Mark was watching his neighbor Jenny's garden thoughtfully.

The soil was cracked, and the flowers were wilting, desperately waiting for drops of water.

He turned to her closed door and let out a sigh.

It hadn't opened since she had returned past midnight with a tear-stained face.

She slammed it shut and locked the world and him out.

He was worried about her, but what could he do? For ten years they'd known each other, but still hadn't exchanged ten words.

They were familiar, yet profoundly unfamiliar.

He had witnessed many slammed doors, and when she opened them again, there was always something changed in her.

Over the years, her laughter grew quieter, and her busyness grew louder. Her dressing style changed, and the light in her eyes dimmed with seasonal shifts.

Before, she used to at least wave at him when she saw him, but for years now, she hadn't even noticed him.

But he had always noticed her.

With eyes full of emotion and her, he did many things for which she was the reason.

He chose this house because of her.

He finished art school because of her.

He learned a lot about flowers because of her.

And the most important thing was, he was still single because of her.

She never knew it.

She never knew it was Mark who watered her flowers when she forgot.

She never knew it was Mark who swept the leaves when she was at work.

She never knew he was the one waiting every single night until she returned home safely; then he could go to sleep.

He never confessed it.

Because, once, long ago when they were young, he had overheard her laughing and saying to her friends, "I love funny boys."

He was never a funny boy.

So he thought he didn't have a chance.

As she grew up, she became a charming lady whom many men got close to with their sweet words, and he remained a man of few words.

Once, he came close to saying everything.

He held her favorite single pink peony and walked toward her, but he saw her on the other side of the road, walking side by side with another man, a large red rose bouquet in her hand.

He wondered if that was her favorite.

Another time, he tried a letter and rewrote it a thousand times in different lengths and on various kinds of paper.

He sent it.

But she mistook his letter for trash from her ex and tore it up before she even read the sender's name.

He murmured to himself, "Maybe it's my fate not to be with her."

Whenever she came back late like last night, it always took a day for her door to open again.

And every time, he would see a new version of her.

She wasn't broken by pain; it's just that she was filling her cracks in different ways.

He knew because he had watched every single time.

He tried to hold that door before it shut with a loud sound.

He tried to offer her his shoulder that she could lie on, cry on, or even just feel safe on.

But would she accept it?

With this thought in his head,
he simply returned to his quiet routine.

With careful hands, he watered the cracked soil, trimmed the yellowing leaves, and gently tended her garden as he had done for years without making much sound.

With every move, he counted his losses over the passing years, hoping one day he would have the courage to reveal his secret love to her.

He didn't realize the door had opened slowly behind him.

Jenny stood there quietly, her gaze glued to him with a pair of eyes full of questions and surprise.