Night folds around the barracks making it quieter, not silent. Never silent. Mechanical humming of the old ventilation units continuing their endless labor through concrete veins. Long surrendered itself to the hour. Not sleep. Not peace. Distant rustling somewhere from an upper bunk, possibly Private First Class Kim Seojun. Springs protesting beneath every shift of weight. Someone coughing two rooms over. That same sliver of fluorescent gleaming beneath the doorway remains the only interruption against this fragmented darkness.
Still pale. Still clinical. Unchanging. Still awake.
Thumb resting along the side of the device without moving, screen darkening thrice on separate occasions already... who's counting? He is, knows exactly how many times. Brief vibration cuts through, attention shifting immediately.
Screen illuminating, uncovering the voice note. Something so simple, something so harmless... Thumb taps play and there she is again... Not physically. Worse. Her voice arrives, each syllable wrapped in blankets and exhaustion that's uniquely hers coupled with that peculiar intimacy only lights out and late hours seem capable of conjuring.
Eyes lowering in instinct, listening word for word... Every pause. Every hitch of breath in between. Soft fabric rustling faintly in the background. Blanket. Not sheets. Thicker. A lot closer to the microphone, already lying down once she pressed the record button, phone held too close, curled onto her side. Or at least trying to. Sleep rarely comes after crying. Not that she'd admit that specific part directly...
The recording continues to play.
…so I keep doing this stupid thing where I look for you anyway. In the crowd… backstage… whenever someone hands me flowers…
Flowers... not bouquets. Flowers. Which meant hands. Many hands. Singular would have been easier. Image forming automatically. Too quickly. A hand existing. Her accepting them. Smiling. Polite. Grateful. That same smile she gives strangers. That same smile she gives the staff and crew. That same smile she gives at interviews. That same smile she gives everyone, because she has never understood how careless generosity can feel like cruelty to someone starving. The thought should have eased into comfort, instead it's something that settles beneath the ribs that's both ugly and unpleasant.
Gone almost immediately. Embarrassing.
Because jealousy requires entitlement... And for him? None.
I keep thinking I’m just gonna look up and see you standing there...
Look up...? Interesting. Not find. Not notice. Not turn around. Look up. As though in her mind he is already there. Standing somewhere visible. Waiting. Present. A fixed point. That lodges immediately. Sharp. Precise. Unwelcomed. Gaze lowering at the progress bar, exactly twenty-three seconds remaining. The silence afterward is already telling the unfinished sentence, the hesitation, the retreat, the good night. Exactly where he expects it to be...
The recording ends, two minutes and forty-seven seconds.
Her voice filling his ears once more, that same rustle, that same hitch of breath, that same pause, that same sentence... Each iteration becomes worse and worse because now he isn't just listening. Anticipation now comes with teeth, sharpening between the first replay and the second, the third, fourth.... Knowing the sentence and precisely knowing when it arrives word for word, breath for breath.
Cursor blinks, breathing in the space between passing seconds, a reply waiting... not written, not even begun. To answer would give the feeling somewhere to go. It remains restricted. Tomorrow's schedule surfaces—morning drills, physical conditioning, instruction, field exercises. No, not enough. An earlier run, with additional laps. Extra drills. Dishwashing and cleaning duty. Equipment check. Night watch. Volunteer duty. Football practice, orchestra practice...
Anything and everything. Every day, including weekends.
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