idea," she muttered, rubbing her temples.

She was fine. Totally fine. Just because she spent her nights staring out of the tiny hotel window, wondering if she'd made the worst mistake of her life, didn't mean she was struggling. It just meant she was... reevaluating. Existential crises were normal.

At least she wasn't one of those people who wallowed in sadness. No, she was functional in her misery. She went to work. She didn't cry in public. She even forced herself to eat properly—most of the time. Progress.

But even as she worked, as she pushed through each day, the memories of Sanlang lingered. His laughter, his voice, the way he looked at her like she was the center of his world.

And God, that man was persistent.

Every few days, she'd check her phone and see missed calls. Messages left unsent. He was trying to respect her space, but she could feel his desperation bleeding through the silence.

I should block his number, she told herself.

Did she? Of course not. Because deep down, she wanted to know that he was still holding on.

The city was overwhelming, a maze she hadn't figured out yet. But she kept moving forward, because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant feeling. And feeling... was dangerous.

Then, one evening, as she wiped down the café counter, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

Sanlang.

Her heart jumped. She stared at the phone like it was a ticking bomb. Should she answer? Ignore? Throw the phone into the sink and pretend it never happened?

Her coworker peeked over. "Spam?"

"...Something like that."

"Answer it. Or don't. Either way, you're gonna regret it."

Noor let it ring. The call ended. A message popped up.

"Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don't... I'm coming for you."

Noor swallowed hard. Because deep down, she knew—Sanlang never bluffed.

And just like that, her carefully built walls cracked.

---

Sanlang was a work of art—a masterpiece of genetics sculpted by the hands of God himself. Six foot three of effortless elegance, with blond hair that fell in careless waves and emerald eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds. Even in his current emotionally devastated, whiskey-drenched state, he looked like a fallen angel drowning in sin.

And yet—despite being the single most attractive man in the bar—Sanlang looked like he wanted to die.

Slouched over the counter, his designer shirt was unbuttoned just enough to make women stare, but he wasn't paying attention. His long fingers circled the rim of his whiskey glass, his gaze distant, as if he were contemplating the meaning of life. Or, more accurately, contemplating the agonizing.

Meanwhile, Liang was flourishing.

"Sanlang, look at this—absolute art," Liang sighed dreamily, draping an arm around one of the women beside him. She giggled, flicking her hair over her shoulder, while her friend, equally stunning, leaned against him with a smirk. "Two of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. The universe has truly blessed me."

Sanlang didn't even look up.

Liang groaned. "Oh for the love of—Sanlang, you're killing me here."

A third woman approached Sanlang, practically purring as she leaned in. "Hey handsome, you look lonely."

Sanlang finally blinked, turning his gaze to her. She batted her lashes. Here we go, Liang thought. This was Sanlang—a man so beautiful that women practically threw themselves at him. Any normal man would have melted.

Sanlang just stared at her. "You have nice eyes."

The woman smiled. "Oh?"

Sanlang sighed. "But they're not hers."

Liang choked on his drink. The woman's smile twitched. "Um… what?"

Sanlang exhaled dramatically. "They're not hers. They don't hold the weight of a thousand unsaid words. They don't carry the pain of a woman who left me in the ruins of my own making. Your eyes…" He tilted his head, studying her like she was a philosophical puzzle. "They're just… eyes."

The woman blinked. "I—"

Sanlang turned away, already lost in his own misery. Liang, meanwhile, was holding his head in his hands.

Another woman tried her luck, running a manicured finger down Sanlang's arm. "I don't know who she is, but she must be crazy to leave a man like you."

Sanlang closed his eyes. "No. I was crazy to think I ever deserved her."

Liang slammed his drink down. "Oh my GOD."

The women started backing away. Sanlang barely noticed. He was staring into his whiskey like it held the answers to the universe.

Liang turned to the bartender. "You hear this? You hear this? My best friend, Sanlang-freaking-Yang, is sitting in a bar, rejecting stunning women like a tragic prince from a Shakespearean drama."

Sanlang finally looked at him. "She left me, Liang."

Liang threw his hands up. "YES, WE KNOW. The entire bar knows! The city knows! If I had a dollar for every time you said that, I'd own a private island!"

Sanlang ignored him, taking another slow sip of whiskey. "Everything reminds me of her."

Liang pointed aggressively. "No, you remind yourself of her! You wake up every day and choose heartbreak!"

Sanlang let out a wistful sigh. "What else is there?"

Liang grabbed his coat. "Freedom, fun, and women who are not currently ruining my night! I'm done. I'm leaving."

Sanlang barely reacted. "Where are you going?"

"Overseas. In a month. Maybe a year. Maybe forever. Who knows?"

Sanlang hummed. "That's nice."

Liang narrowed his eyes. "That's all you have to say?"

Sanlang lifted his glass in a slow, lazy toast. "May you find peace, my friend."

Liang stormed out, muttering about how he needed better friends.

The bartender sighed, pouring Sanlang another drink. "Buddy, you gotta pull yourself together."

Sanlang just stared into his glass. "She left me."

The bartender sighed. "Yeah, we all know."