Pisces, 18, Minors DNI, STAY, Multifandom, Minors DNI!!!, hesitate9 is my acc for pop and hollywood stuff, this is my acc for k-pop, Toxic stans dni!!!, homophobics dni!!!
Hi Y'all, Welcome to my blog or Welcome Back! Even though I'm not new to tumblr and have been writing for the past 4 years with a 2 year break in between. I will not be revealing any personal information accept the fact im an adult. My previous accounts are
@hesitate9 and @hazzascrrls but I forgot their pswds.
My Nationality: Indian
My Fav Color: Purple, Black
My fav song: Bambi-Baekhyun, I Can't Stop Me - TWICE
My fav band: Stray Kids
My fav SKZ song: Cover Me and Silent Cry
My ult bias: Lee Know
My Bias list: Lee Know, Kai, Baekhyun, Eunhyuk, Heechul, Key, Seonghwa, Hongjoong, Ni-Ki, Soyeon, Yeji, Jihyo, Momo, Wonbin, Taecyeon
Bands I will write for: SKZ, ATEEZ, SUPER JUNIOR, Enhypen, Twice, ITZY, G-IDLE, RIIZE, EXO, 2PM, SHINEE (except Jonghyun Pls understand why I'm not comfortable writing about him. Though Shinee will always be ot5 I'll only write about Key, Minho, Onew, Taemin), I may add more bands to the list if I start stanning them
My fav k-actor: Ji-Chang Wook
My fav k-drama: Ghost Doctor
Actors I will write about: Ji-Chang Wook, Lee Jongsuk, Lee Dongwook, Kim Bum, Kim Soo Hyun, Song Joon-Ki, Kim Gun-woo, I may add more.
Request Rules
I will not write member x member.
I will not write about SA, and hardcore sexual stuff.
My stories have a lead female and for the female idols mostly male i may write women too if i feel comfortable enough.
This is SFW blog but minors kindly refrain from reading content with NSFW tag on it. I will upload a SFW version of it.
Please don't ask for NSFW stuff for minor idols i will not entertain them.
SYNOPSIS: When a ruthless king falls for a foreign princess.
PAIRING: KIM TAEHYUNG X READER
WARNINGS: none
TYPE: YEARNING, FLUFF, YANDERE
Started: 03/06/2026 (3rd June 2026)
Ended:
Preview
"Will you wait a year for me?"
"I'll wait an eternity for you if I have to."
"You are my peace, I'll never turn you into your own destruction."
Thank you guys for reading I Plead Guilty, I hope you loved it just as much as I loved writing it. I'm sorry it took me such a long time to complete this story but I hope you enjoy it.
EXO-PLANET had debated timing, wording, formatting—how much truth was too much truth—but in the end, Junmyeon insisted it be simple. Clean. Honest. The way she had always handled things.
EXO-PLANET announces with profound sorrow the passing of Advocate Kim Y/N, who courageously fought a prolonged battle with cancer.
Y/N was not only an exceptional legal professional, but also a deeply cherished part of our extended family. Her integrity, brilliance, and compassion left a lasting impact on everyone she worked with.
We respectfully ask for privacy for her family and loved ones during this time. We also ask for continued support and kindness toward our artists, particularly Kim Jongin, who has suffered a deeply personal loss.
Thank you for remembering her with warmth.
For a moment—just a moment—the internet held its breath.
Then it exploded.
Within minutes, timelines flooded with purple hearts emojis. Fans dug through old footage, screenshots, candid moments where she appeared quietly in the background standing just out of frame during press conferences, seated behind legal teams, laughing with staff members.
People who had never known her name before now spoke it gently.
Law students shared excerpts of her arguments, highlighting lines that had changed the way they thought about justice. Police officers posted anonymous tributes—coffee cups left on desks with captions like “She used to ask us how our kids were doing before tearing criminals apart in court.”
EXO-Ls organized donation drives in her name.
Someone uploaded a clip of her at an EXO concert, screaming fan chants until her voice cracked.
And again and again, in comment after comment:
Please take care of Jongin.
He looks so lonely now.
She loved him so much.
Kai didn’t read any of it.
Junmyeon did.
Baekhyun did.
Kyungsoo filtered what mattered.
Kai just sat in the apartment, hands folded, staring at the space beside him on the couch.
Two Years Later
Time passed the way it always does—unapologetically.
Jisung’s wedding took place on a mild spring afternoon, sunlight spilling through trees just beginning to bloom. The ceremony was small. Intimate. No spectacle.
In the front row sat an empty chair.
It had no name card, no explanation—just a single purple ribbon tied neatly to the back.
When Hana noticed guests glancing at it, she leaned toward Jisung and whispered, “They’re curious.”
Jisung smiled softly. “Let them be.”
During the vows, his voice wavered once. Just once. His eyes flicked to that empty seat, and for a heartbeat, his lips twitched like he’d heard something funny.
After the ceremony, someone asked quietly why the chair remained empty.
Hana answered before Jisung could.
“She promised she’d come,” she said simply. “So we saved her a place.”
Later that night, when the music softened and the guests thinned out, Jisung stood by the chair and murmured, “You would’ve complained about the flowers.”
The wind rustled the ribbons.
At the Seoul Police Station, the plaque never gathered dust.
A new lawyer arrived one afternoon, rain still clinging to his coat. He stepped out of an interrogation room looking shaken, adrenaline buzzing, the weight of his first real case still settling into his bones.
Then he saw the frame.
A photograph of a woman laughing—really laughing—coffee cup raised, arms draped casually over exhausted officers. Beside it, a single handwritten page, dense with notes, arrows, questions that cut straight to the truth.
He stared longer than he meant to.
“Sir,” he asked Superintendent Park quietly, “who is she?”
Park followed his gaze, expression softening instantly.
“That’s Advocate Kim Y/N,” he said. “One of the best we ever worked with.”
The young lawyer nodded. “Is she… retired?”
Park shook his head.
“No,” he said. “She passed away. Two years ago. Cancer.”
The lawyer swallowed. “She looks… kind.”
Park smiled faintly. “She was. Right up until you lied to her.”
Her parents visited the cherry blossom tree every day.
Some mornings they talked endlessly—about neighbors, about groceries, about how someone still stepped on the rose bed.
Some mornings they cried.
Some mornings they sat quietly beneath the branches, eating ramyeon from paper cups and roasting marshmallows the way they used to, the smell of sugar and smoke hanging gently in the air.
Her mother leaned against the trunk once and sighed. “She’d tell us to stop being so dramatic.”
Her father nodded. “And then she’d steal your marshmallow.”
The tree stood tall now. Strong. In bloom.
Kai came too.
Almost every day.
Sometimes early, before schedules began. Sometimes late, when exhaustion finally outweighed grief.
He talked to the tree when no one was around. Told her about rehearsals. About music. About how he still sometimes set out two plates without thinking.
Before every EXO comeback, he brought a speaker.
He played the album from start to finish.
Every time he did, petals drifted down—soft, quiet, unhurried—brushing his shoulders, settling in his hair.
When EXO released “Cherry Blossom,” Kai stayed long after the last note faded.
He knelt at the base of the tree, pressing his palm to the bark.
“I was afraid,” he whispered. “Of choosing wrong. Of saying too much.”
The wind stirred.
“I thought loving you would break me,” he continued. “I didn’t realize not saying it already had.”
Petals fell.
“I am guilty,” Kai said softly. “Of never loving you… when you were still here.”
A single petal landed against his cheek.
Kai closed his eyes.
And beneath the cherry blossom tree, grief didn’t feel like punishment anymore.
It felt like proof.
That she had lived.
That she had loved.
And that somewhere, somehow
They brushed their teeth side by side, bumping elbows at the sink. Y/N complained about the mint being too strong. Kai handed her water without comment, already knowing. She moved slower now, every action measured, but her eyes were calm—settled, in a way that scared him a little.
“Movie night was good,” she said as she climbed into bed, exhaustion pulling her down instantly.
“You slept through half of it,” Kai replied, tucking the blanket around her.
“That means it was comforting,” she murmured, already turning toward him. “Wake me if I snore.”
“You don’t snore.”
She smiled faintly. “Liar.”
Her fingers curled into his shirt, a habit she’d developed over the months. Her breathing evened out quickly.
“Good night, Jongin.”
“Good night.”
Kai stayed awake longer than her, listening to the rhythm of her breath, counting it without meaning to. Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under too.
Morning came quietly.
No alarms.
No urgency.
Just the pale grey light of dawn pressing against the curtains.
Kai woke on instinct and turned toward her.
She was still.
Too still.
“Y/N,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
No answer.
He frowned slightly, lifting himself onto one elbow, eyes tracing her face. She looked peaceful. Rested. Like the pain had finally let her go.
“Hey,” he said softly, brushing her shoulder. “Wake up.”
Nothing.
A cold knot formed in his chest.
“Y/N.”
He shook her arm gently. Then more firmly.
Nothing.
His hand went to her chest.
No rise.
No fall.
His breath left him in a broken sound he didn’t recognize as his own.
“No,” he whispered. “No—please—”
He pulled her into his arms, forehead pressed to hers, hands shaking violently.
“Please wake up,” he begged. “Please.”
She didn’t.
Reality hit him in fragments.
He reached for his phone.
The first call went to her parents.
Her mother answered.
“Auntie,” Kai said—and his voice broke immediately. “She… she won’t wake up.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. Then panic.
“What do you mean she won’t wake up?”
“She went to sleep,” he said hoarsely. “She didn’t wake up.”
Her father took the phone.
“Jongin,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Call emergency services. We’re coming.”
“Yes,” Kai whispered. “Yes, sir.”
The second call was to Jisung.
“She’s not waking up,” Kai said the moment he answered.
Silence.
Then: “I’m coming. Don’t hang up.”
The third call was to 119.
“My wife,” Kai said hollowly. “My wife passed away in her sleep.”
The operator’s voice was calm, practiced. Instructions followed. Help was dispatched. Kai unlocked the door on autopilot and returned to the bedroom, sitting on the floor beside the bed, holding her hand like it still mattered.
When Baekhyun called minutes later, Kai couldn’t speak at first.
“Jongin,” Baekhyun said softly. “I know.”
That was when Kai finally broke.
The apartment door opened again.
This time it was her parents.
Her mother knew before she saw her.
A sound tore out of her chest as she collapsed into her husband’s arms. Her father held her, shaking, his own face crumpling as they moved toward the bedroom.
The door was open.
Y/N lay on the bed exactly as she had fallen asleep. Hair fanned over the pillow. Face peaceful. Untouched.
Kai was on his knees beside the bed.
On the floor.
One hand rested on the mattress. The other held Y/N’s hand tightly, fingers interlaced like he could still keep her here if he didn’t let go. His back was straight but empty, eyes fixed on her face, whispering her name over and over like a prayer that had already failed.
Her mother made it three steps into the room before her legs gave out.
“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—baby—”
Her father caught her, but he was shaking too.
Kai looked up at them then, eyes red, hollow, ruined.
“She went to sleep,” he said hoarsely. “She said good night.”
Her mother pulled free and fell to her knees on the other side of the bed, trembling hands brushing Y/N’s cheek, her hair, her forehead.
“So cold,” she whispered. “Why is she so cold?”
Her father stepped forward slowly, placing one hand over his daughter’s head, the other braced on the bed. His breath hitched.
“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered. “I was supposed to go first.”
Then Jisung arrived.
He stopped at the doorway.
Took in the scene.
Kai on the floor.
Y/N unmoving.
Her parents breaking.
His knees buckled.
He dropped beside Kai, hands hovering for a second before closing around Y/N’s free hand.
The paramedics waited quietly, respectfully, at the edge of the room.
The bedroom filled with grief so heavy it pressed the air out of everyone’s lungs.
Y/N lay there peacefully.
As if she might wake up at any moment and complain about the light.
But she didn’t.
And in that room where laughter had lived, where plans had been made, where love had existed in all its complicated, imperfect forms time finally stopped for everyone she left behind.
The hospital corridors were unnaturally quiet for a place that never truly slept.
White lights hummed overhead. Shoes squeaked softly against polished floors. Somewhere far away, a monitor beeped steadily—life continuing, indifferent.
Kai stood near the wall outside the private room, hands numb, jacket still unzipped from when they had rushed out. Y/N’s parents sat together on a row of chairs, her mother gripping her husband’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Jisung stood a few steps away, phone still in his hand, knuckles white.
He had made the calls.
All of them.
The elevator doors opened again.
Baekhyun was the first to step out.
His smile was already gone before the doors fully parted.
Junmyeon followed, face pale, eyes glassy but controlled in that leader way he had perfected over years. Behind them came the rest of EXO—quiet, stunned, moving like they were afraid sound might shatter something already broken.
Baekhyun spotted Kai immediately.
He crossed the hallway in long strides and stopped in front of him, breath catching.
“Where is she?” he asked, voice barely holding together.
Kai didn’t answer right away. He just shook his head.
Baekhyun’s face crumpled.
Junmyeon placed a steadying hand on Baekhyun’s shoulder before turning to Y/N’s parents. He bowed deeply, respectfully, grief heavy in the motion.
“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “We’re here.”
Her mother looked up at them, eyes red and unfocused.
“She hated hospitals,” she whispered. “She said they smelled like endings.”
No one replied.
Another elevator dinged.
More people arrived—Y/N’s friends, faces tight with disbelief, some already crying, others frozen in shock. They gathered slowly, carefully, like approaching the center of an earthquake.
Jisung finally moved, stepping toward Kai.
“They’re ready to talk to us,” he said quietly. “The oncologist is here.”
The doctor met them in a small consultation room nearby.
She looked tired.
Not rushed. Not distant. Just… human.
“I’m very sorry,” she said gently. “Y/N passed away peacefully in her sleep at approximately 3:07 a.m. There was no distress. No pain response. Given her condition, this was not unexpected, but I know that doesn’t make it easier.”
Her mother let out a sound that was half sob, half gasp.
Her father closed his eyes.
The doctor continued, voice steady but kind.
“The cause of death is consistent with complications from her illness. Her death certificate will be issued today, as requested in her medical file. All documentation will be ready within the next few hours.”
Kai felt the words hit him one by one.
Issued today.
As if she were a document.
As if she hadn’t just been laughing yesterday.
“You may go in to see her now,” the doctor said. “Take as much time as you need.”
No one moved at first.
Then her mother stood.
“I want to see my baby,” she said, voice shaking but firm.
The room was small. Too small for how much grief walked into it.
Y/N lay on the bed, neatly arranged, hospital blanket pulled up to her chest. Her face was calm, almost serene. Her hair had been brushed back gently, like someone had wanted her to look like herself.
Like she might wake up.
Her mother reached the bedside and collapsed forward, hands clutching the blanket.
“I’m here,” she cried. “I’m here, baby.”
Her father stood beside her, one hand resting on Y/N’s arm, the other pressed to his mouth as his composure finally shattered.
Jisung stood frozen at the foot of the bed.
“She looks like she’s sleeping,” he whispered. “She always slept like this.”
Baekhyun stepped forward slowly.
He didn’t cry at first.
He just stared at her, eyes tracing her face like he was trying to memorize it again.
“You were supposed to yell at me for being late,” he murmured. “You always did.”
Junmyeon bowed his head, hands clasped in front of him, lips moving silently words no one else could hear.
One by one, the EXO members approached.
Quietly.
Respectfully.
No cameras.
No titles.
Just people saying goodbye to someone who had mattered.
Kai was the last to move.
He stood beside her, took her hand again, just like he had on the floor that morning.
It was cold now.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I told you I would be.”
She didn’t answer.
But everyone in that room knew she had already heard them all.
And she had gone.
The paperwork took longer than anyone expected.
Forms.
Signatures.
Quiet confirmations spoken in careful voices.
Y/N’s father handled most of it with shaking hands, Jisung standing beside him, reading every line twice. The death certificate was handed over in a plain folder—official, final, devastating in its simplicity.
Time moved strangely after that.
They walked out of the hospital together, the morning sun too bright, too normal. Cars passed. People laughed somewhere. The world had the audacity to continue.
The drive back was silent.
No music.
No conversation.
When they reached the apartment, Junmyeon unlocked the door because Kai couldn’t make his hands work anymore.
The place looked exactly the same.
Shoes by the door.
A jacket draped over the chair.
HeiHei clucking softly from his corner, unaware that something permanent had changed.
Kai stepped inside.
He made it three steps.
Then he saw the bedroom door.
Open.
Empty.
The air left his lungs like he’d been punched.
He walked in slowly, as if approaching something dangerous. The bed was neatly made now—hospital-clean instead of lived-in. Her pillow still held the faint indentation of her head.
That was it.
That was all it took.
Kai sank to his knees beside the bed, hands clutching the blanket, shoulders shaking violently. The sound that came out of him wasn’t controlled, wasn’t quiet, wasn’t idol-safe.
It was raw.
“I didn’t—” he gasped. “I didn’t tell her—”
His voice broke completely.
“I didn’t get to tell her I was sorry.”
Junmyeon closed the door behind them without a word and crossed the room.
He didn’t try to pull Kai up.
He sat down on the floor beside him instead.
Kai collapsed into him, forehead pressed against Junmyeon’s shoulder, sobbing like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet.
“She was here,” Kai cried. “She was right here. I went to sleep and—”
Junmyeon wrapped his arms around him firmly, grounding, the way he had done a hundred times over the years backstage, after losses no one else was allowed to see.
“You stayed,” Junmyeon said quietly. “She wasn’t alone.”
Kai shook his head violently. “It wasn’t enough.”
Junmyeon tightened his grip just slightly. “It was everything.”
Kai’s cries slowly turned hoarse, breaking into quiet, painful breaths. He clutched at Junmyeon’s sleeve like a lifeline.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to exist without her.”
Junmyeon rested his chin lightly against Kai’s head.
“You don’t have to know today,” he said. “Or tomorrow.”
They stayed like that for a long time.
On the floor.
In the bedroom where care had lived.
Surrounded by the absence she left behind.
Outside, the others waited silently, giving them space.
And for the first time since she had gone, Kai let himself fall apart held together only by the steady presence of someone who understood what it meant to lose family.
Kai’s breathing eventually slowed, but the ache didn’t.
It just settled deeper.
Junmyeon stayed beside him, one hand firm on his back, the other resting lightly at the nape of his neck—steady, anchoring, like he’d done so many times before when the world had been too loud.
Kai’s voice came out hoarse when he finally spoke again.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said.
Junmyeon didn’t ask what he meant. He waited.
“I kept telling myself it was responsibility,” Kai continued, staring at the edge of the bed, eyes unfocused. “That I was just… staying because I had to. Because it was the right thing. Because she needed someone.”
His fingers tightened in the blanket.
“And somewhere along the way,” he whispered, “it stopped being that.”
Junmyeon’s grip didn’t change, but his chest rose slowly with a quiet breath.
Kai swallowed hard.
“I loved her,” he said.
The words fell heavy into the room, irrevocable.
“I loved her and I didn’t let myself say it because I thought it would complicate things. Because I thought loving her would make it harder when this—” his voice cracked, “—when this happened.”
He let out a broken laugh that didn’t sound like humor at all.
“So I stayed careful. I stayed controlled. I stayed quiet.”
Tears slid down his face unchecked.
“And now she’s gone,” he said, voice barely audible, “and I never told her.”
Junmyeon closed his eyes briefly.
“She knew,” he said softly.
Kai shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Junmyeon replied, voice steady but thick. “She knew you. She saw you show up every day. She saw you choose her, even when it hurt. People don’t need words to feel that.”
Kai pressed his forehead into his hands, shoulders trembling again.
“I was supposed to protect her,” he whispered. “Instead, I kept fighting with her. I kept letting my fear turn into anger. I wasted time.”
Junmyeon leaned in slightly, forehead resting against Kai’s temple.
“You didn’t waste it,” he said. “You lived it. And so did she.”
Kai looked up at him then, eyes red, raw, stripped of everything except truth.
“I loved her,” he repeated, quieter now. “And I’m too late.”
Junmyeon met his gaze without flinching.
“No,” he said gently. “You’re grieving. That’s not the same thing.”
Kai’s face crumpled.
“I don’t know how to carry this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to wake up tomorrow and not look for her.”
Junmyeon pulled him into a firm embrace, no hesitation this time.
“You don’t carry it alone,” he said. “You never have. And you won’t start now.”
Kai closed his eyes, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the room.
“I loved her,” he whispered one last time, as if saying it enough would keep it alive.
And for the first time since she’d gone, he didn’t push the feeling away.
He let it exist.
He let it hurt.
He let it be real.
The arrangements began the next morning.
Not because anyone was ready—
but because time, cruelly efficient, didn’t wait for grief.
They sat around the dining table where Y/N had written her letters. The box was still there, untouched. No one moved it. It felt wrong to shift anything she had placed with intention.
Her father held the folder from the hospital. Her mother sat beside him, hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes swollen and distant. Jisung sat across from them, straight-backed, present in the way he always was when things needed to be done. Junmyeon stayed close to Kai, a quiet shadow of support.
The funeral director spoke gently, professionally, like someone trained to navigate broken families.
“Did she leave any instructions?” he asked.
No one answered at first.
Then her mother inhaled sharply. “Yes.”
She stood, walked to the shelf, and pulled down another envelope—cream-colored, her handwriting unmistakable.
“She was very clear,” her mother said, voice shaking but firm. “About everything.”
They read it together.
Cremation.
No religious rites unless the family wanted them.
Ashes to be used to grow a cherry blossom tree, planted in a public garden, registered in her name.
Her mother pressed a hand to her mouth.
“She planned this,” she whispered. “She planned how to leave us.”
Kai stared at the table, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
“There’s more,” Jisung said quietly, turning the page.
The service itself.
No black clothing required.
Purple encouraged.
Her favorite color.
Music she loved.
Food she loved.
Laughter allowed.
Stories encouraged.
Please don’t stand quietly and cry the whole time. I lived loudly. You’re allowed to remember me that way.
Her father’s composure finally shattered.
He bowed his head and sobbed into his hands, shoulders shaking.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said brokenly. “She was supposed to outlive us.”
Her mother reached for him, tears streaming freely now. “She didn’t want us to be afraid.”
Junmyeon cleared his throat gently. “We’ll make sure it’s done exactly the way she asked.”
Kai finally spoke, voice low, steady only through sheer force of will.
“I want to handle the music,” he said. “If that’s okay.”
Everyone looked at him.
“She trusted you,” her mother said softly. “Of course.”
Jisung nodded. “I’ll take care of the legal side. Permits. The tree. Everything.”
The funeral director listened quietly, jotting notes, then stood.
“We’ll honor her wishes,” he said. “All of them.”
After he left, the apartment felt too quiet again.
Kai stood slowly and walked into the bedroom. He picked up one of her hoodies from the chair, pressed it briefly to his face, then folded it carefully and brought it back to the table.
“I want this there,” he said. “Just… somewhere.”
Her mother nodded through tears. “She’d like that.”
They planned in fragments.
Dates.
Locations.
Guest lists.
EXO members would attend privately.
Friends openly.
No press. No cameras.
Junmyeon made the calls no one else could bear to make.
By the time the sun dipped low, everything was decided.
It felt wrong how neat it all was.
As they stood to leave the table, her mother paused, looking at the chair Y/N usually sat in.
“She hated being fussed over,” she said softly. “But she loved when people showed up.”
Kai swallowed hard.
“We’ll show up,” he said. “Every day.”
No one corrected him.
Because that was the only promise left to keep.'
The day of the funeral arrived quietly.
No sirens.
No headlines.
No spectacle.
Just a soft morning sky, overcast but bright enough to let light through—exactly the kind of weather Y/N used to like because it felt undecided, like the world hadn’t made up its mind yet.
The venue was simple. Open. Filled with flowers in shades of lavender, lilac, deep violet. Purple everywhere—on ribbons, on programs, in small details that made it feel intentional rather than somber.
People came dressed the way she asked.
Some in muted colors.
Some in full, unapologetic purple.
Some in clothes she’d once complimented and never forgotten.
There was music playing when they arrived—not hymns, not silence. Soft instrumentals at first, easing people in. Later, songs she loved would follow.
At the front of the room stood a single table.
Her photograph rested there—not formal, not posed. Just her laughing, head tilted back, caught mid-expression like she’d been surprised by joy. Beside it lay her hoodie, folded neatly, and a small card with her handwriting printed on it.
Eat. Laugh. Tell stories. Don’t whisper like I can’t hear you.
Her parents sat in the front row.
Her mother held her husband’s hand so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her father stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, as if looking away might undo him completely.
Jisung sat beside them, posture straight, eyes red but focused—doing what he always did when things had to be held together.
Kai sat one seat away.
He hadn’t slept.
He wore black—not because she’d asked for it, but because it was all he could manage. Purple ribbon pinned to his chest. Hands folded tightly in his lap, fingers trembling just enough to notice.
Behind them sat EXO.
No stage presence.
No polished expressions.
Just men who had lost someone who mattered.
Junmyeon’s gaze never left the front. Baekhyun stared at the floor, jaw tight, blinking rapidly. Kyungsoo sat still, eyes lowered, grief contained in a way that made it heavier.
Friends filled the rows behind them. Some crying openly. Some silent. Some holding each other like they might collapse otherwise.
The officiant spoke briefly.
No sermons.
No absolutes.
Just a few words about a woman who lived intentionally, who loved fiercely, who asked to be remembered honestly.
Then the stories began.
One of her friends stood first, voice shaking, and told a story that made people laugh through tears—about a night gone wrong, about Y/N refusing to give up, about her stubborn joy.
Another followed.
Then another.
Laughter rippled through the room—soft at first, then freer. Exactly as she wanted.
Jisung stood next.
He paused for a long moment before speaking.
“She hated being described as ‘strong,’” he said quietly. “She said it made people forget that she was tired.”
A few people nodded.
“But she showed up anyway,” he continued. “For work. For friends. For family. For strangers who needed help. She didn’t save the world. She just made it better where she could.”
He swallowed hard.
“I don’t know how to exist in a world where I can’t text her dumb ideas anymore. But I know she’d yell at me if I didn’t keep living.”
His voice broke.
“So I will.”
He stepped down.
There was a pause.
Then Kai stood.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
He didn’t walk to the front. He stayed where he was, hands clenched, voice low.
“I didn’t know how to love her correctly,” he said honestly. “But she never asked me to.”
His throat tightened.
“She showed me how to stay. How to listen. How to care without owning someone.”
He looked at the photo.
“I loved her,” he said. “And I will for the rest of my life.”
No drama.
No performance.
Just truth.
When the time came, the room shifted gently as people followed the family outside to the garden area.
The urn was small.
Too small.
Her mother held it briefly, tears falling freely now, before passing it to the attendant. Her father rested his forehead against hers, breaking completely for the first time that day.
The cherry blossom sapling waited nearby—bare branches, quiet potential.
As the ashes were prepared, the music changed.
One of her favorite songs played softly.
People cried openly now. No holding back. No pretending.
Kai stood beside her parents, hands shaking, as the ashes were placed into the soil. He knelt briefly, pressing his palm against the earth like he could still reach her.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I promise.”
The sapling was planted.
Water poured.
Soil packed.
Life, stubborn and quiet, placed over death.
When it was done, no one rushed away.
People lingered. Talked. Ate the food she’d requested. Shared memories. Laughed unexpectedly.
It hurt.
It healed.
It felt like her.
As the sun dipped lower, her mother finally spoke, voice soft but steady.
“She lived exactly the way she wanted,” she said. “And she left the same way.”
Kai looked at the tree one last time before turning away.
Pink petals would come one day.
Not now.
But eventually.
And somehow, that was enough to keep going.
The reading of the will took place three days after the funeral.
Not in a courthouse.
Not behind polished oak doors.
But in Y/N’s living room—because that was what she had asked for.
The curtains were half drawn, afternoon light spilling softly across the room. The dining table had been cleared, the chairs arranged carefully. The box containing her letters sat on the sideboard, untouched, exactly where she had left it.
Everyone who mattered was there.
Her parents sat together on the couch, her mother leaning into her father as if gravity itself had become unreliable. Jisung stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. Kai sat opposite them, hands folded rigidly in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor. Junmyeon sat beside him, close enough to anchor him if needed. Baekhyun and Kyungsoo were nearby, silent, solemn. A few of her closest friends occupied the remaining seats, none of them speaking.
The attorney cleared his throat.
“This is the Last Will and Testament of Kim Y/N, executed on the 14th of March, amended on the 3rd of June, and finalized on the 21st of August. At the time of execution, Ms. Kim was of sound mind and acting without coercion.”
Her mother flinched at the word sound.
The attorney opened the folder.
“I will read the document in full, as requested by the deceased.”
He began with the formalities—identity verification, legal jurisdiction, executor appointment. Jisung was named executor, as she had planned. He closed his eyes briefly when his name was read, then nodded once.
Then the numbers began.
“Ms. Kim’s total net estate at the time of death is valued at ₩9,870,000,000.”
The room went still.
Her parents stared at the attorney in shock.
“That includes,” he continued, “liquid assets, long-term investments, property holdings, insurance payouts, and residual consultancy income accrued prior to death.”
He adjusted his glasses and continued.
“Per her instructions, the estate is to be divided equally into three portions of 33.33% each.”
He turned the page.
To her parents, Kim ___ and Kim ___:
“A total sum of ₩3,289,000,000, to be transferred jointly. This includes:
• ₩1,750,000,000 from fixed deposits
• ₩1,120,000,000 from investment portfolios
• ₩419,000,000 from insurance proceeds”
Her mother covered her mouth, sobbing.
“She didn’t have to give us so much,” she whispered. “She was still working—she still had plans—”
Her father shook his head slowly, tears falling freely now.
“She was always thinking ahead,” he said hoarsely. “Even when she shouldn’t have had to.”
The attorney moved on.
“To Kim Jongin.”
Kai’s breath hitched.
“A total sum of ₩3,289,000,000, to be transferred directly. This includes:
• ₩1,500,000,000 from her primary savings account
• ₩980,000,000 from long-term investments
• ₩809,000,000 from life insurance policies where Mr. Kim is listed as beneficiary”
Kai’s hands began to shake.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said quietly, voice breaking. “I never—”
Junmyeon placed a firm hand on his arm.
“She chose this,” Junmyeon said softly.
Kai swallowed hard, eyes glistening, unable to look up.
The attorney continued.
“To Lee Jisung.”
“A total sum of ₩3,289,000,000, to be transferred directly. This includes:
• ₩1,200,000,000 from diversified funds
• ₩1,100,000,000 from equity holdings
• ₩989,000,000 from insurance and residual income”
Jisung let out a shaky, broken laugh.
“She really split us evenly,” he murmured. “Even in death.”
The attorney nodded. “Ms. Kim was very explicit about fairness.”
Then came the amendments.
“Custody of Ms. Kim’s domesticated hen, legally registered as HeiHei, is to be transferred to Lee Jisung.”
There was a pause.
A quiet, almost hysterical sob-laugh escaped one of her friends.
Jisung pressed his fingers to his eyes. “She trusted me with everything,” he whispered. “Even the chicken.”
The attorney continued.
“Any income generated after the final amendment date, including consultancy fees, residuals, or settlements, is to be transferred to Byun Baekhyun.”
Baekhyun stiffened.
“What?” he said softly.
The attorney nodded. “This clause is explicit and unconditional.”
Baekhyun shook his head, eyes shining. “She didn’t have to do that.”
“She wanted to,” Kyungsoo said quietly.
“That concludes the reading of the will.”
No one stood.
No one spoke.
Outside, traffic moved. Phones rang. People lived.
Inside, everyone understood the same terrible truth at once:
Y/N had known exactly how this would end.
And she had loved them enough to prepare for it anyway.
Before leaving, the attorney paused at the doorway.
He turned once more, eyes settling briefly on the box on the sideboard—the one everyone had been carefully avoiding.
“I know this isn’t part of my role anymore,” he said gently, “but I’d be remiss if I didn’t say this.”
He cleared his throat. “I noticed the letters. Ms. Kim was very intentional about everything she did. In my experience… it may hurt deeply, but it is usually better to read what someone chose to leave behind.”
No one responded.
He nodded once, respectfully, and left the apartment quietly, closing the door behind him.
The silence that followed was heavier than anything before.
Kai was the first to move.
Slowly, as if his body weighed twice as much, he stood and walked to the sideboard. He lifted the box with both hands, holding it like something fragile, something sacred. For a moment, he just stood there, staring down at it.
Then he turned back to the room.
He knelt in front of Y/N’s parents first.
He took out two envelopes, both written in her unmistakable handwriting, and handed them over without a word.
Her mother took hers with trembling hands, pressing it to her chest immediately, as if opening it might shatter her completely. Her father accepted his silently, jaw clenched, eyes already wet.
Kai moved next.
One by one, he handed letters to her friends. Names spoken softly. Envelopes passed carefully. Some of them broke the moment the paper touched their hands. Others nodded mutely, unable to speak.
They didn’t open them there.
None of them could.
They held them like promises and quietly made their way to the door, one after another, whispering goodbyes, thanking Kai, touching his arm briefly before leaving—as if afraid he might disappear too.
When the door finally closed, the room felt smaller.
Kai turned to Jisung.
He handed him an envelope—Jisung’s letter.
Jisung stared at it for a long moment before taking it, fingers tightening around the edges.
Then Kai handed him the box.
“These,” Kai said hoarsely, voice barely holding together, “are for her clients and her coworkers.”
Jisung nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll make sure they get them.”
The EXO members remained seated, unmoving.
Kai walked toward them next.
He handed Junmyeon his letter first. Junmyeon accepted it with both hands, bowing his head slightly, eyes already shining.
Baekhyun’s hands shook visibly when Kai placed the envelope in them. He didn’t even try to joke. He just stared at her handwriting, lips pressed together.
Kyungsoo accepted his letter quietly, folding it once and holding it close, gaze lowered.
The others followed, each taking theirs with reverence, no words spoken.
Then there was only one envelope left in the box.
Kai looked at it.
His name.
Written carefully. Slowly. Like she hadn’t wanted to rush it.
The box was empty now.
Jisung set it aside gently.
Kai didn’t open the letter.
He sat back down on the couch, envelope resting unopened in his hands, fingers gripping it so tightly the paper creased slightly.
“I can’t,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
No one pushed him.
Her parents stayed close—her mother inching nearer until her shoulder brushed Kai’s arm, her father sitting across from him, watching with quiet concern.
Junmyeon remained beside Kai, a steady presence.
Jisung stood nearby, letter still unopened, box now resting at his feet.
The apartment filled with the quiet fear of what words might still exist between the living and the dead.
Kai stared at the envelope for a long time.
Too scared to open it.
Too scared not to.
Because once he did, it would mean one undeniable thing:
She would speak to him one last time.
And then never again.
Her mother’s hands were shaking so badly that the envelope crinkled as she opened it.
The paper unfolded slowly, carefully, like she was afraid even that might hurt.
She read.
Hey Mom,
If you’re reading this im gone. I know I know a total cliche line but what can you do its the truth. I love you mom and I'm sorry for the pain I caused you. I hope you can forgive me. I dont know what to say in this letter but I wanted to write it.
Her mother’s breath hitched.
She pressed her lips together, trying to keep it in.
You have always always been there for me even when I was rude, dismissive.
A sob escaped her then.
“I wasn’t enough,” she whispered. “I should’ve done more.”
Her father shook his head immediately, voice breaking. “No. No, don’t you dare say that.”
You wanna know whats my favourite memory with you? Ordering fried chicken atleast once a day when dad went on buisness tours and watching chick-flics while eating ice cream.
Her mother laughed through her tears, the sound broken and wet.
“She always ate my share,” she cried. “She said she didn’t want any and then”
She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Just know that I will watch over you and finally catch the person who keeps messing up your roses.
Her mother collapsed forward, clutching the letter to her chest.
“I don’t want you watching over me,” she sobbed. “I want you here. I want you here, baby.”
Love,
Y/N
She folded the paper into her palms and cried like she hadn’t allowed herself to cry since the hospital. Loud. Uncontrolled. Devastated.
Her father wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if letting go would mean losing her too.
He didn’t open his letter until much later.
After his wife had cried herself into exhaustion.
After the house had gone quiet.
He sat alone at the table, the envelope resting between his hands.
He took a breath.
Then opened it.
Hey Dad,
Y/n this side.
A faint, broken smile crossed his face.
“She always said it like that,” he murmured.
So yeah, If you're reading this im gone and I want you to promise me something, I want you to cry , grieve, be mad at the world, or even me I want you to heal not be strong for mom.
His jaw tightened.
I know you will want to be there for here and you should but you also lost two kids don't do what you did when Wonbin died.
The paper trembled violently in his hands.
A sound tore out of him — raw, choked, years old.
“I didn’t know how,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to survive losing him… and now you too.”
I want you to heal, and be happy not keep your feelings cooped up.
Tears dripped onto the page.
I couldnt have asked for better father.
He bowed his head, shoulders shaking.
“You were everything,” he sobbed. “You were everything to me.”
I promise in this life, in the next and for anymore that I have I will always be your princess.
He pressed the letter flat against his chest, breathing like it physically hurt.
“I failed you,” he whispered. “I was supposed to protect you.”
Love,
He couldn’t read the name.
He folded the letter carefully, reverently, and held it like something holy.
Later that night, he lay beside his wife and cried with her not quietly, not hidden, but openly, the way their daughter had asked him to.
Between sobs, her mother whispered into the dark,
“She still took care of us.”
Her father answered, voice wrecked,
“Even at the end.”
And for the first time since she’d died, they let themselves believe something gentle through the pain:
That their daughter had left them love
Enough to last longer than the grief.
Jisung didn’t open his letter right away.
He sat there for a long time, envelope resting on his knee, thumb rubbing over her handwriting again and again like muscle memory. Everyone else had either stepped out or gone quiet, giving him space without needing to be asked.
When he finally tore it open, he let out a shaky breath and started reading.
Jisung’s Letter
JISUNGAAAHHH!!!!
HEY BESTIE!!!!!!
If you’re reading this I’m gone
(read this in Morgan Freeman’s voice)
Jisung snorted despite himself, a wet, broken laugh escaping before he could stop it.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Of course you’d say that.”
I’m sorry, genuinely.
His smile faded a little, throat tightening.
I remember the first day we met. 6th grade math class, first day of school. You were sitting in front of me and I was almost on the verge of crying because I couldn’t understand what the teacher was saying. You turned around and helped me and since then we’ve been like peas in a pod.
Jisung’s vision blurred.
“You didn’t cry,” he whispered hoarsely. “You were already dramatic back then.”
I always said I’d marry Kai and you’d be my best man and I guess I did manifest it.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Also I got to see you married (though in Vegas… you should get the marriage annulled, those are legal marriages, I hope you know that.)
He laughed out loud this time—short, sharp, almost hysterical.
“You’re unbelievable,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I was dressed as Elvis.”
Please, please be happy. Promise me.
His chest tightened painfully.
Find the girl you love, marry her, and keep a seat empty for me. I’ll come. I promise.
Jisung’s breath broke completely at that.
“I’ll save you the best seat,” he whispered. “Front row.”
I love you, Lee Jisung. After Wonbin, you’re my only brother.
His hands began to shake.
I saw you as a brother. I saw Wonbin in you. I cared for you like an elder sister and that’s why I left that money to you.
Jisung folded forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, sobbing openly now.
“I didn’t deserve that,” he cried. “I didn’t deserve you seeing him in me.”
Love,
Y/N
He took a shaky breath and looked down at the last line.
P.S. TAKE CARE OF HEI HEI AND DON’T YOU DARE EAT HER!!! OR I’LL HAUNT THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOU
Jisung laughed and cried at the same time, a sound torn straight from his chest.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said through tears. “You’re terrifying even dead.”
He folded the letter carefully, pressing it to his heart like it might anchor him.
She had left him something too
permission to live,
to love,
to keep going.
Jisung wiped his face, straightened slowly, and whispered into the quiet room,
“I promise, bestie. I’ll live loud for both of us.”
And somewhere deep in the ache, he could almost hear her laughing back at him.
Baekhyun didn’t want to open his letter.
Not yet.
He kept it folded in his hands, thumbs rubbing over her handwriting like it might smudge if he pressed too hard. He’d joked his whole life through pain—but this wasn’t something humor could slip past.
When he finally unfolded the paper, he read silently at first.
Then out loud—because somehow, it felt like she’d want that.
Hi Baekhyun!!!
He let out a small, broken laugh.
“Why are you yelling,” he whispered.
I know you must be shocked after the will reading.
His throat tightened.
I want you to know that the reason I left that money to you was because you helped me complete something on my bucket list.
Baekhyun’s brows pulled together.
And it was not just any recording. It was a Stray Kids recording session.
His breath caught.
Even though you didn’t know it, you helped me meet eight people that meant a lot to me.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Oh,” he murmured. “So that’s why.”
Byun Baekhyun, I have always been a fan of you since MAMA.
His lips trembled into a smile he didn’t quite manage to hold.
And trust me when I say this—even though you have already reached incredible heights in your career, you will excel even more.
He swallowed.
I hope you become the most successful K-pop soloist of all time.
A quiet sniff escaped him.
Setting records that no one can even come close to.
Baekhyun shook his head slowly, eyes shining.
“You always talked like that,” he said softly. “Like you knew.”
I hope you always stay bubbly and happy, and that you find everything you desire.
He wiped his cheek with the heel of his palm.
I will always keep supporting you.
His voice cracked when he read the next line.
Once an EXO-L, always an EXO-L—even in death.
Baekhyun laughed then cried, both at once.
“Even in death,” he echoed. “You’re unbelievable.”
Your biggest fan,
Love,
Y/N
He lowered the letter slowly, staring at the paper like it might speak again if he waited long enough.
“She didn’t leave me money,” he said quietly to no one in particular. “She left me responsibility.”
Junmyeon looked over. “What kind?”
Baekhyun folded the letter carefully and pressed it to his chest.
“To live well,” he said. “To be happy without feeling guilty. To keep doing what I love… because she believed in it.”
His shoulders shook once, just slightly.
“I’ve had fans before,” he continued softly. “Millions of them.”
He looked down at her handwriting again.
“But she felt… personal.”
Baekhyun inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then smiled through tears.
“I’ll do it,” he whispered. “I’ll set those records. I’ll stay happy.”
And then, like he always did half laugh, half sob he added,
“Just to spite you for haunting me if I don’t.”
Junmyeon opened his letter last.
He had held it carefully the entire time, fingers resting along the edges like he was afraid the paper might tear if he breathed wrong. He had comforted Kai, steadied others, handled logistics, done what he always did.
Lead first. Feel later.
But now the room was quiet enough.
He unfolded the letter.
Hi Junmyeon!
He smiled faintly. “You always started like you were already mid-conversation.”
Then his eyes dropped to the next lines.
"OH MY FUCKING GOD!!! WHO THE HELL IS THAT!? AND WHY DOES HE LOOK SO GOOD!!! AAAHH IT'S PHYSICALLY HURTING ME!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!"
Junmyeon froze.
Then he laughed—short, surprised, almost embarrassed.
“Oh,” he muttered under his breath. “So that’s how it was.”
That was my first reaction to you and then you sang and it felt like I was immersed in your voice. I couldn’t move and that’s the effect you always had on me.
His smile softened, warmth creeping into his chest despite the ache.
You were my grounding force. Whenever I was stressed I would watch your videos or hear your songs or sometimes just your part in EXO songs.
Junmyeon swallowed.
He had always known idols mattered to people. He had never truly understood how deeply—until now.
The day I got to know that you were EXO-PLANET’s CEO, I knew that from now on nothing would hurt EXO and EXO-L and I was right.
His eyes stung.
“I hope so,” he whispered. “I really tried.”
Junmyeon, I know you would do this anyway because Jongin is your younger brother, but I feel like I need to tell you this.
His hands tightened around the paper.
Please take care of him.
Junmyeon closed his eyes.
I don’t know what his reaction would be, but he did lose someone he lived with. It is a big shock, even when you know that person is dying.
His breath hitched slightly.
Also stay happy. Stay you. I hope you get everything you want.
The final lines stared back at him.
EXO SARANGHJA!!!
Love,
Y/N
Junmyeon folded the letter slowly, deliberately, as if sealing something sacred.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak.
Then, quietly, he said, “She trusted me.”
Baekhyun looked up. “She did.”
Junmyeon exhaled, steadying himself, eyes drifting toward the closed bedroom door where Kai was resting.
“I’ve always taken care of Jongin,” he said softly. “As a leader. As a brother.”
His voice lowered.
“But now I have to do it without her.”
He pressed the folded letter to his chest once, just briefly.
“I won’t let him break,” Junmyeon said. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just truth.
“I promise.”
And for the first time since she was gone, Junmyeon allowed himself to cry not as a leader, not as a CEO, but as someone who had been loved deeply by a fan who believed in him with her whole heart.
Kai didn’t open his letter until everyone else had.
He sat on the edge of the bed, back hunched, elbows on his knees, the envelope resting in his hands like it weighed more than everything else combined. Her handwriting stared back at him—neat, familiar, devastating.
Junmyeon didn’t rush him.
No one did.
When Kai finally tore the envelope open, his hands were trembling.
He read silently at first.
Then the words started to hit.
Jongin’s Letter
Hi Jongin,
Kai’s breath caught immediately.
"I will marry Kai one day, you just wait and watch."
His lips twitched despite himself, a painful almost-smile forming.
“That sounds like you,” he whispered.
That is what my 16-year-old self used to say and everyone called me mad but who knew life had different plans.
He swallowed.
The day in EXO’s headquarters wasn’t our first meeting. We met at a concert and a fan meeting before as well—during the MAMA and Growl era.
Kai’s brows furrowed.
But do you know what our very first meeting was?
His heart started pounding harder.
It was during your debut showcase. I got lost and somehow ended up backstage. I ran into you and asked how I could get back to the audience and you guided me.
Kai’s breath left him in a shaky exhale.
“I remember that,” he said faintly. “You were… nervous.”
And then you came on stage and I was blown away.
His vision blurred.
Jongin, I know our arrangement wasn’t the best. It was contractual, professional, and anything but romantic.
Kai clenched the paper.
But I want you to know that you gave me moments that made me feel like I was actually your wife.
His hands started shaking uncontrollably now.
You didn’t have to take care of me—but you did.
A tear slipped down his cheek, landing on the paper.
And I’m sorry for what happened between you and Yeorum.
His breath hitched violently.
“I should’ve protected you better,” he whispered. “I should’ve—”
I never told you this when I was alive because I didn’t have the courage to.
Kai’s chest felt like it was caving in.
Kim Jongin, I’m guilty of loving you.
The words shattered him.
A broken sound tore out of his throat, something between a sob and a gasp.
I truly love you. And not in the way a fan loves her idol—but as a wife who loves her husband.
Kai folded forward, pressing his forehead into the letter, shoulders shaking violently.
I fell in love with you in Greece.
He laughed then—raw, wrecked, disbelieving.
“In Greece,” he whispered. “You were so tired. You kept pretending you weren’t.”
Jongin, I don’t know how you’ll react, but I want you to stay happy and keep doing what you love.
His tears soaked the paper now.
Kim Kai. Idol of idols. God Kai.
He choked on a sob.
“I was just a man with you,” he said brokenly. “I was just… me.”
I hope I’m your fan in every life.
The final line destroyed what was left of him.
I love you,
Y/N
The letter slipped from his fingers onto the bed.
Kai collapsed to the floor beside it, knees hitting the carpet hard, hands clutching at his chest like he couldn’t breathe.
“I loved you too,” he sobbed. “I just didn’t know it yet.”
Junmyeon was there instantly, kneeling beside him, pulling him into his arms as Kai cried openly, uncontrollably—no restraint, no pride left.
“I loved you,” Kai repeated, voice breaking again and again. “I loved you and I was too late.”
Junmyeon held him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head.
“She knew,” Junmyeon whispered. “She knew before you did.”
Kai shook violently in his arms.
“I should’ve said it,” he cried. “I should’ve told her in Greece. Or Paris. Or any night she fell asleep next to me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper, hollow and devastated.
“I was her husband… and I let her die without hearing it.”
Junmyeon didn’t argue.
He just held him.
Because some grief doesn’t need fixing.
It only needs witnessing.
And somewhere between the tears and the broken breaths, one truth finally settled fully into Kai’s heart—
She hadn’t left unloved.
She had loved deeply.
And she had been loved back.
Even if he learned it too late.
Two weeks passed.
Not gently.
Not cleanly.
Just… forward.
Kai’s mornings started the same way every day.
He woke up before his alarm, the bed too quiet, too neat on the other side. He lay there for a few seconds staring at the ceiling, that brief, cruel moment where his mind hadn’t caught up yet.
Then it did.
He got up anyway.
He showered. Dressed. Moved through the apartment on muscle memory alone.
On his way out, he always grabbed the same thing—fresh flowers. Sometimes white. Sometimes purple. Once, impulsively, yellow, because she’d once said yellow flowers looked like optimism trying too hard.
The cherry blossom tree was still small.
Bare branches. Thin trunk. A fragile thing trying to take root.
Kai visited it every day.
He knelt beside it sometimes, fingers brushing the soil, telling her about nothing and everything—about rehearsals, about a new choreo he was struggling with, about how the city felt louder without her laughing over it.
Some days he talked.
Some days he just sat.
Before leaving, he always said the same thing, quietly.
“I’ll come back tomorrow.”
And he always did.
At home, habits betrayed him constantly.
He cooked without thinking.
Two plates.
Every time.
He would set them down, turn to grab utensils—and freeze.
One plate untouched.
He never put it away right away.
He’d stare at it for a second, then quietly slide it into the sink.
The alarm on his phone still rang every night at 9:30.
Medication time.
Every single time, without fail, he’d call out—
“Y/N, did you—”
Silence.
The realization hit a fraction of a second later, sharp and precise.
He stopped turning the alarm off.
He let it ring until it ended on its own.
Her parents returned to routine the way people do when grief has nowhere else to go.
Her father reopened his shop.
He moved slower now, shoulders heavier, but he greeted customers the same way. Fixed things the same way. Counted change carefully. Closed at the same hour.
Her mother tended the roses every morning.
She talked to them sometimes. Complained about the weather. About the neighbors. About how someone—someone—kept stepping too close to the fence.
She never said her daughter’s name out loud when she was alone.
Sometimes, together, they went into Y/N’s room.
They never changed anything.
Her books stayed stacked the way she’d left them. Her desk still cluttered with pens and sticky notes. Her hoodie still hanging off the chair like she might come back for it.
They hung a picture on the wall.
Wonbin, three years old, smiling with missing teeth.
Next to it, Y/N—laughing, head thrown back, alive in a way that hurt to look at.
Her mother stood there for a long time, fingers brushing the frames.
“My children,” she whispered once. Just once.
Jisung went back to work.
Because that was the only way he knew how to survive.
He delivered the letters personally.
To old friends.
To colleagues.
To clients.
Some cried.
Some laughed through tears.
Some hugged him so tightly he couldn’t breathe.
At the police station, they held a small memorial.
Nothing flashy.
They framed a single page from her notes—handwritten, sharp, mercilessly precise—from the hardest case she’d ever cracked with them. Beside it was a photograph: Y/N in the center, coffee in one hand, arm slung around two exhausted officers, everyone grinning like they’d just won something impossible.
The plaque read simply:
Adv. Kim Y/N
She asked questions no one else thought to ask.
Jisung stood there longer than he meant to.
“She’d hate how sentimental this is,” he muttered.
Then he saluted the frame anyway.
Home was… loud.
Because HeiHei was loud.
The hen strutted around like she owned the place, pecking at things she absolutely should not be pecking at.
Jisung pointed at her one evening, exhausted.
“I swear to God,” he said, “if you knock over one more thing, I’m turning you into soup.”
HeiHei clucked aggressively.
He sighed.
“She said I’d haunt me,” he muttered. “You’re not even dead and you’re still threatening me.”
He fed her extra anyway.
Life didn’t move on.
It just kept moving.
And every person she loved learned the same thing, slowly and painfully—
Grief wasn’t loud all the time.
Sometimes it was just muscle memory reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
Sometimes it was a tree that hadn’t bloomed yet.
Sometimes it was a second plate on the table.
And sometimes—
It was the quiet, aching certainty that she had loved them all fiercely.
Her consultancy desk became her anchor. Files neatly stacked. Highlighters aligned. Coffee always within reach, though she drank less of it now because it made her hands shake. She still dressed sharply on days she went out—tailored blazers, hair tied back, lipstick carefully applied like armor—but the effort showed. Getting ready took longer. Stairs felt steeper. By noon, fatigue settled into her bones like something permanent.
At first, the changes were small enough to ignore.
She reread emails twice.
Forgot a word mid-sentence and laughed it off.
Sat down more often during meetings.
Jisung noticed immediately.
“You’re overdoing it,” he said one afternoon at the station, sliding a chair closer when she instinctively leaned against the desk.
“I’m doing my job,” Y/N replied, eyes still on the file in front of her.
“You’re doing three jobs.”
She finally looked up at him. “Because I don’t have time not to.”
He didn’t argue after that. He just adjusted. Brought her water without asking. Scheduled meetings with longer gaps. Stepped in when her voice went hoarse during interrogations, gently but firmly ending sessions she would’ve pushed through before.
The police station had learned her rhythms over the years. They knew when she walked in with coffee for everyone and asked about their kids, their exams, their sick parents. They also knew the look in her eyes when she entered an interrogation room—calm, precise, devastating.
That part of her never faded.
Even as her body weakened, her mind still cut clean.
But it cost her more now.
After a particularly long day reviewing witness statements, she sat alone at her desk long after everyone else had left. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Her hands rested flat on the wood, fingers numb.
She tried to stand.
Her legs didn’t respond right away.
It scared her enough that she stayed seated until the feeling passed.
At home, Kai watched the changes in a different way.
She fell asleep on the couch more often, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, exhaustion pulling her under without warning. He’d drape a blanket over her quietly, lower the lights, move the chicken—HeiHei had decided the couch was also his territory—without waking her.
“You’re tired,” he said one evening as she rubbed her temples, eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m fine,” she replied automatically.
“You say that every time.”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. There was no accusation in it. Just worry. Real, unguarded worry.
“I’m allowed to be tired,” she said softly. “I’m still allowed to work.”
“I know,” he said. “I just… wish you’d let me help more.”
She smiled faintly. “You already are.”
But nights grew harder.
Headaches bloomed behind her eyes without warning, sharp enough to make her stop mid-sentence. Her balance wavered sometimes when she stood too quickly. On bad days, words came out slower, like they had to fight their way through fog.
She started keeping a small notebook in her bag, writing down things she didn’t want to forget—case details, names, reminders. It frustrated her more than she admitted.
One afternoon, in the middle of a call with a client, she lost her train of thought completely.
The silence stretched.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally, steadying her voice. “Could you repeat that last point?”
When the call ended, she stared at her reflection in the dark screen of her laptop.
She looked… thinner. Paler. Older somehow.
Still herself. But fraying at the edges.
Jisung found her like that later, lights off, office quiet.
“You should go home,” he said gently.
She nodded, gathering her things slowly. “Tomorrow I’ll work from home.”
He smiled faintly. “Good.”
But even at home, work followed her.
Emails. Calls. Drafts spread across the dining table. She insisted on reviewing documents herself, even when Kai tried to nudge her toward the bedroom.
“Just this one,” she’d say. “Then I’ll rest.”
Sometimes she did.
Sometimes she fell asleep mid-sentence, pen still in hand.
The illness didn’t announce itself loudly.
It crept.
In the way she leaned on counters.
In the way she measured her steps.
In the way she smiled through pain she didn’t name.
And still she worked.
Because as long as she could think, argue, protect, advise, she was still her.
And she wasn’t ready to let that go yet.
The envelope arrived on an ordinary afternoon.
No dramatic timing. No warning. Just thick, cream-colored paper with her name typed neatly on the front, waiting on the console table when she came home.
Y/N stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.
She already knew what it was.
Her updated will—finalized, amended, legally airtight. Everything accounted for. Even the chicken.
She carried it to the dining table slowly, sat down, and rested her palms flat on the surface as if grounding herself. Her hands felt weaker these days. Not shaking—just… tired.
Kai was in the kitchen, moving quietly, pretending not to watch her every breath.
“You got mail,” he said casually.
“I know,” she replied.
She slid a finger under the seal and opened it carefully, as though rushing might make the words hurt more.
Page after page. Familiar legal language. Clean. Precise. Mercilessly calm.
She read it all.
The division of assets.
The percentages.
The names.
Her parents.
Jongin.
Jisung.
Then the amendments.
Custody of HeiHei to Lee Jisung.
Specific instructions regarding care, food, veterinary needs.
A clause prohibiting sale or harm.
She smiled faintly at that one.
And then—
Any additional income earned after the date of amendment to be directed to Byun Baekhyun.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
Not sadness.
Relief.
Everything was in its place now.
She reached the final page and saw her signature printed there, followed by the attorney’s seal.
Executed. Valid. Final.
The word final sat heavier than the rest.
Kai set a glass of water beside her without speaking. She hadn’t heard him approach.
She looked up at him, expression unreadable.
“It came,” she said.
He nodded slowly. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
She shook her head. “No.”
She pushed the document slightly toward him. “You’re… still listed.”
His fingers froze on the edge of the table.
“I didn’t ask for that,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why it stays.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking briefly over the pages before stopping, jaw tightening.
“This feels wrong,” he said. “Reading this.”
“It would feel worse if it wasn’t done,” she answered gently.
There was a long silence.
Then, very quietly, Kai asked, “Are you scared?”
She thought about it.
About the headaches.
The fog.
The way her body betrayed her in small, humiliating ways now.
About the future shrinking day by day.
“I was,” she said honestly. “Before.”
He looked at her.
“And now?”
“Now I’m tired,” she said. “But not afraid.”
She folded the will back into its envelope with care, pressing it flat, then stood and placed it in the drawer where she kept important documents—passport, insurance, everything that proved she had existed in official ways.
When she closed the drawer, the click sounded final.
She leaned back against the counter, eyes closed.
Kai stepped closer instinctively, hovering like he always did now.
“You should lie down,” he said softly.
“In a minute.”
She opened her eyes again, looking at him.
“You know,” she said, almost casually, “I used to think making a will meant giving up.”
His throat worked. “And now?”
“Now I think it’s the opposite,” she replied. “I’m choosing what stays. Who stays.”
She reached out, resting her fingers lightly against his wrist no demand, no weight, just contact.
“I’m still here,” she said.
Kai covered her hand with his own, careful, steady.
“I know,” he replied. “I see you.”
And for a moment just a moment the paperwork, the countdown, the quiet fear receded.
Leaving behind two people standing in the same room, breathing the same air, holding onto the present as tightly as they could.
By the fifth month, the changes stopped being subtle.
It began with mornings.
Y/N used to wake up before her alarm, mind already racing. Now the alarm rang twice, sometimes three times, before she stirred. When she did, it felt like pulling herself up through thick water. Her limbs were heavy, her head buzzing faintly, like a radio stuck between stations.
She still dressed well—out of habit, out of pride—but she sat on the edge of the bed afterward, catching her breath, fingers pressed to her temples until the room steadied.
Kai noticed everything.
“You don’t have to go in today,” he said one morning, watching her struggle with the buttons of her blouse.
“I do,” she replied automatically.
Her fingers slipped. She sighed, frustrated.
Without a word, he stepped closer and finished buttoning it for her. His hands were gentle, careful not to rush her.
She didn’t thank him. She just leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, eyes closed.
That was new.
At work, she began limiting herself to consultations only. No more long interrogations unless absolutely necessary. She sat more. Listened more. Let others do the running.
Her mind was still sharp—but it tired faster.
By noon, headaches crept in. By evening, her speech slowed, just a fraction. Enough that Jisung noticed.
“You’re fading earlier,” he said one day, handing her water.
She smiled faintly. “I’m still here.”
By the sixth month, the symptoms became harder to hide.
Her balance wavered more often. She reached for walls without realizing it. Once, she nearly tripped stepping off a curb; Kai caught her so fast it startled both of them.
“Okay,” he said firmly that night. “We’re not ignoring this anymore.”
“I’m not ignoring it,” she snapped, sharper than she meant to. “I’m living with it.”
They didn’t fight after that. Just sat in silence, the truth heavy between them.
Her appetite changed. Some days she barely touched food. Other days she craved things obsessively—sweet, salty, childhood snacks that made her parents watch her with worried smiles.
Her hair thinned slightly near the crown. She pretended not to notice. Kai noticed anyway and started washing it for her on days she was too tired to stand long.
She hated needing that help.
She loved it too.
At night, she woke disoriented sometimes, unsure where she was. Kai learned to wake at the slightest movement, his voice grounding her.
“You’re home,” he’d murmur. “I’m here.”
She always relaxed after that.
By the seventh month, fatigue ruled everything.
Walking a full block left her breathless. She started carrying a small cane on bad days—not because she needed it constantly, but because it made people stop telling her to “slow down” like she wasn’t already trying.
Her headaches grew sharper, less predictable. On those days, light hurt. Sound hurt. Thinking hurt.
Still, she laughed.
Still, she made jokes about her “expired warranty.”
Still, she worked when she could—dictating notes instead of typing, letting interns handle the logistics while she focused on strategy.
The police station changed around her without anyone saying it out loud. Chairs appeared where there hadn’t been before. Meetings shortened. People watched her walk away, just in case.
She noticed.
She pretended not to care.
At home, Kai hovered more openly now. He stopped pretending it was normal.
“You didn’t take your meds,” he’d say.
“I forgot,” she’d reply.
He set alarms on his phone. She didn’t argue.
Sometimes she caught him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking—eyes soft, pained, like he was memorizing her.
It made her chest ache.
By the eighth month, the illness stopped asking permission.
Her speech slurred occasionally when she was tired. Words slipped away mid-sentence, leaving her blinking in frustration. She hated that the most.
“I know this word,” she snapped once, angry tears in her eyes. “It’s right there.”
Kai waited. Didn’t finish it for her.
She got it eventually. When she did, she laughed shakily.
“See?” she said. “Still me.”
But she started canceling plans more often.
Friends came to her now instead of the other way around. Her parents watched her like they were afraid she might disappear if they blinked too long.
She slept more. Sometimes entire afternoons vanished.
When she woke, there was always someone there.
Her body lost weight. Her cheeks hollowed slightly. Her eyes stayed bright—too bright sometimes.
She began sorting things quietly. Clothes she no longer wore. Books she knew she wouldn’t reread. Notes tucked into drawers for people she loved.
Kai found one once.
He didn’t read it.
He put it back exactly where it was and sat on the floor of the closet afterward, hands shaking.
By the ninth month, even she could no longer pretend.
Walking required effort. Talking required rest afterward. Her headaches were daily now, controlled only partially by medication.
Some mornings she woke confused, unsure what day it was, then laughed it off when corrected.
“Time is fake anyway,” she joked.
But the fog lingered longer.
She stopped going into the office entirely. Consultations happened from home now, voice calls instead of video when she was too tired to be seen.
Kai became her constant shadow—not suffocating, just present. He learned the signs: when to help her sit, when to call Jisung, when to simply hold her hand until the wave passed.
One night, she looked at him suddenly, eyes clear and serious.
“I’m getting worse,” she said.
He nodded, throat tight. “I know.”
“You don’t have to stay like this,” she added quietly.
“I know,” he said again.
He stayed anyway.
By the end of the ninth month, Y/N moved slower, spoke softer, rested more—but she was still there. Still joking. Still sharp when it mattered. Still choosing how she spent her energy.
The illness was winning ground.
But she hadn’t surrendered an inch of herself.
By the time the ninth month arrived, Y/N stopped pretending she had unlimited time.
She didn’t announce it.
She didn’t say it out loud.
She just… started writing.
The dining table slowly disappeared under paper. Not in one dramatic night, but over days. Sometimes weeks. Thick cream sheets, envelopes stacked neatly, pens laid out in rows because her hands shook if she searched for things too long.
Kai noticed first when he came home one evening and the table was no longer a place to eat.
It was a place to finish things.
She worked in silence, shoulders hunched slightly, glasses slipping down her nose. Some days she managed only a page before the headache forced her to stop. Other days she wrote for hours, stopping only when her fingers cramped or the words blurred.
She labeled every envelope carefully.
Names written slowly.
No mistakes.
No corrections.
There was one pile for family.
Another for friends.
A thick stack for work.
And a separate, smaller stack she kept closer to herself.
Kai never read a single word.
But he saw the toll.
The way she paused before starting a new letter, as if bracing herself.
The way she leaned back afterward, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
The way she sometimes stared at an envelope for a long time before sealing it.
Jisung came by once and froze when he saw the table.
“Y/N,” he said quietly.
She didn’t look up. “Not today.”
He nodded immediately and sat on the floor instead, passing her water when she reached for it without asking.
The letters multiplied.
One by one.
For people who had mattered in different ways.
For people she’d fought beside.
For people who trusted her.
For people she’d laughed with.
She worked methodically, crossing names off a list she kept folded in her notebook. When a name was crossed out, she rested for the day.
Her body protested more as the weeks passed.
Her writing slowed.
Her grip weakened.
Her posture sagged.
Kai began timing her breaks without telling her. Bringing food she could manage. Taking the letters away gently when she pushed too far, returning them only when her color improved.
Sometimes she snapped at him.
Sometimes she apologized.
Mostly, they existed in a careful rhythm built around her limits.
Late one night, long after Kai had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for her, Y/N finished the last envelope.
She sat there alone, lamp glowing softly, the apartment silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant city outside.
She stacked the letters carefully.
Straightened the edges.
Placed them in a large box she had already prepared.
She labeled it simply.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a name.
When Kai woke and found her still at the table, head resting on her folded arms, he didn’t wake her.
He covered her with a blanket.
He moved the box gently to the shelf where she’d indicated earlier.
And for the first time since the illness had begun, he allowed himself to understand what she had been doing.
Not giving up.
Putting things in order.
They didn’t call it making memories.
That would’ve been too heavy.
They just called it Friday.
It started with karaoke.
Not the fancy kind.
The cheap, neon-lit room kind that smelled faintly of disinfectant and nostalgia.
Y/N collapsed onto the couch the moment they entered, laughing breathlessly.
“I haven’t sung properly in months,” she declared. “I’m about to embarrass myself.”
Kai scrolled through the tablet. “You embarrass yourself professionally.”
“Rude.”
He selected a song anyway.
EXO came on.
Of course it did.
Y/N groaned dramatically. “You did not.”
“You know all the words,” he said, handing her the mic.
She did.
She sang loudly, off-key, sitting down halfway through because standing got tiring. Kai sang properly—annoyingly good, perfectly on pitch—but only after she dragged him into it, pulling at his sleeve until he relented.
At some point, she switched genres entirely. Old K-pop. Early 2000s throwbacks. A random Bollywood song Kai absolutely did not know but nodded along to anyway.
She laughed so hard she had to stop and breathe, clutching her side.
“Okay,” she wheezed. “Okay. Worth it.”
Kai watched her from across the room, mic lowered, smile small but real.
The dance night happened at home.
No planning. No warning.
Y/N was lying on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, when she suddenly sat up.
“Play music.”
Kai glanced at her. “What kind?”
“The kind where we don’t think.”
He connected his phone to the speakers.
The first song was fast. Too fast.
She stood anyway, swaying more than dancing, arms loose, movements unpolished but free. Kai joined her reluctantly at first, then more fully, letting himself forget posture, forget cameras, forget control.
They danced in socks.
She spun once and nearly lost her balance; he caught her automatically, hands steady at her waist.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly.
“I know,” he replied. He didn’t let go right away.
By the third song, she was seated again, clapping instead, cheering him on like he was performing just for her.
“Look at you,” she teased. “Idol of idols.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sit before you fall.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and obeyed.
Movie night was quieter.
Blankets. Popcorn. Lights off.
She chose the movie, obviously. Something she’d seen before, something comforting. She curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, head resting against the armrest.
Halfway through, her head drifted onto his shoulder.
He froze for exactly one second.
Then relaxed.
She didn’t say anything. Just breathed slowly, evenly, exhaustion finally winning. He didn’t move until the credits rolled.
When the movie ended, she stirred slightly.
“Did I fall asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it good?”
“It was… fine,” he said, smiling faintly. “You missed the ending.”
She hummed. “Tell me tomorrow.”
He didn’t correct her.
They didn’t talk about hospitals.
Or months.
Or letters.
Just sang badly.
Danced messily.
Watched familiar movies in silence.
For a while, it almost felt like time had agreed to leave them alone.
Incheon Airport had never witnessed anything like this.
Y/N came sprinting through Terminal 1 with her backpack half-unzipped, hoodie strings flying, sunglasses sliding down her nose, yelling at the top of her lungs.
“JISUNG I SWEAR TO GOD IF WE MISS THIS FLIGHT I WILL HAUNT YOU WHILE I’M STILL ALIVE—”
“I SAID I SET AN ALARM!” Jisung shouted back, dragging a suitcase that absolutely did not belong to him. “I DID NOT SAY I WOKE UP TO IT!”
Behind them, their nine friends ran in a disorganized pack, passports clutched like lifelines, one of them wheeling a carry-on that kept tipping over, another on the phone screaming, “YES MOM I’M AT THE AIRPORT! NO I’M NOT KIDNAPPED..”
The departure board blinked cruelly.
LAST CALL – LAS VEGAS
Y/N skidded to a stop at the check-in counter, panting.
“Vegas,” she gasped. “Please. I’m begging.”
The staff blinked once, twice, then pointed.
“Security. Run.”
They ran.
Shoes off. Belts off. Someone’s bag got flagged. Someone else dropped their boarding pass and screamed like it was a tragedy. Y/N nearly fell trying to put her sneakers back on.
“GO GO GO,” she yelled, shoving her feet in without tying them.
They burst into the gate area just as the boarding agent lifted the microphone.
“Final call for—”
“We’re here!” Y/N screamed, waving her passport like a lunatic.
The agent stared.
Paused.
Then sighed. “You’re lucky.”
Y/N nearly cried.
They stumbled onto the plane in a mess of apologies and laughter, collapsing into their seats like survivors of a disaster movie.
As the plane taxied, Y/N slumped back, chest rising and falling.
“We made it,” she whispered.
Jisung glanced at her, then at the others already arguing about snacks.
“This trip hasn’t even started,” he said. “And I’m already tired.”
She grinned at him, eyes bright.
“Good,” she said. “That means it’s going to be legendary.”
The plane lifted off.
Vegas awaited.
And absolutely nothing was about to go according to plan.
The landing in Vegas was rough.
Not turbulence-is-scary rough—more like welcome-to-your-bad-decisions rough.
The plane touched down with a jolt that made half the group cheer and the other half groan.
“We survived,” Y/N announced dramatically, clapping once as the cabin filled with applause from people who absolutely did not know what they’d just signed up for by sharing a city with this group.
As soon as they stepped into the terminal, the air hit different—dry, warm, buzzing with that unmistakable Vegas energy. Neon signs everywhere. Slot machines already ringing in the distance.
Y/N inhaled deeply. “Smells like regret.”
Jisung snorted. “That’s just the carpet.”
They made their way to baggage claim, still buzzing from adrenaline, hunger, and the sheer fact that they’d actually made it.
The carousel started.
One bag came out.
Then another.
Then another.
Everyone grabbed their luggage, counting quietly.
“…Okay,” Hana said slowly, hands on her hips. “Where’s mine.”
The carousel kept spinning.
Empty.
Y/N tilted her head. “Maybe it’s shy.”
Jisung checked the screen. “No, that was definitely our flight.”
They waited.
Nothing.
The carousel stopped.
Hana stared at the unmoving belt like it had personally betrayed her. “No.”
“Yes,” Jisung said gently. “I think the universe has chosen you.”
Hana turned slowly. “All my clothes. My makeup. My shoes.”
Y/N gasped. “THE OUTFITS.”
“I planned looks,” Hana whispered. “I had themes.”
Y/N grabbed her shoulders. “We will rebuild you.”
Hana looked close to tears. “I don’t even have underwear.”
There was a beat.
Then Y/N burst out laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” she said between laughs, “but this is objectively the funniest thing that could’ve happened.”
Hana glared at her. “You’re dead to me.”
They dragged themselves to the lost baggage counter, where a tired employee typed slowly while Hana recited every detail of her suitcase like a eulogy.
“Yes,” Hana said. “Black. Medium-sized. Emotionally important.”
The employee nodded. “We’ll locate it and deliver it to your hotel.”
“When?” Hana demanded.
“Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow.”
Silence.
Y/N clapped her hands together. “Okay. New plan.”
Everyone looked at her.
“We are in Las Vegas,” she said, eyes gleaming. “The city of excess. Hana, you are about to get a glow-up funded by chaos.”
Jisung groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh absolutely yes,” Y/N said, already pulling Hana toward the exit. “Emergency shopping. Strip run. We will find you clothes so iconic you’ll forget the suitcase ever existed.”
Hana hesitated. “You promise?”
Y/N grinned. “By the end of this trip, losing your luggage will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
They stepped out into the Vegas heat, laughter echoing, plans already spiraling out of control.
Behind them, the carousel sat still.
Empty.
Just like Hana’s suitcase, wherever in the world it was, blissfully unaware it had just triggered the first disaster of the trip.
The moment they stepped outside, Vegas swallowed them whole.
Heat hit first. Then noise. Then lights—so many lights it felt like the city itself was yelling welcome.
Hana stood frozen on the curb, still in airport clothes, clutching her tote bag like it was her last possession on earth.
“I look like I’m about to attend a parent–teacher meeting,” she said hollowly.
Y/N slung an arm around her shoulders. “By tonight, you’ll look like a woman who has emotionally recovered from luggage loss through retail therapy.”
Jisung rubbed his temples. “We haven’t even reached the hotel.”
“That’s a future problem,” Y/N replied cheerfully.
They shoved themselves into two taxis, shouting addresses over each other, and within minutes the Strip unfurled in front of them—massive hotels, blinking signs, people already drunk at noon.
Hana pressed her face to the window. “I can’t believe my suitcase died for this.”
“Sacrifice accepted,” Y/N said solemnly.
The hotel lobby was a war zone of tourists, slot machines, and confusion. Check-in took forever. Someone accidentally cut the line and almost got murdered verbally. Jisung handled the paperwork like a man negotiating a hostage situation.
When they finally dumped their bags in the suite, Hana dropped onto the bed dramatically.
“I have nothing,” she declared. “I am a shell of a woman.”
Y/N snapped her fingers. “Shoes on. We’re fixing this.”
“What about jet lag?” someone asked weakly.
Y/N pointed at the window. “That’s tomorrow’s enemy.”
They hit the Strip like a tactical unit.
First store: Hana tried on everything.
Second store: Y/N picked outfits with zero restraint.
Third store: Someone lost their credit card and found it again in their own pocket.
Hana emerged from a fitting room wearing a sparkly black dress, staring at herself in the mirror.
“…Okay,” she admitted. “This is better than my original outfit.”
Y/N grinned. “See? The suitcase was holding you back.”
By the end of it, Hana had two full outfits, emergency underwear, shoes she absolutely didn’t need, and sunglasses she put on immediately indoors.
“Iconic,” Jisung muttered.
Night fell fast.
The room transformed.
Music blasting. Makeup everywhere. People yelling over curling irons. Someone spilled a drink. Someone else put glitter on everyone “by accident.”
Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, energy high but movements a little slower than usual. Jisung noticed and quietly handed her water without a word.
She took it, squeezed his hand once. Thanks.
Then she stood up.
“Vegas,” she announced, “is not ready for us.”
They poured onto the street, heels clicking, laughter loud, the city reflecting back their chaos like it had been waiting for them.
Y/N danced like she had nothing to lose—which, in a way, was true. She laughed with strangers, pulled Hana into the center of the floor, shouted lyrics at people who didn’t know the song.
At the bar, someone ordered shots.
“Bad idea,” Jisung warned.
“Correct,” Y/N replied, clinking glasses anyway.
They went to another club. Then another.
Somewhere between locations, Hana lost a shoe and didn’t care. Someone tried gambling and immediately lost money. Y/N cheered like it was a victory.
At one point, Y/N leaned against a wall, breathless, head tipped back.
“You okay?” Jisung asked quietly.
She nodded. “Just… give me a second.”
He stayed with her. Always.
Then she straightened, eyes bright again. “Okay. I’m back.”
By the time they stumbled back into the hotel in the early hours of the morning, they were wrecked.
Shoes abandoned at the door. Makeup smeared. Voices hoarse from yelling over music.
Someone collapsed on the floor laughing. Someone else ordered room service they immediately forgot about.
Y/N dropped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling.
“This,” she said softly, “is exactly what I needed.”
Jisung sat beside her, exhaustion etched into his face but relief there too.
“Good,” he said. “Because tomorrow, we drive.”
Her smile widened.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Tomorrow we make it worse.”
Vegas glittered outside the window, relentless and alive.
And inside the suite, amid laughter, exhaustion, and the wreckage of the first night, Y/N felt something rare and precious.
Free.
Got it — continuous, no cuts, no cinematic jump breaks, just one long unhinged spiral from pre-gaming → clubs → total blackout → morning realization. Here we go.
The night began in the hotel suite with absolutely no intention of surviving it.
Music blasted from a speaker balanced dangerously on a chair, bass rattling the windows while the Strip glowed outside like it was personally inviting them to make bad choices. The coffee table was already crowded with plastic cups, half-empty bottles, snacks no one was eating, and a single notebook where someone had written, in thick marker, “VEGAS RULES: NO RULES.”
Y/N sat on the floor, back against the couch, hoodie unzipped, laughing too loudly as Jim-in attempted to pour a drink and missed the cup entirely.
“IT’S FINE,” Jim-in slurred. “THE FLOOR DESERVES A DRINK TOO.”
Jisung clinked his cup against Y/N’s. “Pace yourself.”
She squinted at him. “You don’t get to say that in Vegas.”
Shots appeared. Someone counted down. Someone forgot the number and yelled “GO!” anyway.
Y/N felt the warmth spread through her chest fast, familiar but sharper than usual. She didn’t care. She stood up, raising her cup.
“To bad decisions!”
“To Vegas!”
“To not dying!”
The door slammed behind them twenty minutes later as they spilled into the hallway, already laughing, already loud, already lost.
The first club swallowed them whole.
Lights strobed so hard it felt like time fractured. Music vibrated through the floor straight into their bones. Y/N danced like she wasn’t thinking about anything at all — arms in the air, head thrown back, screaming lyrics into Hana’s face while Hana screamed right back.
Someone handed her a drink. She drank it. Someone handed her another. She drank that too.
Jisung was there at first, laughing, shaking his head, then suddenly gone — not in a worrying way, just in the way people disappear when the night decides it’s steering now.
They danced until sweat soaked their clothes and nothing existed outside the rhythm.
When they stumbled out, blinking at the lights, someone shouted, “NEXT!”
No one argued.
The second club was darker, louder, tighter.
Shots again. Faster this time. No countdown.
Y/N climbed onto a low platform, dancing with strangers who felt like friends, hair sticking to her face, heart pounding. Someone yelled her name. Or maybe they didn’t. It felt right anyway.
Jim-in disappeared.
Jisung disappeared.
Y/N didn’t notice.
She was laughing too hard, crying a little because a song reminded her of something she couldn’t place.
At some point someone yelled “LET’S GO SOMEWHERE CLASSY” and everyone cheered without knowing what that meant.
They left in a pack, shoes already optional.
The third club was where coherence officially died.
The music was too loud to be music anymore. Just noise and light and heat. Y/N leaned against the bar, head spinning pleasantly, laughing at absolutely nothing.
Someone put a feather boa around her neck.
She bowed dramatically.
Someone suggested shots again.
No one said no.
Time stretched and snapped and folded in on itself.
Someone shouted “ELVIS!” like it was the most important word in the world.
Y/N laughed so hard she had to sit down.
They spilled back onto the street, night air cold against overheated skin, neon signs blurring together.
A small chapel glowed nearby.
That seemed… right.
The fourth stop didn’t feel like a decision.
It felt inevitable.
They went inside laughing, stumbling, barely upright.
Someone was suddenly in a white jumpsuit.
Someone else was suddenly in a yellow dress.
There was singing. Applause. Paper signed. Flashbulbs.
Y/N clapped, tears in her eyes, screaming encouragement she didn’t remember forming.
The night kept going.
They left with laughter echoing behind them and somehow , no one could say how, returned to the hotel room with a live chicken.
The chicken was calm.
Everyone else was not.
The room dissolved into noise, movement, collapsing bodies, laughter fading into exhaustion.
Shoes were kicked off. Phones set down somewhere. Wallets forgotten.
Someone fed the chicken snacks.
Someone fell asleep mid-sentence.
Morning came brutally.
Sunlight burned through the curtains.
Y/N woke up on the bed, sideways, head pounding, mouth dry, brain slow.
She stared at the ceiling.
Then she noticed the chicken.
On the chair.
Alive.
Watching.
She sat up carefully.
Around the room: bodies on the floor, clothes everywhere, glitter stuck to surfaces that glitter should not stick to.
Jisung sat against the wall, still wearing an Elvis jumpsuit.
Jim-in sat on the edge of the bed in a yellow dress.
No one screamed.
Y/N blinked. “Okay.”
Jisung looked at Jim-in. Jim-in looked back.
Jisung spoke slowly. “I think… we got married.”
Jim-in nodded. “Yeah.”
Y/N exhaled. “That makes sense.”
Someone groaned from the floor. “Why don’t I have shoes.”
Another voice: “Why don’t I have my phone.”
Hana sat up, holding one heel. “This is not my shoe.”
Y/N lay back, staring at the ceiling, a laugh bubbling out of her chest despite the headache.
Around her, chaos breathed quietly.
The chicken clucked.
Vegas glittered beyond the window.
And somehow, absurdly, painfully, perfectly, the night had delivered exactly what it promised.
By the time they actually left Las Vegas, the sun was already high enough to expose every bad decision from the night before.
The convertible waited for them outside the hotel like it knew exactly what kind of people they were—bright red, shameless, top already down, daring them to get in. Everyone moved slower now. Sunglasses were mandatory. Conversations were reduced to grunts and gestures.
And then there was the chicken.
HeiHei sat in his cardboard box, towel nest fluffed around him, eyes blinking slowly like he, too, was hungover by association. Someone had poked air holes in the sides and written his name in marker.
“Seatbelt him,” Y/N said, voice raspy.
Jisung, dead serious, looped the improvised paper belt around the box. “Safety first.”
HeiHei clucked once, offended but cooperative.
They loaded into the car with the kind of coordination only exhaustion could produce. Y/N took the front passenger seat, legs pulled up for a moment as she adjusted herself, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. The wind hit immediately—hot, dry, relentless—and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over her face.
The engine roared.
Music came on—Moana first, because someone said it felt right, and nobody had the energy to argue.
🎶 I’ve been staring at the edge of the water… 🎶
Y/N laughed softly, head tipping back. “If HeiHei jumps out, I swear to god—”
HeiHei flapped his wings.
“DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM,” Hana croaked from the back seat.
They pulled onto the highway, Vegas shrinking behind them, neon fading into pale daylight. The Strip looked almost innocent from a distance, like it hadn’t just chewed them up and spit them out married, shoeless, and poultry-adjacent.
The desert stretched ahead—flat, endless, shimmering with heat. Wind tore through their hair, tugged at clothes, dried sweat on skin. The convertible rattled slightly, protesting the abuse it was being put through.
Y/N leaned her elbow on the door, chin resting on her hand, watching the road blur past. Her body felt heavy, like gravity had doubled overnight, but there was a lightness in her chest that hadn’t been there in months.
At a red light just outside the city, a pickup truck pulled up beside them.
The driver stared.
Long.
Then leaned out the window. “Is that a chicken?”
Y/N leaned halfway out her seat, pointing proudly. “This is HeiHei. He’s emotionally fragile.”
The driver stared at HeiHei.
HeiHei stared back.
The light turned green.
They sped off as the group erupted into laughter, the sound torn apart by the wind.
They stopped at a gas station an hour later—the kind that smelled like gasoline, burnt coffee, and dust. Everyone shuffled out of the car like elderly people despite being very much not.
Y/N stretched carefully, rolling her shoulders, then crouched to peer into HeiHei’s box.
“You holding up, buddy?”
HeiHei clucked, unimpressed.
Jisung emerged from the store with water bottles, chips, beef jerky, and a small bag of corn kernels.
“For the chicken,” he explained when questioned.
Y/N nodded solemnly. “You’re a good father.”
They sat on the curb eating snacks, shoes off, the sun relentless overhead. No one rushed. No one checked the time.
Y/N drank water slowly, methodically, then rested her head against Jisung’s shoulder without thinking. He didn’t comment, just shifted slightly so she was more comfortable.
Back in the car, the playlist changed—EXO, Stray Kids, then old throwback songs from their school days. The kind of music that came with memories baked in.
They sang badly. Loudly. Someone missed every beat. Someone cried laughing.
Y/N screamed lyrics out the window, voice cracking but determined, hair whipping around her face. At one point she stood up slightly in her seat, arms spread, then immediately sat back down when Jisung snapped, “DON’T.”
She laughed, breathless. “Worth it.”
HeiHei flapped his wings again, feathers ruffling in the wind, clearly enjoying the attention.
“He’s thriving,” Hana said.
“Same,” Y/N murmured, though her eyes had closed again, head resting against the seat.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Jisung glanced at her in the mirror. “You okay?”
She nodded without opening her eyes. “Just tired. The good kind. Like… I used all my energy on something that mattered.”
He turned the music down slightly.
The desert rolled on—gold and endless, sky too wide to make sense of. Heat shimmered off the road, the horizon blurring.
Y/N opened her eyes again, squinting into the distance.
“You know,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “I used to think freedom had to be big. Loud. Dramatic.”
Jisung hummed. “And now?”
She smiled faintly. “Now I think it’s this. Wind. Bad choices. A chicken. People who don’t let you disappear.”
Jisung didn’t answer. He just kept driving.
Behind them, HeiHei settled into his box, clucking softly, utterly unbothered by how strange his life had become.
The road stretched ahead.
And for those miles, sunburned, hungover, ridiculous, alive—nothing else mattered.
By the time they circled back toward Harry Reid International Airport, Vegas looked… quieter.
Not calmer. Just tired. Like it had finished chewing them up and was politely asking them to leave now.
The convertible rolled into the rental return lot coated in dust, glitter still clinging stubbornly to the seats, the smell of desert wind and poor choices baked into the upholstery. Everyone climbed out slowly, stretching, groaning, sunglasses still firmly in place.
HeiHei was lifted out last.
Still calm.
Still blinking.
Still judging them.
“Okay,” Y/N said, crouching beside the box. “Final boss: international poultry transport.”
Jisung sighed. “I can’t believe I’m about to ask airport security how to fly with a chicken.”
Inside the terminal, the chaos returned—but this time it was the fluorescent-lit, overly efficient kind. Rolling suitcases, boarding calls echoing, people moving with purpose.
Their group… did not.
They shuffled to the airline counter with HeiHei’s box held front and center like an offering.
The agent looked at them.
Looked at the box.
Paused.
“…Is that a chicken.”
“Yes,” Y/N said brightly.
The agent blinked. “A live chicken.”
“Yes,” Jisung echoed, more tired than enthusiastic.
There was a moment where it felt like the universe might finally draw a line.
Then Y/N added, very calmly, “His name is HeiHei. He’s well-behaved. And we’d like to take him home.”
The agent stared.
HeiHei clucked.
Something in the agent’s expression cracked.
“…Okay,” she said slowly. “We’ll need to check regulations.”
What followed was thirty minutes of paperwork, phone calls, and Y/N answering increasingly specific questions about HeiHei’s health, diet, temperament, and whether he had ever shown signs of aggression.
“No,” Y/N said. “He’s emotionally stable.”
Jisung choked.
Eventually, someone higher up arrived—a supervisor with a clipboard and a face that had seen too much.
“You want to bring a chicken,” he said carefully, “on an international flight.”
“Yes,” Y/N replied. “With a permit.”
“…You have a permit?”
“Not yet,” Jisung said. “But we will.”
Miraculously—because Vegas, because chaos, because maybe the universe had a sense of humor—they did.
A temporary livestock transport permit. A vet check done on-site by a very confused veterinarian. A small, airline-approved carrier swapped in place of the box.
HeiHei endured it all like a professional.
By the time they reached security, everyone was too exhausted to react when the TSA agent opened the carrier, stared at the chicken, and waved them through without comment.
At the gate, they collapsed into seats.
Y/N leaned back, eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips.
“We did it,” she murmured.
Jisung glanced at HeiHei’s carrier. “We survived Vegas.”
HeiHei clucked softly.
Boarding was called.
On the plane, HeiHei was secured carefully, nestled under the seat with surprising dignity. A flight attendant crouched to check on him.
“Well,” she said. “This is new.”
Y/N smiled. “He’s our emotional support chicken.”
The attendant laughed, shaking her head. “Vegas really changes people.”
As the plane taxied and lifted into the sky, Y/N watched the city shrink below them, neon fading into desert once more.
Her body was tired. Bone-deep tired.
But her heart felt… full.
She reached down, fingers brushing the carrier gently.
“Bye, Vegas,” she whispered. “Thanks for the memories. And the chicken.”
HeiHei clucked.
And somewhere over the Pacific, with a chicken legally on board and chaos finally settling into something quieter, they headed home.
The arrival gate doors slid open.
Y/N stepped out first, hair tied messily, hoodie oversized, suitcase rolling behind her like it had also survived trauma. Jisung followed, equally wrecked, sunglasses still on indoors like a man who had lost faith in bright lights.
And then there was HeiHei.
In his very official, airline-approved carrier.
Calm. Regal. Judging everyone.
Across the barrier, Kai stood with Y/N’s parents.
They had been scanning faces, waiting for tired smiles, maybe dramatic hugs.
They were not prepared for this.
Kai’s eyes locked on the carrier.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…Is that,” he said slowly, carefully, “a chicken.”
Y/N looked up, saw them, and immediately grinned like a child caught doing something illegal.
“HI!” she waved. “WE’RE BACK.”
Her mother’s smile froze halfway.
Her father leaned forward, squinting. “Why… are you carrying poultry.”
Jisung sighed like a man who had given up on explaining life. “It followed us home.”
“That is a lie,” Kai said flatly.
HeiHei chose that exact moment to cluck.
Loudly.
Y/N beamed. “Meet HeiHei.”
There was a full five seconds of silence.
Her mother put a hand over her mouth. “You went to Vegas.”
“Yes,” Y/N replied proudly.
Her father stared at the carrier like it might explode. “You came back with… livestock.”
“He has papers,” Y/N added quickly. “International papers.”
Kai rubbed his face with both hands.
“Of course he does.”
Jisung handed the carrier to Kai without warning.
Kai instinctively caught it.
HeiHei stared up at him.
Kai stared back.
They regarded each other like two beings forced into an alliance neither asked for.
“…He’s warm,” Kai muttered.
“He likes you,” Y/N said seriously.
Her mother finally recovered enough to step forward and hug Y/N tightly.
“You look exhausted,” she whispered, voice thick. “Did you eat properly?”
Y/N hugged back just as tight. “Define properly.”
Her father hugged her next, longer than usual, then glanced at the chicken again.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Later,” Y/N replied immediately. “I’m jet-lagged and emotionally fragile.”
Kai cleared his throat. “So. Vegas.”
Y/N nodded. “We survived.”
“And the chicken.”
“Also survived.”
Kai shook his head, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
As they walked toward the parking lot—Y/N between her parents, Jisung trailing behind, Kai awkwardly carrying HeiHei like an offering—the absurdity of it all finally settled.
Her mother sighed. “I told you to rest.”
Y/N squeezed her hand. “I rested emotionally.”
Her father muttered, “We should’ve never let you leave the country.”
Kai glanced down at the chicken, then at Y/N.
“…You okay?” he asked quietly.
She looked up at him, tired but bright. “Yeah. I really am.”
HeiHei clucked in agreement.
Kai exhaled, resigned.
“Fine,” he said. “But the chicken is not sitting in the front seat.”
Y/N laughed, loud and free, airport echoing around them.
Home had never felt so strange.
Or so full.
A few days after they were back—after the jet lag faded, after HeiHei had claimed a sunny corner of the apartment like it had always been his—Y/N found herself sitting once again in a quiet, wood-paneled office that smelled faintly of paper and ink.
The same attorney.
The same calm voice.
The same thick folder labeled with her name.
Except this time, Y/N was smiling faintly, one ankle crossed over the other, fingers drumming lightly on her knee like this was just another errand.
The attorney adjusted his glasses. “You wanted to make an amendment to your will.”
“Yes,” Y/N said. “Two things, actually.”
He nodded, pen ready. “Go ahead.”
She took a breath.
“First,” she said, matter-of-fact, “I’ve acquired a dependent.”
The attorney paused. “A… dependent.”
“Yes. A hen.”
He blinked.
“A live chicken,” she clarified. “Her name is HeiHei.”
Silence stretched for exactly one professional second.
“…Very well,” he said finally. “And you’d like to assign custody.”
“Yes. In the event of my death, HeiHei is to go to Lee Jisung. He’s already emotionally attached and frankly the most responsible adult in her life.”
The attorney wrote it down without comment, only a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying that this was not, in fact, an everyday clause.
“Any conditions?” he asked.
“Jisung is not allowed to eat her,” Y/N said immediately.
The pen paused.
“I’m serious,” she added. “Put that in.”
“…Noted.”
She leaned back slightly, then continued.
“Second. Any additional income I earn after this amendment—consulting fees, residuals, anything beyond my currently documented assets—I want that to go to Byun Baekhyun.”
The attorney looked up. “May I ask the reason?”
Y/N smiled, soft but sincere.
“He helped me cross something off my bucket list,” she said. “And he did it without asking for anything in return.”
The attorney nodded. “So this would be a discretionary beneficiary, limited to future earnings only.”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “He doesn’t need it. I just… want him to have it.”
The pen moved again.
They went over the wording carefully—precise, clean, unambiguous. Custody clauses. Beneficiary clauses. Contingencies.
When it was done, the attorney slid the document across the desk.
“If you’re comfortable,” he said gently, “you can sign here.”
Y/N picked up the pen.
For a moment, she hesitated—not out of fear, but out of something quieter. Then she signed, her handwriting steady.
“There,” she said lightly. “Now the chicken is accounted for.”
The attorney smiled faintly. “You’re very thorough.”
Y/N stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“I’ve learned,” she replied, “that the small things matter just as much as the big ones.”
As she left the office, phone buzzing in her pocket with a message from Jisung, HeiHei just tried to eat my shoelace—she smiled to herself.
Everything important was in order.
Even the hen.
The third radiation appointment felt final in a way the others hadn’t.
Not because anyone said it out loud—but because everyone moved like they knew.
The hospital was quiet in that early-morning way, fluorescent lights too bright, floors too clean. Y/N sat in the familiar waiting area, hoodie zipped up to her chin, fingers wrapped around a paper cup of lukewarm tea she hadn’t touched. Her parents sat on either side of her again, closer than before, as if proximity could physically hold her together.
Kai stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He hadn’t said much since they arrived. He didn’t need to. His worry sat openly on his face now, no longer carefully hidden.
When the nurse called her name, Y/N stood slowly, already feeling the fatigue humming beneath her skin.
“I’ll be quick,” she said lightly, trying to reassure them. “Same as before.”
Her mother stood immediately. “I’m coming with you to the door.”
Y/N didn’t argue this time.
Inside the treatment room, everything was painfully familiar.
The narrow table.
The machine.
The molded mask waiting on the tray.
The technician greeted her gently. “Third round today. How are you holding up?”
“Still here,” Y/N replied, forcing a smile. “That’s something.”
They helped her lie down, adjusted the headrest, positioned her with meticulous precision. The mask was lowered again, clicking into place over her face, firm but not painful. She focused on her breathing, slow and deliberate.
In.
Out.
The machine began its low hum, rotating with quiet inevitability. She stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, mind drifting despite her efforts to stay present.
This time, the fatigue hit sooner.
Her thoughts slipped in and out of focus. She felt pressure behind her eyes, a dull ache spreading upward. She imagined the beam doing its work—tiny, invisible lines fighting something much bigger than them.
When it was over and the mask was removed, she felt dizzy for a moment, gripping the edge of the table until the room steadied.
“You okay?” the technician asked.
“Yeah,” Y/N said. “Just… tired.”
They helped her sit up, then stand. Outside, Kai was already there, moving toward her instantly.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Easy.”
She leaned into him briefly, just enough to borrow his balance. He didn’t comment. Just stayed solid.
The doctor met them in a small consultation room shortly after, tablet in hand, expression careful but earnest.
“The third session went well,” she said. “No acute complications.”
Y/N nodded, bracing herself.
“I do want to discuss next steps,” the doctor continued. “Given the rate of progression we’re seeing, a fourth round of radiation is something I’d recommend considering.”
Her mother’s breath caught. Her father stiffened.
Kai’s head snapped up. “Another?”
“Yes,” the doctor said calmly. “It could offer additional symptom control. Possibly extend neurological stability a bit longer.”
Y/N listened quietly, then shook her head.
“No,” she said.
The room stilled.
The doctor blinked. “I understand treatment fatigue is real, but I want you to consider—”
“I have,” Y/N interrupted gently. Her voice was steady, calm in a way that left no room for argument. “I know what another round would do to my body. I know what it might buy me.”
She met the doctor’s eyes.
“And I’m done.”
Her mother turned to her, voice trembling. “Baby—”
“I don’t want to spend what time I have left like this,” Y/N said softly. “I don’t want to be in hospitals more than I’m living outside them.”
The doctor nodded slowly, respect clear in her expression. “Then we’ll shift focus to symptom management and comfort.”
“That’s what I want,” Y/N said.
Kai swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”
She turned to him.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m sure.”
There was no drama in her voice. No fear. Just resolve.
The doctor explained the plan—medications to manage headaches, balance issues, fatigue. Regular monitoring. Support services available anytime.
Y/N listened, asked a few precise questions, signed the necessary forms.
When it was over, she stood, shoulders heavy but posture straight.
Outside, in the hallway, her mother finally broke, pressing her face briefly into Y/N’s shoulder, crying silently. Her father wrapped his arms around both of them, holding on like he was afraid to let go.
Kai stood close, one hand resting lightly at Y/N’s back, grounding her.
“I’m okay,” Y/N whispered. “I promise.”
They didn’t fully believe her.
But they nodded anyway.
As they walked out of the hospital together, sunlight spilling through the glass doors, Y/N squinted slightly, then smiled.
“No more radiation,” she said quietly.
Kai looked at her, eyes shining, voice rough. “Then we make the days count.”
Y/N was sprawled across the bed at 12 p.m. , hair fanned out over the pillow, oversized nightshirt riding up just enough to be indecently comfortable, a family-sized bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously on her stomach.
The TV blared.
Bad Prosecutor, again.
For the tenth time.
“HIT HIM, JIN JUNG!” she yelled, fist punching the air as Kyungsoo’s character lunged at the villain. “BEAT THAT BASTARD! YES! YES!”
She flopped back dramatically, scattering popcorn everywhere, one kernel landing squarely in her hair.
She sighed, eyes still glued to the screen.
“God,” she muttered wistfully, “I wish I could do that…”
The door creaked open.
Jongin froze.
It took him a full three seconds to process the scene.
Y/N was in the exact same position he’d left her in at 6 a.m., except now the room looked like a popcorn crime scene. Empty snack wrappers. A hoodie half on the floor. Hair half in a bun, half wild. Shirt rolled up just enough to reveal she’d absolutely given up on decorum. Mouth full of popcorn.
And she was swearing at the TV with passion.
When Kyungsoo’s character got punched, she gasped loudly.
“HEY! THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR!”
“Y/N?” Jongin said, genuinely stunned.
“Yeah,” she replied around a mouthful of popcorn, not looking away.
“…What is all this,” he asked, gesturing helplessly at the mess.
She finally glanced at him, eyes sharp, expression flat.
“Me,” she said simply, then turned back to the TV.
“When I loved life.”
The words hit him harder than he expected.
Something in Jongin’s expression softened instantly.
He walked over quietly and sat down directly in front of her, blocking the TV completely.
“Hey!” she craned her neck, trying to see past him. “Move. He’s about to punch him again.”
He didn’t.
She huffed and finally looked at him, defeated.
“What.”
He smiled.
Not his stage smile.
Not his polite one.
The soft, slightly awkward one he saved for moments like this.
“I have a surprise for you.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Yeah?”
She sat up immediately, brushing her hands on her pajamas. A few popcorn kernels tumbled out of her hair and onto the bed.
“What is it,” she asked eagerly.
Jongin reached into his pocket and handed her a small rectangular box.
Her breath hitched.
She opened it.
Front-row.
Pit.
EXO concert tickets.
For half a second, her brain shut down.
Then....
“OH MY GOD!”
She screamed so loudly Jongin flinched.
“NO WAY! NO WAY! NO WAY! AAAAAHHHHH!”
She launched herself off the bed, bouncing around the room like she’d been possessed, hair flying, popcorn crunching under her feet.
She tackled Jongin in a hug, arms tight around his torso, face buried against his chest.
“THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU,” she mumbled breathlessly. “YOU’RE A GOD! NO. ASAINT! NO. A LEGEND!”
He laughed softly, arms coming up around her almost automatically.
She pulled back suddenly, eyes wide with panic.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “I NEED TO GET EVERYTHING READY.”
She stopped abruptly and looked at him, deadly serious.
“I cannot die before this concert.”
Jongin laughed, shaking his head.
Watching her, messy, loud, alive, he realized something quietly terrifying.
This version of Y/N wasn’t fading.
She was burning brighter.
And he would do anything to keep giving her moments like this.
Y/N tied her hair into a messy bun in one violent twist, sprinted into the bathroom, and brushed her teeth like she was racing a timer. Toothpaste splattered the mirror. She washed her face, water dripping down her neck, wiped it off with the sleeve of her nightshirt, and burst back into the room.
Hoodie on.
Keys grabbed.
She skidded into the dining area, nearly tripping over a chair.
Jongin was behind her the entire time, hands in his pockets, laughing under his breath as he watched her ricochet from wall to wall like a pinball.
At the shoe rack, she shoved her feet into the first two things she saw.
One sneaker.
One ballet flat.
Did not notice.
“Where are you going?” Jongin asked, leaning against the doorframe, thoroughly entertained.
“My parents,” she said, already halfway to the door.
“Why.”
She spun around, panting. “Because they have everything I need in my room.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Everything.”
“Yes,” she snapped, nodding furiously. “Banners. Old concert tees. Photocards. That lightstick pouch I lost in 2018. Emergency batteries. My dignity.”
“Y/N,” Jongin cut in gently, following her toward the elevator. “Calm down.”
“I AM CALM,” she yelled, then immediately wheezed.
By the time they reached the corridor, she collapsed onto the floor cross-legged, back against the wall, chest heaving.
“Oh my god,” she groaned. “I’m tired.”
Jongin crouched in front of her instantly, amusement gone, eyes sharp with concern.
“You need to breathe,” he said firmly. “We are not having another fainting spell.”
She nodded aggressively, like that alone would fix it.
“Yes. Yes. Breathing. Big fan of breathing.”
She inhaled. Exhaled. Glared at the elevator.
When the doors finally slid open, she shot up like nothing had happened and marched inside.
The second the elevator opened in the basement, all restraint vanished.
Y/N bolted to the car.
“Y/N...” Jongin called, but she was already unlocking it.
Engine on.
Seatbelt barely clicked.
Traffic, unfortunately, existed.
Her road rage activated instantly.
“WHY ARE WE STOPPED,” she yelled at the car in front of her. “MOVE. I HAVE AN EMERGENCY.”
Jongin sat calmly in the passenger seat, watching her grip the steering wheel like it had personally wronged her.
“You’re wearing two different shoes,” he said mildly.
She glanced down.
Paused.
“…I don’t have time for this.”
She finally screeched into her parents’ driveway and jumped out before the engine had fully died, sprinting to the front door and slamming the bell repeatedly.
“COMING!!!” her father yelled from inside.
The door opened.
He took one look at her, hair wild, hoodie half-zipped, one sneaker, one flat, eyes feral, and froze.
“What on earth...”
“MOVE,” she barked, ducking under his arm and barreling into the house.
“HI MOM,” she screamed, zooming past her mother like a blur.
“WHAT! WHY ARE YOU!? HEY! NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE!!!,” her mother shouted after her.
Y/N was already halfway up the stairs.
Her childhood room door flew open.
She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, surveying the sacred ground.
Posters still on the walls.
Boxes under the bed.
Memories everywhere.
She grinned like she’d just rediscovered buried treasure.
“IT’S GO TIME,” she announced to absolutely no one.
Downstairs, Jongin leaned against the banister, listening to drawers slam and boxes being dragged out, laughter echoing through the house.
Her parents exchanged a look.
Her mother sighed, hand to her chest.
“She used to be like this all the time.”
Jongin smiled softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m starting to see that.”
In her room, Y/N was a storm.
Drawers were yanked open and shut with increasing desperation, clothes tossed aside like casualties of war.
“Where is it..where is it..” she muttered, then groaned loudly, frustration bubbling over. “WHERE IS IT?!”
She spun around and yelled at the top of her lungs, “MA! HAVE YOU SEEN MY LIGHTSTICK BOX?!”
From somewhere downstairs, her mother’s voice shot back just as loud, “CHECK YOUR CLOSET!”
Y/N froze.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh.”
She rushed to the closet, flung the door open, and immediately spotted a large cardboard box shoved into the corner, dusted but unmistakably familiar. Written in thick black marker across the top were the sacred words:
LIGHTSTICKS!!!
Her breath hitched.
She dragged it out carefully, like it contained priceless artifacts—which, to her, it absolutely did. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she opened the box slowly, reverently.
“One by one, don’t rush,” she told herself, even as her hands trembled.
She lifted the first lightstick.
“Seventeen,” she murmured fondly, setting it aside.
She rummaged faster now, heart pounding, fingers digging through layers of bubble wrap and old concert wristbands.
Then
“AH!”
She froze.
Slowly, dramatically, she pulled it out.
The EXO lightstick.
She stood up and raised it high above her head like a victorious warrior lifting a sword.
“FOUND IT.”
At that exact moment, her mother appeared in the doorway.
She took one look at the room, drawers open, clothes everywhere, posters half-fallen, boxes sprawled across the floor, and crossed her arms.
“KIM Y/N,” she said sharply. “What have you done to your room?!”
Y/N barely looked up. “I’ll clean it. Don’t worry.”
Her mother stared at her for a long second, then sighed. “Why are you even looking for this lightstick anyway?”
Y/N finally looked at her, eyes bright, grin unstoppable.
“Jongin got me EXO concert tickets,” she said, like she was announcing the end of the world. “It’s in three days.”
Her mother blinked. “Three days.”
“Yes,” Y/N continued, already kneeling to start organizing again. “And since it usually takes me a week to prepare and I do not have that luxury, I must now compress my entire concert ritual into seventy-two hours.”
Her mother rubbed her temple. “What ritual.”
Y/N began listing on her fingers.
“Outfit planning. Backup outfit planning. Lightstick testing. Extra batteries. Poster remaking in case this one smudges. Vocal warm-ups so I don’t lose my voice before the first song. Emotional preparation.”
Her mother stared at her, then shook her head slowly.
“You are unbelievable.”
Y/N smiled to herself as she carefully placed the EXO lightstick on her desk, right in the center, like it belonged there.
Maybe she was tired.
Maybe she was sick.
Maybe time was cruel.
But right now, in her childhood room, surrounded by memories and music and the girl she used to be.
She was alive.
Once her room was finally restored to something resembling order, Y/N wiped her forehead dramatically and declared the next mission.
“Poster prep,” she announced to absolutely no one.
She bounded downstairs, lightstick tucked under her arm like a prized possession, and skidded into the living room where her father was sitting with the newspaper.
“Papa,” she said sweetly, hands clasped behind her back. “Can I have some cash?”
He folded the paper immediately. “Sure. How much do you need?”
She tilted her head, thinking hard. “I don’t know… I need to buy three A2 charts, markers, glue, glitter, printouts, maybe tape. Good tape.”
He nodded seriously, opened his wallet, and pulled out a bill.
“Here,” he said, handing her ₩50,000. “And get yourself something sweet as well.”
Her face lit up.
She leaned down, kissed his cheek loudly, and grabbed the money. “You’re the best.”
Before either parent could say anything else, she was already slipping on her mismatched shoes again and heading for the door.
From the kitchen, her mother called out, “Where is she going now?”
“To the stationery store,” her father replied casually.
Her mother frowned. “How? The state she came in, she didn’t even have her phone on her. I don’t think she carried cash either.”
“I gave her some,” he said.
Her mother turned slowly. “How much?”
“…Fifty thousand won.”
Her mother stared at him.
“FIFTY THOUSAND?” she exclaimed. “Why did you give her so much to buy some supplies? You always spoil her!”
“YAH,” her father shot back immediately, indignant. “She’s my daughter. My princess. I can spoil her as much as I want.”
“Sure, king,” her mother replied dryly, turning back to the sink.
He huffed, then noticed Jongin standing awkwardly near the doorway, having witnessed the entire exchange.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” her father said apologetically.
Jongin smiled softly. “No, it’s okay, sir. I know a father and daughter have a special bond.”
He hesitated, then added honestly, “I thought it was sweet.”
“DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM,” her mother yelled from the kitchen. “HE’LL SPOIL HER EVEN MORE.”
Her father snapped back without hesitation, voice suddenly loud and raw.
“MY DAUGHTER IS DYING. I WILL GIVE HER MORE THAN WHAT SHE ASKS FOR. ALL RIGHT?”
The house fell silent.
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the walls.
From the kitchen came the sound of running water stopping.
A beat passed.
Then, softly, her mother replied, “Okay.”
Nothing else.
Jongin swallowed, chest tight, the reality of it settling over him again, not in a hospital room, not in whispers, but here, in the middle of a family argument about glitter and poster boards.
Outside, Y/N skipped down the steps, completely unaware, humming to herself as she waved the cash like a victory flag.
Inside, her parents stood quietly, holding on to each other in the only way they knew how.
And Jongin understood something then, deeply and painfully.
This wasn’t just a concert.
This was love,being spent freely, fiercely, while there was still time.
Half an hour later, the front door burst open.
“MOM! DAD! COME!” Y/N yelled, already dragging grocery bags inside as if she’d just completed a military operation.
She dumped three completely stuffed stationery-store bags onto the dining table with a dramatic thud and wiped her forehead.
Jongin blinked. “What… is all this.”
Her parents hurried in from the living room, her mother already suspicious, her father curious.
“Okay,” Y/N announced, clapping her hands together like a presenter. “Inventory time.”
She reached into her pocket first and placed a small stack of bills neatly into her father’s hand.
“Dad, I had ₩10,000 left after everything, so here.”
Her father stared at the money, then at her. “You’re returning the change.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I am an honest citizen.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Y/N pointed to the first bag and slid it aside reverently. “This is my art supply bag. Three A2 charts. Metallic markers. Normal markers. Glue. Extra glue. Glitter. Black tape. Clear tape. Emergency tape.”
Jongin blinked. “Why do you need emergency tape.”
“Because life is unpredictable,” she replied seriously.
She reached into the second bag and pulled out a six-pack of beer, placing it directly in front of her father.
“And some beer,” she said casually. “I was thinking we could all have some tonight.”
Her father’s face softened immediately. “Oh.”
Her mother nodded after a second. “Yeah… why not.” She picked it up. “I’ll put it in the fridge.”
Y/N then pulled out a styrofoam bowl and handed it to her dad.
“Tteokbokki for you.”
Her father smiled like he’d just been handed treasure. “You remembered.”
“Always.”
Next, she turned to Jongin and handed him a box.
“Fried chicken. Soy garlic.”
Jongin took it reflexively. “You… bought me food.”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “You exist in this house. You get fed.”
He laughed quietly, heart doing something stupid.
Her mother returned from the fridge just in time for Y/N to hand her a small box.
“Tanghulu for mom.”
Her mother’s expression cracked. “You know I like these.”
“I know everything,” Y/N said smugly.
Finally, she held up the last bag proudly. “And for me—ramyeon and marshmallows.”
Her father stared. “Together.”
“Yes.”
Her mother sighed deeply. “I raised this child.”
Her father cleared his throat and pointed upstairs. “Okay. Before you eat anything—go bathe and change into proper clothes. I cannot believe I let you leave the house like that.”
Y/N looked down at herself—hoodie, nightshirt, mismatched shoes still on her feet.
She nodded obediently. “Valid criticism.”
She gathered the art supplies under one arm and started up the stairs.
“Oh,” she called over her shoulder, grinning, “don’t touch my marshmallows.”
“GO,” her mother said, waving her off.
As Y/N disappeared upstairs, the house slowly filled with the comforting sounds of normal life—plastic rustling, fridge doors opening, containers being set down.
Jongin stood there holding the chicken box, watching the family move around each other with quiet familiarity.
Her father glanced at him and smiled gently. “She’s like this when she’s happy.”
Jongin nodded, swallowing hard.
“I can tell,” he said softly.
Upstairs, Y/N hummed to herself as she changed, already planning poster designs in her head—glitter, bold letters, maybe a second backup sign.
Downstairs, her family waited, food warming, beer chilling, the house alive with something fragile and precious.
Joy.
For tonight, at least, it was enough.
Y/N came back downstairs finally looking like a human being.
Hair brushed. Face washed. Hoodie replaced with a proper T-shirt and lounge pants. Still messy, but intentionally messy now.
She plopped down beside Jongin on the couch, immediately digging into a steaming bowl of Shin Ramyeon topped with marshmallows, like this was a completely normal culinary choice.
Jongin stared.
Her mother stared.
Her father very deliberately did not look.
“You’re eating that,” Jongin said slowly.
“Yes,” Y/N replied between slurps. “It’s sweet, spicy, and emotionally confusing. Like my life.”
Her mother sighed. “I should’ve stopped you.”
“No,” Y/N said firmly. “You raised me. This is your legacy.”
She ate happily for a moment, then turned toward her mother mid-bite.
“Mom, I need to go outfit shopping. Will you come with me?”
Her mother nodded immediately. “Yeah, sure.”
Jongin’s head snapped up. “Why not me?”
Y/N turned to look at him like he’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
“I have good fashion sense,” he added defensively. “I’m the ambassador of Gucci.”
She squinted at him.
“Yah,” she said flatly, “human Gucci, I don’t need good fashion. I need clothes that’ll get me noticed.”
He opened his mouth.
She cut him off with a stare.
He paused.
“…But we’ll notice you anyway,” Jongin said quietly. “We know you. And we know where you’ll be.”
She blinked.
Just once.
Then looked away, pretending to focus on her noodles.
“Fair,” she admitted. “But still.”
She slurped loudly.
“I already have something in mind.”
Her mother smiled knowingly. “Of course you do.”
Jongin leaned back, watching her, the bowl in her hands, the quiet fire in her eyes.
Whatever she had planned...
He knew one thing for sure.
It was going to be very her.
Y/N came back downstairs finally looking like a human being.
Hair brushed. Face washed. Hoodie replaced with a proper T-shirt and lounge pants. Still messy—but intentionally messy now.
She plopped down beside Jongin on the couch, immediately digging into a steaming bowl of Shin Ramyeon topped with marshmallows, like this was a completely normal culinary choice.
Jongin stared.
Her mother stared.
Her father very deliberately did not look.
“You’re eating that,” Jongin said slowly.
“Yes,” Y/N replied between slurps. “It’s sweet, spicy, and emotionally confusing. Like my life.”
Her mother sighed. “I should’ve stopped you.”
“No,” Y/N said firmly. “You raised me. This is your legacy.”
She ate happily for a moment, then turned toward her mother mid-bite.
“Mom, I need to go outfit shopping. Will you come with me?”
Her mother nodded immediately. “Yeah, sure.”
Jongin’s head snapped up. “Why not me?”
Y/N turned to look at him like he’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
“I have good fashion sense,” he added defensively. “I’m the ambassador of Gucci.”
She squinted at him.
“Yah,” she said flatly, “human Gucci, I don’t need good fashion. I need clothes that’ll get me noticed.”
He opened his mouth.
She cut him off with a stare.
He paused.
“…But we’ll notice you anyway,” Jongin said quietly. “We know you. And we know where you’ll be.”
She blinked.
Just once.
Then looked away, pretending to focus on her noodles.
“Fair,” she admitted. “But still.”
She slurped loudly.
“I already have something in mind.”
Her mother smiled knowingly. “Of course you do.”
Jongin leaned back, watching her, the bowl in her hands, the quiet fire in her eyes.
Whatever she had planned
He knew one thing for sure.
It was going to be very her.
They came back home just before evening.
Y/N kicked off her shoes at the door, already halfway down the hallway when she turned back to Jongin with a sudden burst of authority.
“Okay. You—” she pointed at him, very serious, “—need to leave. Go prepare. Idol duties. Warm-ups. Vocal care. Stretching. Being hot on stage.”
He blinked. “You’re kicking me out.”
“Yes.”
“What if you—”
“And before you argue,” she added quickly, “bring me my medicines. I forgot them in the rush.”
Jongin’s expression changed instantly.
“You forgot your medicines?” he asked, incredulous.
She winced. “In my defense, I was buying glitter.”
“Y/N,” he scolded, hands on his hips, voice firm in that way that meant he was worried. “You can’t just—”
“I know, I know,” she said, waving him off. “I’m sorry. Please. Go. I’ll see you directly at the concert.”
He hesitated, eyes searching her face.
“I don’t like this,” he muttered.
“I know,” she said softly. “But go. Please.”
He sighed, defeated. “Fine. I’ll send them in half an hour.”
He left reluctantly, glancing back twice before finally closing the door.
True to his word, thirty minutes later, the medicines arrived—neatly packed, labeled, with a message reminding her when to take them.
Y/N smiled at her phone, then disappeared into her room.
Three hours passed.
No sounds.
No yelling.
No chaos.
Her parents exchanged worried glances.
Then, suddenly
“Mom. Dad,” Y/N called from upstairs. “Turn off all the lights in the living room. All of them.”
Her mother frowned. “Why.”
“Trust me.”
A pause.
Then, one by one, the lights went out.
The living room sank into darkness.
Footsteps.
Y/N walked in slowly.
At first, there was nothing to see just her silhouette, standing still in the center of the room. No lights. No glow. Just black fabric blending into the dark.
Her parents leaned forward unconsciously.
Then
Click.
Warm yellow fairy lights bloomed softly along the edges of her hoodie, tracing the hood, the shoulders, the seams of her sleeves like a constellation wrapped around her body. The glow was gentle, almost golden, casting a halo-like warmth around her.
Her mother gasped.
“Oh…”
Her father whispered, “That’s… beautiful.”
Y/N grinned but didn’t say anything.
She turned them off again.
Darkness returned.
Then she pressed another switch.
This time, crisp white LED strips flickered on, clean, bright, precise.
Across her chest, glowing clearly in the dark, the words appeared:
EXO SARANGHAJA
Her parents stared.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth.
Her father blinked, then laughed softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “You really are… something else.”
Y/N finally broke into a huge smile.
“Well,” she said lightly, arms outstretched, lights glowing proudly, “if I’m going to scream my lungs out, I might as well be visible from space.”
Her mother walked over and hugged her carefully, lights brushing against her arms.
“You look radiant,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion.
Y/N hugged her back, resting her chin on her mother’s shoulder.
“I feel radiant,” she replied.
Somewhere across the city, Jongin was preparing for the stage stretching, breathing, becoming KAI again.
And here, in the quiet glow of fairy lights and white letters, Y/N stood ready to meet him not as his wife, not as a patient
But as an EXO-L who had waited her whole life for this night.
(this is how her outfit looks like)
Y/N started with the first poster like she was handling something sacred.
She laid the A2 chart flat on the dining table, smoothed it with both palms, and took a deep breath. Scissors in hand, she carefully cut out the Kyungsoo pictures she’d printed earlier—the good ones. Sharp jawline. Soft eyes. That one look that felt illegal even in still form.
She arranged them neatly along the border first, moving them an inch left, then right, then back again.
“Composition matters,” she muttered.
Once satisfied, she glued them down with care, pressing each corner like she was sealing evidence.
Then she uncapped the red glitter marker.
No hesitation.
Across the front, in big, bold letters that caught the light even before drying, she wrote:
DOH KYUNGSOO IS HOT !!!
She added three exclamation points. Then two more. Because restraint was overrated.
She flipped the chart over, didn’t even pause to think, and wrote on the back:
KYUNGSOO DADDY VIBES!
She leaned back in her chair, nodded once.
“Classic. Timeless.”
The second poster was where control began to slip.
This one was faster. Messier. More emotion, less planning.
She slapped the Kyungsoo images around the edges with reckless confidence, some tilted, some overlapping. Glue smeared on her fingers, glitter already sticking to her skin.
She grabbed a black marker first and wrote across the top:
D.O. WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE THAT???
Then, underneath, switching back to red glitter:
THIS IS A THREAT TO PUBLIC SAFETY
She laughed to herself, a sharp little sound of delight.
Flip.
On the back, she rewrote it carefully, making sure every letter was legible:
D.O.!! WHY DID YOU BRING 10,000 OTHER PEOPLE ON OUR DATE?
She underlined OUR DATE twice and added tiny glitter hearts like salt on a wound.
By the time she picked up the third poster, all remaining sanity had packed its bags.
She chose one massive photo for the center—the kind that made you stare too long and then feel judged for it.
She outlined the poster with glitter glue, thick and dramatic, then wrote across the front in unapologetic red sparkle:
KIM JONGIN I’M SORRY BUT DO KYUNGSOO IS ILLEGAL
She had to sit down after that one.
Flip.
Without missing a beat, she wrote:
KYUNGSOO! AHN YOHAN WAS SSOOOO DAMN HOT!!
From the kitchen, her parents froze.
Her mother turned slowly. “Who… is Ahn Yohan.”
Y/N didn’t even look up.
“Kyungsoo’s character in The Manipulated.”
Her father frowned. “Is he… nice.”
“No,” Y/N said cheerfully. “He’s a psychopath. He killed a lot of people.”
Silence.
Her mother blinked. “You’re attracted to the murderer.”
“Mom,” Y/N said patiently, “I’m attracted to the acting.”
Her father sighed. “I miss when you liked cartoon characters.”
She lined all three posters up on the table, glitter drying, chaos complete.
Her parents stood there, arms crossed, inspecting them like an exhibit.
Her mother finally asked, carefully, “Why… isn’t there a poster for Kai.”
Y/N didn’t even hesitate.
“Because I married him,” she replied simply.
Then she smiled, just a little.
“And my other bias deserves the same level of unhingedness.”
Her father rubbed his face. “We raised this.”
Her mother sighed. “And the world must now witness it.”
Y/N looked at her posters, eyes bright, heart full, already imagining the lights, the screams, the chants.
“EXO-L behavior,” she said proudly. “Non-negotiable.”
Concert day felt like judgment day for Y/N’s vocal cords.
She barely slept.
She barely ate.
She vibrated at a frequency that worried medical science.
By the time she reached the venue—hoodie zipped, black leggings on, black shoes laced tight, posters rolled carefully under one arm—she was already bouncing on the balls of her feet.
The moment she entered the pit, surrounded by EXO-Ls who were just as feral as she was, she felt it.
This was home.
Lights dimmed.
The opening VCR rolled.
The stadium erupted.
Y/N screamed so loud the girl next to her grabbed her arm and yelled, “ARE YOU OKAY?!”
“I’VE NEVER BEEN BETTER,” Y/N screamed back.
The stage rose.
The first beat hit.
She jumped.
She screamed lyrics.
She nailed every fan chant like it was muscle memory etched into her bones.
During MAMA, she screamed the chant until her voice cracked and kept going anyway.
During Monster, she growled the lyrics like she was possessed.
During Tempo, she clutched her chest during the acapella bridge and dropped into a crouch.
“I’M NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR THIS,” she yelled, laughing hysterically.
She danced with strangers. Screamed with them. Hugged them when certain lines hit too hard. She was glittering with sweat and joy and lightstick glow.
Then came her moment.
She took a breath.
Reached into her hoodie pocket.
And clicked the first switch.
The fairy lights came on.
Warm yellow glow traced the edges of her hoodie—soft at first, then unmistakable. Heads around her turned. People pointed.
On stage, Suho noticed first.
He tilted his head, squinting toward the pit.
Baekhyun followed his gaze, eyes widening.
Then Kai saw it.
He froze for half a second.
The light shifted again.
Y/N hit the second switch.
White LED strips lit up across her chest in sharp clarity, spelling out:
EXO SARANGHAJA
The pit exploded.
Suho laughed openly into the mic. Baekhyun pointed. Kai’s mouth curved despite himself.
She screamed, waving her lightstick, absolutely feral.
Then came fan interaction.
The members moved closer to the edge of the stage.
Y/N raised her first poster high.
Kyungsoo noticed immediately.
He walked over.
Close. Too close.
The crowd screamed.
He leaned down, read the front slowly.
DOH KYUNGSOO IS HOT !!!
He blinked.
Then laughed.
A real laugh.
He nodded, leaned into the mic. “Thank you.”
The crowd screamed again.
Y/N flipped the poster.
KYUNGSOO DADDY VIBES!
Kyungsoo froze.
Then he covered his face briefly with his hand, laughing again, shaking his head.
“Wow,” he said into the mic. “You’re very honest.”
Y/N screamed like she’d been struck by lightning.
Second poster.
She held it up immediately.
Kyungsoo read the front:
D.O. WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE THAT???
THIS IS A THREAT TO PUBLIC SAFETY
He leaned back, genuinely amused.
“I’m sorry,” he said calmly. “I’ll… try to look less like that.”
The crowd lost it.
She flipped it.
D.O.!! WHY DID YOU BRING 10,000 OTHER PEOPLE ON OUR DATE?
Kyungsoo stared.
Then nodded solemnly. “That one is on me.”
The arena erupted in laughter and screams.
Then she raised the third poster.
Kyungsoo read the front and immediately turned around, motioning someone over.
Kai.
The crowd went feral.
Kai walked over, confused, already smiling.
Kyungsoo pointed at the poster.
KIM JONGIN I’M SORRY BUT DO KYUNGSOO IS ILLEGAL
Kai laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Hey!”
Y/N flipped it.
KYUNGSOO! AHN YOHAN WAS SSOOOO DAMN HOT!!
Kyungsoo blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“Ahn Yohan… is hot?” he repeated into the mic, genuinely dumbfounded.
The entire arena screamed in unison:
“YESSSSSS!!!”
Kyungsoo stared at the crowd, then laughed, defeated. “I… see.”
Kai doubled over laughing.
Y/N screamed, crying, shaking, absolutely losing it.
The concert surged on, energy higher than ever.
Y/N screamed every lyric, jumped through every beat, cried during the soft songs, laughed during the playful ones.
For those hours, there was no illness.
No countdown.
No fear.
Just music.
Lights.
And a girl who had waited her whole life to be this loud.
And she was seen.
The second radiation appointment felt heavier than the first.
Not louder. Not scarier. Just… heavier.
Y/N sat on the narrow hospital bed with her legs dangling off the side, fingers twisting the loose thread of her hospital bracelet. The room smelled the same as before—clean, faintly metallic, impersonal—but this time her body remembered it. Her shoulders were already tense before anyone touched her.
Jisung stood near the wall, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching her out of the corner of his eye. Her parents sat close, her mother’s hand resting on Y/N’s knee, her father’s presence steady and quiet.
The nurse came in first, cheerful in that practiced way.
“Same process as last time,” she said gently. “We’ll get you positioned, fit the mask, and you’ll be done before you know it.”
Y/N nodded. “I know.”
Still, when they guided her into the treatment room, something in her chest tightened. The machine loomed above her—silent, precise, indifferent.
They helped her lie down.
The mask came next.
Lightweight, molded perfectly to her face, clicking into place with a soft finality. It pressed gently against her cheeks and forehead, restricting movement just enough to make her breathing feel louder than it actually was.
“You okay?” the technician asked.
“Yeah,” Y/N said, forcing her voice steady. “Just… don’t let me move.”
They adjusted her head position millimeter by millimeter, aligning her exactly the way the scans demanded. The room dimmed slightly. The hum of the machine started, low and constant.
Once again, everyone stepped out.
Once again, she was alone.
The machine rotated slowly, methodical, clinical. She stared at the ceiling, counting breaths like she’d been taught.
In.
Out.
Her head felt warm. Not painful—just strange. Like pressure behind her eyes. Her thoughts drifted and snapped back, drifted again. She thought of the concert. The lights. The screaming. Kyungsoo reading her poster and laughing.
She smiled faintly under the mask.
It didn’t last long.
When the machine powered down and the mask was removed, she blinked rapidly, disoriented for a moment before the room came back into focus.
Jisung was there immediately. Her parents too.
“How do you feel?” her mother asked, voice tight with worry.
“Tired,” Y/N admitted. “More than last time.”
The doctor came in shortly after, tablet in hand.
“The session went smoothly,” she said. “No complications.”
Everyone exhaled.
Then the doctor continued.
“I do want to talk about next steps.”
Y/N straightened slightly.
“The imaging suggests some stabilization,” the doctor explained carefully, “but given the aggressiveness of the tumor, I’d recommend a third round of radiation.”
Silence settled over the room.
“A third?” her father asked quietly.
“Yes,” the doctor said. “It could help prolong symptom control. It won’t change the ultimate prognosis, but it may slow neurological progression.”
Y/N looked down at her hands.
“And if I don’t?” she asked.
The doctor didn’t sugarcoat it. “Then symptoms may progress faster.”
Y/N nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Not yes. Not no.
Just okay.
The next day, her house exploded.
She was half-asleep on the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, when the doorbell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then knocking.
Before anyone could answer, the door swung open.
“SURPRISE.”
Nine people flooded in at once.
Pizza boxes. Beer packs. Ramyeon packets. Laughter loud enough to shake the walls.
Y/N shot upright. “What the hell—”
Jisung grinned like a menace. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“You could’ve warned me!”
“Unannounced chaos builds character.”
Her friends dropped onto the floor like they owned the place, spreading food everywhere. Someone handed her a slice of pizza before she could even protest.
“We’re staying,” one of them announced.
“Yes,” another added. “This is happening.”
Y/N stared at them, stunned… then laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that filled the room.
“Fine,” she said. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”
They sat on the floor in a loose circle—cross-legged, leaning against furniture, passing food around. Phones came out. Notes apps opened. Arguments began immediately.
“Vegas.”
“No—road trip first.”
“Convertible.”
“We’re going to die.”
“Worth it.”
Y/N sat in the middle, eyes shining, energy back in her limbs for the first time since the hospital.
“Okay,” she said, clapping once. “We’re combining everything.”
Jisung raised an eyebrow. “Everything.”
“Yes. Vegas. Club hopping. Long drive. Hangover-level stupidity. All of it.”
Groans. Cheers. Laughter.
From the kitchen doorway, Kai watched.
He didn’t sit with them. He didn’t interrupt.
He quietly brought out plates. Set down water bottles. Took empty boxes away. When someone asked for more napkins, he appeared without a word.
Every now and then, his eyes drifted back to Y/N.
She was animated—laughing too loud, gesturing wildly, already arguing about playlists. Alive in a way that made his chest ache.
One of her friends noticed him hovering.
“You don’t have to play host,” they said.
Kai shook his head lightly. “It’s fine.”
He meant it.
Because watching her like this—surrounded, loud, planning something reckless and joyful—felt like the only thing that mattered right now.
On the floor, Y/N laughed until her sides hurt.
For tonight, there were no machines.
No masks.
No countdowns.
Just pizza grease on fingers, friends arguing over Vegas hotels, and the fragile, precious illusion of time stretching a little longer than it should.
Y/N stood at the airport between her parents, passport in hand, watching the departure board flicker as announcements echoed overhead. For the first time in weeks, there was no familiar tall figure hovering a step behind her, no quiet hand reaching for her bag, no low voice reminding her to drink water.
Instead, there was her mother.
“Did you take your morning pills,” her mother asked, already rummaging through Y/N’s carry-on.
“Yes, Ma,” Y/N replied, resigned but smiling.
Her father stood slightly to the side, luggage trolley in hand, watching the two of them with the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He’d learned long ago that when his wife went into full mother-mode, the smartest thing to do was stay close but silent.
At check-in, Y/N tried to crack jokes.
“So,” she said brightly, “if I pass out dramatically in Rome, at least it’ll be historically accurate.”
Her mother didn’t even look up. “If you pass out, I will personally carry you back to the hotel and cancel the rest of the trip.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
“Necessary.”
Her father cleared his throat. “She means she loves you.”
“I know,” Y/N said softly.
On the plane, Y/N was firmly placed in the middle seat between her parents, as if she might attempt an escape at 30,000 feet.
Her mother tucked a blanket around her shoulders, adjusted the headrest, then pressed a bottle of water into her hands.
“Sleep,” she instructed.
“I might watch something.”
“No emotional movies.”
Y/N glanced at her father for help.
He shrugged apologetically. “Your mother cried watching a detergent commercial yesterday. We’re not risking it.”
Y/N laughed, the sound light and genuine, and settled back.
She slept through most of the flight.
Not the restless sleep she’d had lately, but a deeper one, her head tilting toward her mother’s shoulder, her breathing slow and even. Her mother stayed still the entire time, afraid movement might wake her.
Florence welcomed them with golden light.
The air felt warm, old, and unhurried, like the city itself had decided there was no need to rush anything ever again.
The moment Y/N stepped out of the airport, she stopped walking.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Her father turned. “What.”
“This place feels… kind,” she said. “Like it’s seen worse things than us.”
Her mother slipped an arm through hers. “Slowly.”
They drove into the city, Y/N pressed against the window, pointing out every narrow street and sun-warmed building.
“That looks like a painting.”
“That too.”
“That especially.”
Their hotel sat on a quiet street near the Arno, a small stone building with green shutters and a balcony that overlooked a row of terracotta rooftops. The moment they stepped inside the room, Y/N walked straight to the balcony and leaned out.
“I could live here,” she said dreamily.
Her mother set the bags down with a pointed look. “Sit first. Then imagine.”
Day one in Florence was deliberately gentle.
They walked slowly toward the Duomo, its massive dome rising into view little by little, until Y/N stopped in her tracks.
“No,” she said. “No way.”
Her father smiled. “Yes way.”
She craned her neck back, eyes wide. “Humans built this. With no Google.”
Her mother allowed exactly ten minutes of awe before saying, “Bench.”
Y/N obeyed, sitting beside her father, legs swinging slightly like a child’s.
At the Uffizi Gallery, Y/N grew animated, her lawyer brain switching briefly into overdrive.
“This painting survived wars,” she said excitedly. “Like actual wars. And here we are, complaining about queues.”
Her mother listened, amused, until Y/N’s voice began to soften and her posture slouched.
“Sit,” she said quietly.
Y/N opened her mouth to argue, then stopped, recognizing the familiar warning signs.
“…Okay.”
She sat without protest this time, letting her mother press a cool bottle of water into her hands.
That night, they ate pasta at a tiny trattoria recommended by the hotel owner. The tables were cramped, the food simple and perfect.
Y/N closed her eyes after the first bite. “I want to apologize to every jarred sauce I’ve ever eaten.”
Her father laughed. “Accepted.”
She talked more than she had in months, about childhood memories, about school trips, about things she’d forgotten she remembered. Her parents listened like each word was something they wanted to store carefully.
When her voice started to slur slightly, her mother reached across the table and squeezed her wrist.
“Time.”
Y/N sighed but nodded. “Okay.”
Rome was louder.
Bigger. Messier.
And Y/N loved it instantly.
The Colosseum left her silent for a full minute.
Her father watched her carefully. “Too much walking?”
She shook her head. “I just… can’t believe this is real.”
At the Roman Forum, she walked slower, absorbing the ruins, trailing her fingers along stone walls that had outlived empires.
“So many people lived and died here,” she murmured. “And life just… kept going.”
Her mother glanced at her sharply. “Careful.”
“I’m not being sad,” Y/N said quickly. “I’m being curious.”
They sat on the Spanish Steps in the late afternoon, Y/N eating gelato despite her mother’s warning glare.
“It’s pistachio,” Y/N argued. “That’s basically a vegetable.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“I regret nothing.”
She regretted it fifteen minutes later when she grew quiet, color draining slightly from her face.
Her father immediately stood. “Hotel.”
“I’m fine,” she protested weakly.
Her mother didn’t argue. She simply held Y/N’s hand and started walking.
At the Trevi Fountain, Y/N insisted on going back out at night.
“One wish,” she said firmly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Her parents exchanged a look, then nodded.
Y/N tossed the coin over her shoulder carefully, eyes closed.
Her mother watched her intently. “What did you wish for.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “More days like this.”
Her mother turned away, blinking hard.
Evenings in Rome were quiet.
Long showers. Early nights. Her parents sat with her, watching Italian television they barely understood, laughing anyway.
One night, as Y/N lay between them on the hotel bed, exhausted but content, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what,” her father asked.
“For not letting me pretend I’m invincible,” she said. “And for not treating me like I’m already gone.”
Her mother brushed her hair back gently. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Italy didn’t cure anything.
But it gave Y/N something she hadn’t realized she’d lost.
The right to be cared for.
And she let herself have it.
They landed in Korea just after sunrise.
The plane taxied slowly along the runway, morning light filtering in through the windows, dull and familiar after the golden warmth of Italy. Y/N stayed seated even after the seatbelt sign turned off, hands resting in her lap, eyes unfocused.
Florence had been slow. Rome had been loud.
Korea was precise.
Her parents didn’t rush her off the plane. Her mother walked beside her, hand hovering near Y/N’s elbow without touching, a silent readiness that said I’m here if you need me without turning it into a warning.
At arrivals, Y/N inhaled deeply.
“Back to reality,” she murmured.
Her father glanced at her. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
She smiled faintly. “I’m not. I just… want to work.”
They didn’t argue. That alone felt like progress.
Two days later, Y/N returned to her consultancy work.
Her office no longer looked like a war zone of litigation files and court prep binders. It was calmer now. Fewer files. More white space. A rhythm built around endurance rather than dominance.
She worked in blocks.
Forty minutes.
Break.
Water.
Medication.
Another forty minutes.
Clients adjusted. Some hesitated at first, unsure if the scaled-back version of her would be less effective.
They learned quickly that wasn’t the case.
She was sharper now. More selective. When she spoke, it mattered.
Still, something tugged at her.
The silence.
The distance from real cases.
One afternoon, she closed her laptop slowly and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
She missed the police station.
Not the chaos.
The people.
That evening, Jisung stopped by to drop off a file. He froze mid-step when he saw her expression.
“You’re thinking again,” he said.
She glanced at him. “I want to ask you something and I don’t want you to say no immediately.”
He sighed. “That sentence alone is dangerous.”
“I want to come to the station sometimes,” she said calmly. “With you. Not as a lawyer. As a consultant.”
He frowned instantly. “Y/N”
“I won’t run interrogations. I won’t stay long. I’ll sit at your desk, review files, help with legal framing. That’s it.”
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I am,” she replied quietly. “This is easy for me.”
He searched her face, expecting defiance, recklessness.
What he found instead was clarity.
“I won’t go in the field,” she continued. “And I’ll leave the moment you tell me to.”
Jisung exhaled slowly. “Let me talk to my boss.”
The next morning, they sat across from Superintendent Park.
Y/N didn’t wear courtroom black. She wore something softer, professional without armor. She let Jisung do most of the talking.
When Superintendent Park finally looked at her, his gaze was sharp but not unkind.
“You understand this won’t be ceremonial,” he said. “You’ll see unfinished cases. Ugly ones.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Y/N replied calmly.
“You won’t interfere with procedure.”
“Never.”
He paused. “And your health.”
“I’ll manage my limits,” she said honestly. “And if I can’t, I’ll step back.”
Silence stretched.
Then he nodded once.
“You can tag along,” he said. “Limited hours. You answer to Jisung. The moment this becomes unsafe, it stops.”
Y/N bowed her head slightly. “Thank you.”
The police station reacted before anyone officially announced anything.
“She’s here?”
“Is she back?”
“She brought coffee.”
That part never changed.
Y/N walked in carrying two cardboard trays, balancing them carefully, greeting people by name.
“No sugar, right.”
“You switched to green tea, didn’t you.”
“How’s your mother’s knee.”
She sat down at Jisung’s desk, pulling her laptop out, plugging in quietly, becoming part of the background hum rather than the center of it.
And that was the difference.
Before, she’d been a storm.
Before her diagnosis, Y/N had moved through interrogation rooms like a scalpel. Officers still talked about it.
About how she could ask about a suspect’s childhood for five minutes, then dismantle a fabricated alibi in one sentence.
About how people walked out crying without her ever raising her voice.
That was before.
Now, she stayed seated.
Reviewed files.
Highlighted inconsistencies.
Passed notes across the desk.
“This doesn’t hold up legally.”
“Push on the timeline, not the motive.”
“Get a warrant before this goes any further.”
She spoke softly.
People listened just as closely.
She only stood when Jisung asked, “Can you come in.”
And when she did, the shift was immediate.
She didn’t smile in interrogation rooms anymore.
She didn’t ask about families.
She sat down, folded her hands, and became the version of herself that had once terrified courtrooms.
“I don’t have time for lies,” she’d say calmly. “And neither do you.”
Her voice never changed.
But the room always did.
Then, just as quietly, she’d leave.
Back to Jisung’s desk. Back to her coffee. Back to asking an officer how his kid’s math test went.
The station adjusted around her.
They didn’t pity her.
They respected her.
And Jisung, watching her from across the room one evening, realized something important.
She wasn’t clinging to her old life.
She was choosing how much of it she still wanted to carry forward.
And that choice, that control, was what kept her standing.
Three months passed quietly.
Not the dramatic kind of passing where everything collapses at once, but the slow, insidious kind, where you only realize how much has changed when you stop to count it.
At first, it was small things.
Y/N started arriving at the police station later than usual, her steps slower, her shoulders heavier. She still brought coffee, still asked about people’s lives, still sat at Jisung’s desk with her laptop open—but she leaned back more often now, eyes closed for a few seconds longer than before.
Jisung noticed first.
“You okay,” he’d ask casually.
“Just tired,” she’d reply, just as casually.
Kai noticed next.
She started sleeping through alarms.
Forgetting meals.
Taking her medicine with shaking hands she tried to hide by turning away.
And then came the hospital routines.
They settled into them like an unwanted marriage of their own.
Every two weeks.
Neurology wing. Third floor. Same elevator. Same antiseptic smell that clung to clothes long after they left.
Kai always drove.
He never asked if she wanted him to.
He just picked up the keys.
At first, Y/N protested.
“I can go alone.”
“You won’t,” he replied, calm and final.
She learned not to argue.
In the waiting room, she sat curled slightly into herself, cardigan wrapped tight even in summer. Kai filled out forms he’d memorized by now, handed over insurance cards before the nurse could ask.
“How’s the pain,” the doctor would ask.
“Manageable,” Y/N replied.
Kai would glance up sharply.
“On a scale,” the doctor pressed.
She sighed. “Six.”
“Last time you said four,” Kai said quietly.
She didn’t meet his eyes.
They did scans. Blood work. Reflex tests.
Every time the machine whirred to life, Y/N closed her eyes and focused on counting Kai’s breaths beside her. He always stood where she could see him, arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending calm.
Afterward, they sat together while doctors spoke in careful, measured sentences.
Kai listened like a husband who couldn’t afford to miss a single word.
By the second month, the fatigue was undeniable.
She stopped tagging along to the station every day. Then every other day. Then only when Jisung explicitly asked for her.
Even then, she stayed seated the entire time.
One afternoon, Jisung watched her struggle to stand up after sitting too long.
“That’s it,” he said quietly. “You’re done for the day.”
She wanted to argue.
She didn’t have the energy.
Kai picked her up that evening without being told.
“You’re lighter,” he said without thinking.
She laughed weakly. “Don’t flatter me.”
“I’m not,” he replied, voice strained.
At home, he started doing things without asking.
Cooking softer foods.
Cutting pills in half when her hands shook too much.
Turning off lights when headaches hit.
She hated how much she needed it.
She loved how he never made her feel guilty for it.
By the third month, hospital visits became weekly.
Sometimes twice.
She started wearing hats more often, not because she was losing hair, but because the pressure headaches made her scalp ache unbearably.
The doctor spoke more gently now.
“We’re reaching a point where symptom management is the priority.”
Y/N nodded. “I know.”
Kai clenched his fists.
After one appointment, sitting in the car, Y/N suddenly said, “If I stop working one day, don’t panic.”
Kai stared straight ahead. “I will panic.”
She smiled faintly. “Then panic quietly.”
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face.
“Why won’t you let me be angry,” he asked suddenly. “At this.”
“Because it won’t fix anything,” she replied softly. “And I don’t have the time for us to fight the wrong battles.”
That shut him up.
Nights changed.
She woke up disoriented sometimes, reaching for him instinctively. He’d wake immediately, sit up, hold her until the tremors passed.
“You’re here,” she’d whisper.
“I’m here,” he’d answer, every time.
She stopped pretending she wasn’t scared.
He stopped pretending he wasn’t either.
And somewhere between hospital corridors, quiet car rides, and the slow narrowing of her world, something shifted.
Not love in the romantic sense, not yet.
But a deep, aching care that neither of them could escape anymore.
Time didn’t announce itself as it slipped away.
It just made itself known in routines.
And Kai stayed in every single one of them.
It happened on an ordinary afternoon.
That was the worst part of it.
The case itself wasn’t dramatic, mid-level fraud, cooperative suspect, nothing violent. Y/N hadn’t even planned to be there that day. She’d come in only because Jisung had asked for her opinion on a procedural loophole, and she’d agreed, insisting she felt fine.
She sat at the small table in the interrogation room, posture straight, notebook open in front of her. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. The suspect across from her fidgeted, eyes darting between her and the one-way mirror.
Y/N glanced at the file, then looked up.
“So,” she said calmly, “you’re saying the transaction occurred on the twelfth.”
The suspect nodded. “Yes. Like I said before.”
She tilted her head slightly. “And the funds were transferred at..?”
She stopped.
Her eyes flicked down to the page.
Then back up.
A pause stretched too long.
Jisung, standing just outside the room, frowned.
Y/N cleared her throat. “At… at…”
She blinked, once. Twice.
The word was there. She knew it was there. She could feel it, just out of reach, like a book on a shelf she’d reached for a thousand times before.
“Can you repeat that,” she asked, lightly, as if nothing were wrong.
The suspect hesitated. “I already did. It was 3:40 p.m.”
Jisung’s stomach dropped.
Inside the room, Y/N nodded slowly, then flipped a page in her notebook. The movement was slightly clumsy.
“And earlier you said..” she began, then stopped again.
Her brow furrowed.
“What did I just ask you,” she said quietly.
The suspect stared. “You… asked me about the time.”
Y/N laughed softly, but it came out wrong. Too breathy. Unsteady.
“Right,” she said. “Sorry. Long day.”
She tried again.
“The issue here is the… um…” She lifted her hand slightly, fingers curling as if she could physically grab the word. “The… juris—”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Silence filled the room.
Jisung didn’t wait anymore.
He opened the door.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping in. “We’re done for today.”
Y/N looked up at him, confusion flickering across her face. “No, I just— I need to finish this point. It’s about the… the…”
She shook her head, frustrated now. “Why can’t I say it.”
Jisung crouched slightly to meet her eye level. “Y/N. Look at me.”
She did.
Her pupils were uneven.
“Where are we,” he asked softly.
“In… in the” She glanced around the room, panic rising. “Police station. Interrogation room three.”
“Good,” he said, voice steady despite the alarm screaming in his chest. “And what were you doing.”
“I was…” Her voice cracked. “I was asking him something. I think. I already asked it. Didn’t I.”
The suspect shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Jisung straightened immediately. “Interview is over. An officer will escort you out.”
As the door closed behind them, Y/N’s hand suddenly flew to her head.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong.”
Her legs buckled slightly.
Jisung caught her instantly.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”
She clutched his sleeve. “I couldn’t find the word. Jisung. I know that word. I use it all the time.”
“I know,” he said again.
Her speech began to slow, syllables blurring together. “It was… important. A big one.”
“Jurisdiction,” he said gently.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. That one.”
He didn’t waste another second.
“Get my keys,” he barked to the nearest officer. “Now.”
Within minutes, they were moving through the station, Y/N half-leaning against him, head pressed to his shoulder.
“I don’t like this,” she murmured, disoriented. “I don’t like that I can’t tell what’s happening.”
“I know,” he replied, ushering her into the car. “You’re safe. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
She nodded weakly. “Okay.”
Halfway through the drive, her words slurred again.
“Jisung,” she said softly, eyes unfocused. “Promise me something.”
He swallowed. “What.”
“Don’t let them say I imagined this.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“I won’t,” he said firmly. “You’re not imagining anything.”
The hospital lights swallowed them moments later.
As doctors rushed her inside, Jisung stood in the corridor, hands shaking for the first time in months.
This wasn’t just fatigue anymore.
This was the tumor reminding them both, cruelly, unmistakably, that time was no longer theoretical.
The neurologist didn’t rush.
That alone told Y/N everything before he said a word.
She sat on the examination bed, feet dangling slightly above the floor, hands folded together to keep them from shaking. Jisung stood to her left, arms crossed tightly, jaw set. Kai stood near the window, silent, watching the city outside like he could bargain with it if he looked hard enough.
The MRI images glowed on the screen behind the doctor—slices of her brain in stark grayscale.
He cleared his throat gently.
“The episode you experienced today,” he began, “was not incidental.”
Y/N nodded once. “I know.”
He turned the screen slightly toward her, pointing with a pen, careful not to dramatize it.
“This is the lesion in the brainstem,” he said. “Specifically, the upper pons extending toward the midbrain. As you know, that location governs speech coordination, memory retrieval, motor planning, and consciousness.”
Jisung swallowed hard.
“What’s changed,” Y/N asked calmly.
“The rate of progression,” the doctor replied. “The most recent scan shows increased infiltration compared to your last imaging. That explains the aphasia episode, difficulty retrieving words and the transient disorientation.”
Kai’s shoulders tensed.
“So it’s getting worse faster,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” the doctor answered honestly. “The tumor is behaving aggressively.”
Y/N exhaled slowly. “Which means the ten months was… optimistic.”
The doctor didn’t correct her immediately.
“It was an estimate based on the initial growth pattern,” he said carefully. “Given this acceleration, symptom-only management may not sustain neurological function for that entire period.”
Jisung leaned forward. “How much time are we talking about.”
The doctor paused. “With medication alone, steroids to reduce edema, anti-seizure prophylaxis, cognitive support we would expect progressive neurological decline. Realistically, that may shorten her functional time frame to several months.”
Silence pressed heavily into the room.
Kai turned toward Y/N instinctively. “No.”
She didn’t look at him.
“What are the other options,” she asked instead.
The doctor nodded, as if he’d expected that question.
“There is palliative radiotherapy,” he said. “Not curative. But in some cases, localized radiation can slow tumor progression temporarily by reducing cellular activity and swelling.”
“How temporary,” Y/N asked.
“Best case,” he said carefully, “it may stabilize symptoms for several months. Possibly closer to the original ten-month estimate.”
Jisung frowned. “What’s the cost.”
The doctor didn’t soften this part.
“Radiation to the brainstem carries risk,” he said. “Fatigue. Worsening nausea. Cognitive fog. Potential loss of fine motor coordination. There is also a possibility that symptoms temporarily worsen before they improve.”
Kai’s voice cracked. “And if she doesn’t do it.”
“We continue medical management only,” the doctor replied. “Focus on comfort, cognitive clarity for as long as possible, and quality of life.”
Y/N stared at the scan.
Two paths.
Neither good.
One bought time at the cost of how she might experience it.
The other preserved clarity, at the risk of having less of it.
“If I do one or two rounds,” she asked quietly, “does that lock me into a full protocol.”
“No,” the doctor said. “We can reassess after one course. This would be symptom-modifying, not a standard oncologic regimen.”
She nodded slowly.
Kai finally stepped forward. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
“Yes,” she replied gently. “I do.”
She looked at the doctor again. “If I choose radiation, am I likely to lose my ability to speak like that again.”
“It’s possible,” he admitted. “But without intervention, that risk increases regardless.”
She absorbed that.
“I don’t want chemotherapy,” she said clearly. “I won’t tolerate systemic toxicity for a disease we can’t cure.”
The doctor nodded. “That’s reasonable. Chemotherapy penetration to the brainstem is limited in cases like this.”
Jisung exhaled shakily.
Y/N finally turned toward Kai.
“I don’t want to be sedated through my last months,” she said softly. “But I also don’t want to disappear too quickly.”
Kai looked at her like he was holding something fragile and breaking at the same time.
“I don’t care how tired you get,” he said hoarsely. “I just want you here.”
She smiled faintly. “Then radiation. One round. Maybe two. We’ll see how my body reacts.”
The doctor nodded, making notes. “We’ll schedule a planning CT. Low-dose, targeted. And we’ll continue your current medication regimen in the meantime.”
He paused, then added gently, “You should prepare for fluctuations. Good days and bad days.”
Y/N nodded. “I already am.”
As the appointment ended and the doctor stepped out, the room fell quiet.
Jisung stared at the floor, fists clenched.
Kai sat beside Y/N on the bed, not touching her yet, afraid of making it real.
“I forgot the word jurisdiction today,” she said softly, breaking the silence.
Kai closed his eyes.
“I know,” she continued. “And one day, I’ll forget more than words.”
He shook his head. “Stop.”
She reached out then, resting her hand over his.
“So let me choose how much time I get to forget,” she said gently.
He didn’t argue again.
He just held her hand.
And for now, that was enough.
Kai didn’t bring it up immediately.
He waited until Y/N was asleep that night, finally asleep, breathing shallow but steady, the tension eased just enough for him to let himself think. He sat on the edge of the bed, phone in his hand, staring at the list she’d written weeks ago in uneven handwriting.
Paris.
Italy with parents.
Vegas.
EXO concert.
Recording session.
The last one circled twice.
She hadn’t asked for much. Not really. Just moments. Just proximity to things she loved.
Kai stood quietly and stepped out onto the balcony.
Then he called Baekhyun.
Baekhyun picked up on the second ring. “You don’t call this late unless something’s wrong.”
Kai exhaled slowly. “I’m worried she won’t have time.”
There was no need to explain who she was.
Baekhyun went quiet. “The doctors.”
“They’re trying radiation,” Kai said. “But it’s aggressive.”
Baekhyun sighed. “Okay. Tell me what you need.”
“She wanted to sit in a recording session,” Kai said. “Not perform. Not be introduced. Just… be there.”
Baekhyun hummed thoughtfully. “We’re not recording right now.”
Kai’s heart sank.
“But,” Baekhyun continued, “Stray Kids are.”
Kai blinked. “What.”
“They’re having a comeback. JYP’s studio. I talked to Chan once, solid kid. If I explain the situation… I think they’d be open to letting her sit in. Quietly.”
Kai swallowed. “You’d do that.”
Baekhyun didn’t hesitate. “Of course I would.”
There was a pause.
“Don’t tell her yet,” Baekhyun added gently. “Let it be a surprise.”
Kai smiled faintly for the first time all day. “Thank you.”
He told Y/N the next morning anyway.
He never was good at keeping things from her.
She was sitting at the dining table with Jisung, poking at her breakfast half-heartedly, when Kai cleared his throat.
“So,” he said carefully. “I talked to Baekhyun.”
Her head snapped up. “About what.”
He tried to keep his voice casual. “The recording session you mentioned. The one on your list.”
Her eyes widened. “Jongin—”
“Before you say anything,” he continued quickly, “we’re not having a comeback right now. But someone else is.”
She leaned forward instinctively. “Who.”
Kai smiled, small but proud. “Stray Kids.”
For a second, Y/N just stared at him.
Then she laughed. Loud. Unrestrained. The kind of laugh that startled even herself.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Kai said. “They’re willing to let you sit in on one of their sessions. No cameras. No announcements. Just… you.”
Her hands flew to her mouth.
Jisung blinked between them, then broke into a grin. “Well. Look at that.”
Y/N turned to him, eyes shining. “I get to attend the recording of my favorite fourth-gen band.”
“And,” Jisung added lightly, leaning back in his chair, “you’re already going to the concert of your favorite third-gen band.”
She stared at both of them.
Then, quietly, “You’re really doing this.”
Kai shrugged, trying to downplay the weight of it. “We’re just following instructions.”
She shook her head slowly, overwhelmed. “I wanted these things because I thought they were impossible.”
Jisung softened. “You underestimated how many people want to make sure you live loudly.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry.
Instead, she smiled, wide, bright, alive.
“Okay,” she said firmly. “Then I’m doing all of it.”
Kai watched her, chest aching.
For the first time since the diagnosis, the bucket list didn’t feel like a countdown.
It felt like a promise.
Baekhyun didn’t waste time.
He called that same night, pacing slowly across his living room, phone pressed to his ear, thumb tapping restlessly against the screen until the call finally connected.
“Hyung,” a familiar warm voice answered, slightly breathless. “What’s up.”
“Chan,” Baekhyun said, relief slipping into his tone immediately. “You got a minute.”
“For you, always,” Bang Chan replied. “What’s going on.”
Baekhyun stopped pacing and leaned against the counter. “I’m calling about something… personal. And important.”
That made Chan go quiet instantly.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “I’m listening.”
Baekhyun took a breath. He didn’t dramatize it. Didn’t soften it either.
“There’s someone very close to us,” he said. “A lawyer. She helped Jongin through something really serious. She’s… very sick. Terminal.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end.
“Oh,” Chan said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“She has a bucket list,” Baekhyun continued. “One of the things she wanted—just wanted—was to sit in on a recording session. No cameras. No introductions. Just to watch how music is made.”
Chan didn’t interrupt.
“We’re not recording right now,” Baekhyun said. “But you are.”
There was a pause. Then Chan spoke, voice firm without hesitation.
“If it’s something that gives her comfort, I want to help.”
Baekhyun closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have to clear it with the company,” Chan added immediately. “Studio rules, schedules, privacy—you know how it is. But don’t worry. I’ll push.”
Baekhyun smiled faintly. “I knew you would.”
Chan chuckled softly. “Hyung, this industry takes a lot from people. If we can give something back, even once, it matters.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Does she know yet.”
“Not officially,” Baekhyun replied. “We didn’t want to promise anything before it was real.”
“Then let me make it real,” Chan said. “I’ll talk to JYP first thing tomorrow. I’ll call you back.”
Baekhyun nodded, even though Chan couldn’t see it. “Whatever the answer is—thank you for even considering it.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Chan replied gently. “Let’s get her into that room.”
When the call ended, Baekhyun stayed still for a long moment, phone resting in his hand.
Then he exhaled slowly.
Some wishes were big.
Some were quiet.
And sometimes, the quiet ones were the ones worth fighting hardest for.
Bang Chan called back the next evening.
Baekhyun answered immediately.
“Hyung,” Bang Chan said, and Baekhyun could hear the smile in his voice. “I talked to the company.”
Baekhyun leaned against the wall, heart thudding. “And.”
“They said yes,” Chan replied simply. “JYPE’s okay with it.”
Baekhyun closed his eyes for a second, relief washing over him. “Really.”
“Yeah,” Chan continued. “There are conditions, obviously. No photos, no social media, no press, no names mentioned outside the studio. She comes in quietly, sits where the staff sits, leaves quietly. But she’s welcome.”
“That’s more than enough,” Baekhyun said immediately. “She didn’t want attention anyway.”
Chan hummed. “I figured. She just wants to listen.”
“Yes,” Baekhyun said softly. “That’s all.”
“I’ll coordinate with the studio manager,” Chan added. “You tell me a date that works for her health-wise. We’ll adjust the session timing.”
Baekhyun nodded, already pulling up his calendar. “I’ll send you a date tonight.”
“Take your time,” Chan said gently. “We’ll make it work.”
When the call ended, Baekhyun didn’t move for a long moment.
Then he messaged Chan a date—one that lined up between hospital appointments, radiation planning, and days when Y/N usually felt strongest.
Chan replied almost immediately.
Got it. Booked. We’ll be waiting.
Baekhyun called Kai first.
“Hyung,” Kai answered, voice cautious, like he was bracing himself.
“It’s confirmed,” Baekhyun said.
There was a pause. “Confirmed… how.”
“JYPE approved it,” Baekhyun replied. “She can sit in on a Stray Kids recording session. Quietly. No pressure.”
Kai exhaled sharply, hand coming up to cover his mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “You have no idea—”
“I do,” Baekhyun interrupted gently. “That’s why I did it.”
Kai swallowed. “When.”
Baekhyun gave him the date. “Assuming she’s up for it.”
“She will be,” Kai said immediately. “Even if she has to crawl in there.”
“Don’t let her crawl,” Baekhyun deadpanned. “I’ll kill you.”
Kai let out a weak laugh. “I’ll tell her.”
He told Y/N that night.
She was curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, a heating pad pressed gently against the back of her neck. She looked exhausted—but peaceful in that rare, fleeting way that came after a good day.
“Hey,” Kai said softly.
She looked up. “You’re doing the voice.”
He smiled faintly. “Baekhyun called.”
Her eyes widened instantly. “And.”
He sat down beside her, careful not to jostle her. “It’s approved.”
She blinked. “Approved.”
“Stray Kids,” he said. “The recording session. JYPE said yes.”
For a second, she didn’t react at all.
Then her hands started shaking.
“Don’t—” she whispered. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “Date’s set. Chan cleared it himself.”
Her breath hitched.
“You’re serious,” she said, voice breaking. “I get to go.”
“Yes.”
She laughed suddenly, sharp and breathless, then covered her face with both hands as tears spilled through her fingers.
“Oh my god,” she said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Oh my god.”
Kai watched her carefully. “We don’t have to if you’re not feeling well that week.”
She dropped her hands immediately. “I’m going.”
He smiled. “I figured.”
She leaned back against the couch, eyes glassy but bright. “I just wanted to see it. How songs are born.”
“You will,” he said quietly.
She looked at him then, really looked at him.
“Thank you for not letting my list stay a list,” she said.
He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.
Somewhere else in the city, a studio was being prepared.
And for the first time in days, Y/N wasn’t counting time.
She was counting moments.
The studio felt familiar the moment Y/N stepped inside.
Not comfortable—she was too aware of the wires, the glass, the quiet intensity—but familiar in the way something you’ve loved from a distance suddenly feels real.
She stopped just past the doorway, eyes flicking instinctively to the consoles, the mic setup, the lyric sheets taped to the glass.
“Oh,” she whispered, barely audible. “This is… exactly how I imagined it.”
Kai smiled softly behind her. “You’ve imagined this.”
“About a hundred times,” she admitted, then caught herself and laughed quietly. “Sorry. Professional composure.”
From the control room, Bang Chan noticed immediately.
He stood up, smile warm and easy. “You must be Y/N.”
She bowed reflexively. “Yes. Thank you so much for letting me be here. I’m a STAY, so—” she stopped herself, flustered. “I mean. I’ll be quiet.”
Chan chuckled. “You’re allowed to be a fan and a person. Sit wherever you like.”
Behind him, Changbin glanced over with curiosity.
“She’s the lawyer hyung told us about,” he said.
Han grinned. “Cool. Don’t worry, we mess up all the time. Very educational.”
Y/N laughed, the tension easing immediately. “That actually helps.”
She took the seat closest to the console, hands folded in her lap, heart beating faster than she’d expected. This wasn’t just a studio. This was the place where songs she’d looped during long nights were made.
The booth door opened.
Lee Know entered first, rolling his shoulders.
Hyunjin followed, adjusting his headphones with practiced ease.
Felix waved the second he noticed her.
Seungmin gave a polite nod and a smile.
I.N peeked out from behind the mic stand, eyes bright.
Y/N’s lips parted slightly.
She pressed them together, clearly fighting the urge to say oh my god out loud.
Kai noticed and leaned in, whispering, “Breathe.”
She mouthed back, I am.
The session started.
Felix went first.
The moment his voice dropped into that low register, Y/N’s shoulders visibly tensed—not in fear, but in awe. She’d heard it a thousand times through headphones. Hearing it raw, unfiltered, sent a shiver straight down her spine.
She clasped her hands together tighter, grounding herself.
Hyunjin followed, recording the same line again and again, subtle variations each time.
Chan stopped him gently. “Pull back just a little at the end. Let the silence do the work.”
Hyunjin nodded. “Got it.”
Y/N leaned forward unconsciously.
She watched Bang Chan, Changbin, and Han work together—rewinding, debating, tweaking lyrics mid-sentence.
“No, no,” Han said, shaking his head. “That line sounds cool, but it doesn’t feel right.”
Changbin leaned closer to the screen. “Then let’s strip it down. Less noise. More intent.”
Chan nodded. “Yeah. Honesty first.”
Y/N’s eyes burned.
This was it.
This was why she loved them.
Not perfection. Process.
Seungmin stepped into the booth, voice steady and clear, recording harmonies that layered gently over the track. I.N followed, his tone softer, careful, taking direction seriously.
At one point, Chan played a section back.
The room went quiet.
Y/N covered her mouth.
“That part,” she whispered without thinking. “It feels like… release.”
Chan turned toward her, surprised but pleased. “That’s exactly what we were aiming for.”
Felix popped his headphones off during a short break and leaned into the control room.
“You’re really quiet,” he said kindly. “Are you okay.”
Y/N laughed softly. “I’m trying very hard not to fangirl.”
He grinned. “You can. We won’t combust.”
She smiled, eyes shining. “Then… I just want to say, thank you. Your music helped me through some really hard nights.”
The room stilled for half a second.
Then Chan spoke gently. “That means more than you know.”
As the session wrapped, no one rushed her out. No one made it a spectacle.
Just before they left, Chan turned to her again.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “This was… grounding.”
Y/N nodded, voice thick. “For me too. I’ve been a STAY for a long time. Seeing this, seeing how much you care, it mattered.”
Out in the hallway, away from the glass and the soundproofing, she leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, smiling like she’d just been handed something precious.
Kai watched her quietly.
“You’re really happy,” he said.
She opened her eyes. “Yeah. I am.”
For once, being a fan hadn’t meant being distant.
It had meant being exactly where she was meant to be.
The radiation appointment was scheduled for early morning.
Too early for traffic, too early for excuses.
Y/N sat in the back seat of the car, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes fixed on the road ahead even though she wasn’t driving. Kai was behind the wheel, both hands tight on it, knuckles pale. He hadn’t turned on the music. He hadn’t spoken since they left.
Her parents followed in a separate car.
They insisted on coming.
“I’m not doing this alone,” her mother had said the night before, voice firm, unyielding. “And neither are you.”
The oncology center rose ahead of them—clean glass, pale stone, the kind of building designed to feel neutral and safe. Y/N exhaled slowly as they pulled into the parking lot.
“This is where I draw the line,” she joked lightly. “No hospital gowns with open backs.”
Kai glanced at her sharply. “Not funny.”
She smiled faintly. “A little funny.”
Inside, the air smelled sterile and calm. Too calm.
The receptionist greeted them softly, already familiar with Y/N’s name. Wristband. Forms. Consent papers explained in careful, clinical language.
Her father read every line.
Her mother hovered close enough that their shoulders brushed.
The radiation oncologist arrived—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a voice trained to be steady without being cold.
“This is palliative radiotherapy,” she explained, pulling up diagrams. “Targeted to reduce tumor activity and surrounding edema. The goal is symptom stabilization. Not cure.”
Y/N nodded. “I understand.”
“We’ll begin with one fraction today,” the doctor continued. “Low-dose. We’ll reassess before proceeding further.”
Kai leaned forward. “What should we expect today.”
“Fatigue,” the doctor said. “Possibly nausea. Headache. Neurological symptoms may fluctuate.”
Her mother swallowed hard. “Will it hurt.”
“No,” the doctor replied gently. “But it may feel… unsettling.”
Y/N signed the consent form without hesitation.
The room where they prepared her was quiet and dim.
They asked her to lie down, to stay very still. They molded a mask—lightweight, custom-fitted—to keep her head immobile during treatment. When they placed it over her face, Y/N’s breath caught for just a moment.
Kai noticed immediately.
“I’m right here,” he said quietly.
She nodded, eyes blinking rapidly beneath the mesh. “I know.”
Her parents weren’t allowed inside the treatment room.
That nearly broke her mother.
“I’ll be just outside,” she promised, voice shaking. “The whole time.”
Y/N reached for her hand. “Ma. I’ll be okay.”
Her mother kissed her forehead like she used to when Y/N was a child. “You better be.”
When the machine began to move, the room filled with a low mechanical hum. Y/N stared up at the ceiling, counting breaths, counting seconds.
She thought about Italy.
About music being made.
About lists still unfinished.
The procedure itself was short.
When it ended, the mask lifted, and the room seemed to exhale with her.
Kai was there the moment they wheeled her out, crouching beside her chair.
“How do you feel,” he asked softly.
“Tired,” she admitted. “Like I ran a marathon lying down.”
Her parents rushed forward.
Her mother cupped Y/N’s face carefully, eyes scanning for signs of pain. Her father rested a steadying hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
“That’s it,” her father said quietly. “First one done.”
Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “One down.”
They stayed for observation afterward. Vitals checked. Instructions repeated. Emergency symptoms explained again.
On the drive home, Y/N leaned her head against the window, exhaustion settling deep in her bones.
Kai glanced at her at a red light. “We can stop working. Everything. Just rest.”
She opened her eyes. “I don’t want to stop living.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Her parents watched her from the rearview mirror, fear and pride tangled together.
That night, Y/N fell asleep early, medication lined neatly on the bedside table, Kai sitting nearby in the dark, listening to her breathe.
The radiation hadn’t taken anything yet.
But it had drawn a line.
And all of them felt it.
It happened close to midnight.
Y/N was finally asleep—properly asleep this time, not the restless drifting that had become normal lately. The medication had pulled her under gently, her breathing even, one arm flung over the pillow like she was still fighting sleep even in surrender.
Kai stayed seated on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular.
From the kitchen came a soft clink.
“Jongin,” her mother called quietly. “Come. Tea will get cold.”
He followed her in.
The kitchen light was warm, deliberately dimmed. Her father was already seated, sleeves rolled up, mug in hand. This wasn’t an interrogation. This was family territory.
They sat.
For a moment, the only sound was the kettle settling.
Then her mother sighed, long and tired, and smiled faintly.
“You know,” she said, “we’re worried about her memories.”
Kai nodded immediately. “Me too.”
“Not the medical kind,” her father clarified gently. “The her kind.”
Kai leaned back slightly, listening.
“She has always remembered things intensely,” her mother continued. “Moments. Feelings. Music. She doesn’t just remember—she relives.”
Kai swallowed. “She’s like that even now.”
Her mother smiled. “That hasn’t changed.”
Then her expression shifted, softening into something almost mischievous.
“Do you remember your first fan meeting here,” she asked suddenly.
Kai blinked. “I… there were many.”
“This one was years ago,” her father said, amused. “She was still in school. Dragged us along.”
Kai’s brows knit slightly.
“She stood in line for hours,” her mother added. “Wouldn’t sit down. Wouldn’t drink water. We were convinced she’d faint.”
Kai winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh no,” her mother laughed lightly. “She was thrilled.”
Her father leaned back in his chair. “She practiced what she’d say to you. For weeks.”
Kai let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Really.”
“Oh yes,” her mother said. “And then when she finally reached you…”
She paused for dramatic effect.
“She forgot everything.”
Kai smiled despite himself. “That happens.”
“She was shaking,” her father said fondly. “Hands trembling like she was holding electricity.”
Kai’s chest tightened.
“You were greeting fans,” her mother continued. “Shaking hands. Smiling. The usual.”
Kai nodded slowly. “I remember that.”
“Well,” her mother said, eyes bright now, “you shook her hand.”
Kai froze slightly. “I did.”
Her father chuckled. “She came back to us looking like she’d been struck by lightning.”
Her mother laughed softly. “She stared at her hand for a full minute.”
Kai smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. “What did she say.”
Her mother straightened, trying very hard not to laugh.
“She said,” her mother quoted, “‘I shook hands with Kai.’”
Kai laughed quietly. “That’s… cute.”
“And then,” her father added, eyes crinkling, “‘The next time I hold his hand will be at the altar.’”
Kai’s breath caught.
“I’m serious,” her father said quickly, smiling. “Dead serious. No irony.”
Her mother nodded. “We told her to stop being dramatic.”
“She told us,” her father continued, “‘Just wait. I’ll prove it.’”
Kai stared at the table, stunned, heart thudding uncomfortably hard.
“She didn’t say it like a fantasy,” her mother said gently. “She said it like a plan.”
Kai rubbed a hand over his face, laughing softly in disbelief. “She was… something.”
“She still is,” her mother replied warmly.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Kai spoke quietly. “I wish I’d known her then.”
Her father smiled. “You’re knowing her now. Just… in a different chapter.”
Kai nodded slowly.
“I’m scared she’ll forget things like that,” he admitted. “Moments that mattered to her.”
Her mother reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
“Then you’ll help her remember,” she said lightly. “Tell her stories. Remind her of who she’s always been.”
Her father added, teasing gently, “And maybe hold her hand a little more now. She waited long enough.”
Kai laughed softly, eyes stinging.
“I can do that,” he said.
Her mother stood and squeezed his shoulder. “Good. Because she always believed you would.”
When Kai returned to the bedroom, he sat quietly beside Y/N and took her hand carefully in his.
She stirred slightly, fingers curling instinctively around his.
It began with Kai refusing to let Y/N plan it alone.
She was at the dining table again, laptop open, notebooks spread like evidence files, hair tied up in a messy knot, jaw clenched in concentration. He watched her for a few minutes from the doorway, then walked in and deliberately pulled a chair out beside her.
“No,” he said, sitting down.
She didn’t look up. “No what?”
“No solo planning. This is our trip.”
She finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You’re terrible at logistics.”
“I’m excellent at logistics,” he replied calmly. “I just outsource them usually.”
She snorted despite herself. “That explains a lot.”
He leaned over, scanning her screen. “Flights?”
“Direct. No red-eyes. No layovers,” she said immediately.
“Agreed,” he said. “Business class.”
She turned sharply. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” he replied. “You get tired easily.”
“I do not—”
“You fell asleep during a murder documentary yesterday.”
She glared. “That documentary was boring.”
He smiled faintly. “Business class.”
She sighed, defeated. “Fine. But you’re paying.”
“I always was.”
They booked the flights together, Kai insisting on aisle seats so she could stretch, then switching at the last second so she got the window anyway. She noticed.
“You did that on purpose.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hotel planning took longer than flights.
Every place he suggested, she vetoed.
“Too flashy.”
“Too influencer.”
“I don’t want a hotel that smells like luxury candles and ego.”
Kai leaned back, amused. “You married into luxury.”
“Yes,” she replied dryly, “and I would like to escape it briefly.”
They finally settled on a quiet boutique hotel near the Seine. Stone exterior. Wooden floors. Balconies with iron railings. Close enough to walk everywhere, far enough from crowds.
Kai noticed she zoomed in on the map repeatedly, checking distances.
“You okay with walking,” he asked casually.
She nodded too fast. “Of course.”
He didn’t push.
Then came the itinerary.
She wrote it neatly, almost reverently.
Day one: Arrival. Short walk. Early dinner.
Day two: Louvre. Two hours maximum.
Day three: Montmartre. Cafés only.
Day four: Seine walk. Eiffel Tower at night.
Day five: blank.
Kai tapped the Eiffel Tower line. “Night.”
“Always night,” she said. “It’s dramatic.”
He smiled. “I can make that happen.”
She pointed at the blank fifth day. “This stays empty.”
“Why.”
“Because I don’t want to plan who I’ll be that day,” she said quietly. “I want to discover it.”
Kai nodded. “Okay.”
When the last confirmation email arrived, she leaned back, staring at the screen.
“We’re really doing this,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied. “We are.”
At the airport, Kai stayed close without hovering.
He took her passport before she asked, rolled the suitcase effortlessly, guided her through security with a hand at her back. When she nearly tripped taking her shoes off, his grip steadied her instinctively.
She glanced up. “Don’t baby me.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You sighed.”
“That was internal.”
On the plane, she claimed the window, pressing her forehead against the glass as the city lights shrank below them.
“I’ve imagined Paris like this,” she said softly. “Leaving something behind.”
He watched her reflection in the glass. “What are you leaving.”
She smiled faintly. “Stress.”
He didn’t know whether to believe her.
She fell asleep before takeoff, head tipping toward his shoulder. He adjusted the blanket, heart tightening at how light she felt leaning against him.
Paris smelled like rain and bread.
Y/N stepped out of the airport and laughed, loud and unfiltered, tilting her face upward.
“Oh,” she said. “This is dangerous.”
“Why.”
“I might become unbearable.”
“You already are.”
She grinned. “Excellent.”
The first day unfolded gently. They walked along the Seine, her arm looped through his, her pace enthusiastic at first, then subtly slower. She stopped constantly to photograph reflections in puddles, couples arguing in French, street musicians tuning guitars.
“This feels real,” she said. “Not postcard Paris.”
By dinner, her laughter softened. Her steps shortened.
Kai noticed immediately.
“Back to the hotel,” he said gently.
She protested weakly, then sighed. “Okay. But only because bread betrayed me.”
At the hotel, she collapsed onto the bed, shoes still on. He ordered soup and tea without asking.
“You’re very good at this,” she murmured.
“At soup.”
“At care.”
He didn’t respond.
Day two was the Louvre.
She insisted on going even when he offered to skip it.
“I refuse to die having never seen Mona Lisa,” she said dramatically.
“You’re not dying,” he said too quickly.
She paused, then smiled. “Not today.”
They lasted exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes.
She admired sculptures with theatrical reverence, then slumped dramatically onto a bench.
“My feet have filed a formal complaint,” she announced.
He handed her water immediately. “Break.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder briefly, pretending it was casual.
Day three was Montmartre.
She was unstoppable.
She climbed stairs laughing, flirted shamelessly with café owners, argued passionately about croissants. Halfway up, she stopped suddenly, breathless.
Kai immediately stepped closer. “Sit.”
“I’m just admiring the view.”
“You’re pale.”
She waved him off, then relented, sitting on the steps.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered.
“Like what.”
“Like you’re memorizing me.”
He looked away.
Day four was the Eiffel Tower.
Kai saved it for night, just like she wanted.
They walked toward it slowly, the structure rising above them, lights flickering to life as dusk settled.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Kai watched her, not the tower.
“It’s… bigger than I imagined,” she said, voice trembling slightly.
“It always is,” he replied.
When the lights began to sparkle, she gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
“It’s showing off,” she said tearfully. “I love it.”
She laughed and cried at the same time, grabbing his arm.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For this.”
He swallowed. “Always.”
They stood there longer than planned. She leaned into him, tired but glowing, eyes reflecting the lights.
“I feel like myself here,” she whispered.
Kai closed his eyes briefly. “Me too.”
That night, while she slept, he checked his phone.
Paris Fashion Week. Day five.
He stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed:
I’ll attend.
Need an extra pass.
For your assistant?
For my wife.
Day five arrived bright and clear.
Y/N woke up tired but smiling. “I want to do something ridiculous today.”
He smiled faintly. “I might have something.”
She grew suspicious as the car stopped near the venue.
“Why does this look like Fashion Week.”
He exhaled. “Because it is.”
She stared, then burst out laughing. “I came to Paris for croissants and got Fashion Week with Kim Jongin.”
“You don’t have to go in,” he said quickly.
“No,” she replied, eyes shining. “Absolutely not.”
Inside, cameras flashed. Whispers followed. Kai felt the familiar shift, the public version sliding into place.
He glanced at her instinctively.
She stood tall, curious, unafraid. Not trying to belong. Just present.
As they sat, she leaned toward him and whispered, “You look like you’ve lived this life.”
“Too much.”
She smiled softly. “Thank you for letting me see it.”
Paris didn’t fix anything.
But it gave them moments.
And for now, that was enough.
The plane touched down with a dull thud that rattled through Y/N’s bones.
She woke with a sharp inhale, disoriented for a second, her head already aching in that familiar, low-grade way that had become background noise in her life. Kai was looking at her, concern etched too deeply into his face for someone who claimed everything was fine.
“You okay,” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” she lied automatically, rubbing her temples. “Just jet lag.”
He didn’t argue, but the crease between his brows stayed.
The drive home was quiet. Not the comfortable silence Paris had given them, but something heavier, unfinished. The city lights of Seoul felt harsher after Paris, too bright, too fast, too real.
When they entered the apartment, Y/N kicked off her shoes with more force than necessary and dropped her bag near the door.
The place felt wrong.
Too still.
Kai set the suitcases down carefully, like noise itself might break something.
She watched him for a moment, arms folded around herself, heart racing for a reason she didn’t fully understand.
“Jongin,” she said finally.
He turned. “Yeah.”
She hesitated. She hadn’t planned the words. They slipped out anyway.
“Yeorum… does she know.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A tell she’d learned to recognize.
“Yes,” he said.
Her breath caught. “You told her.”
“I did.”
“When,” she asked, voice already unsteady.
“Before Paris,” he replied. “I went to see her.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “And.”
He looked away, running a hand through his hair. “She broke up with me.”
The room tilted slightly.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N said immediately, genuinely. “I never wanted”
Kai laughed, short and sharp, cutting her off. “You never wanted what. This.”
She frowned. “I never wanted you to lose her.”
His shoulders tensed, years of restraint cracking at the seams. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding anything,” she said. “I didn’t ask you to tell her. I didn’t ask you to stay married to me. I didn’t ask”
“It’s because of you she left!” he shouted, the words tearing out of him before he could stop them.
Silence slammed into the room.
Y/N stared at him, stunned. Her chest felt tight, like something had lodged itself there.
“She didn’t leave because of me,” she said quietly.
He paced now, agitation spilling out. “She saw what this did to me. What it turned me into. A man married to someone else, playing house while she watched from the outside.”
“You’re guilty of ruining my relationship with her,” he said, turning to face her, eyes burning.
Something in Y/N snapped.
“No,” she shot back, voice sharp despite the tremor in her hands. “That is entirely your own fault. You didn’t communicate. You waited until it exploded. Don’t put this on me.”
The words echoed between them.
“You think I wanted this,” Kai said hoarsely. “You think I wanted to lose her.”
“And you think I wanted to be the reason your life imploded,” Y/N replied, tears stinging her eyes now. “I never asked for any of this.”
Her head throbbed harder, pain blooming behind her eyes.
“I can’t do this right now,” she said, backing away. “I won’t sit here and be blamed.”
She grabbed her coat and bag with shaking hands.
“Y/N, wait”
“I need space,” she snapped. “Don’t follow me.”
The door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the apartment and straight into Kai’s chest.
He stood there, frozen, regret crashing in too late, too heavy.
Y/N didn’t remember the drive clearly.
Only fragments.
Streetlights streaking past. Her hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly. Her head pounding harder with every passing minute. Her stomach rolling unpleasantly.
By the time she parked outside Jisung’s place, her vision was swimming.
She didn’t knock. Just stumbled inside.
Jisung looked up from his couch, startled. “Hey, what happened.”
She opened her mouth to answer and the room lurched violently.
Her knees buckled.
Jisung was on his feet instantly, catching her before she hit the floor.
“Y/N,” he said sharply. “Hey. Look at me.”
Her head was splitting now, pain so intense it made her nauseous.
“Did you take your meds,” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Her heart dropped.
Her bag.
She fumbled weakly through it, fingers clumsy, panic rising when she found nothing.
“I forgot them,” she whispered.
Jisung’s face went pale. “How long ago.”
“Hours,” she murmured, words slurring slightly.
Her vision blurred. A wave of nausea hit her hard and she gagged, barely making it to the bathroom before vomiting violently.
“Okay,” Jisung said, voice steady despite the fear flooding him. “Okay, that’s enough. We’re going to the hospital.”
“I just needed space,” she muttered weakly, slumping against the wall. “I didn’t think”
“Don’t,” he cut her off gently but firmly. “Save your energy.”
He grabbed his keys, wrapped an arm around her, and half-carried her to the car.
The drive was chaos.
She vomited again, shaking uncontrollably, clutching at her head like it might split open. Jisung drove fast but controlled, one hand gripping the wheel, the other holding hers tightly.
“Stay with me,” he kept repeating. “You’re not allowed to check out. Not tonight.”
By the time they reached the emergency entrance, she was barely responsive.
Doctors moved quickly.
IV lines. Blood pressure cuffs. Questions fired rapid and loud.
“When did symptoms start.”
“Any known neurological conditions.”
“Medication history.”
Jisung answered everything, voice tight but precise.
“She has a brain stem tumor,” he said. “She missed her meds.”
That changed everything.
They rushed her back immediately.
Jisung stood in the hallway, hands shaking now that there was nothing left to do. He slid down into a chair, head in his hands, breathing hard.
His phone buzzed.
Kai.
A missed call. Then another.
Jisung stared at the screen for a long moment, chest tight.
Not yet, he thought.
Not like this.
He locked the phone and looked up as a doctor approached, expression serious but controlled.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “But this was dangerous. Very dangerous.”
Jisung nodded, swallowing hard. “Can I see her.”
“In a few minutes.”
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly.
In his pocket, Kai’s name stayed dark.
For now, the only thing that mattered was keeping her alive long enough to fight another day.
Jisung waited until the doctor stepped away from the bed.
Y/N was asleep now, sedated just enough to stop the tremors and the nausea, her breathing steadier, the sharp edge of the crisis finally dulled. The monitor beeped in a slow, controlled rhythm that felt like permission to breathe again.
Only then did Jisung step out into the hallway and pull out his phone.
He didn’t hesitate over her mother’s name this time.
He pressed call.
“Jisung?” her mother answered immediately, voice alert. “Is she okay? Why are you calling so late?”
He swallowed. “She had an episode.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “What kind of episode.”
“She forgot her medication,” he said gently. “The pain spiked, her blood pressure dropped. She collapsed.”
Her father’s voice came on the line, steady but strained. “Where is she.”
“Seoul Central Hospital. ER. She’s stable now.”
A long silence followed.
Not disbelief. Not denial.
Just fear.
“We’re coming,” her mother said, voice trembling. “We’re leaving right now.”
“She’s resting,” Jisung added quickly. “Doctors are monitoring her. She asked me not to panic you.”
Her mother let out a broken laugh. “She always does that. Protects everyone else.”
“She’s asking for you,” Jisung said softly. “Even when she pretends she isn’t.”
There was a pause, then her father spoke quietly. “Thank you for calling us.”
Jisung nodded, even though they couldn’t see him. “I’ll be here when you arrive.”
When the call ended, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.
One more call.
He didn’t want to make it.
But he had to.
Kai picked up immediately.
“Where is she,” Kai said before Jisung could even speak. His voice was tight, breathless. “She left, she didn’t answer, and”
“She’s in the hospital,” Jisung interrupted.
Silence.
Then, very quietly, “What.”
“She collapsed,” Jisung said. “She missed her meds. The fight didn’t help.”
Kai’s breathing turned ragged on the line. “Is she”
“She’s stable,” Jisung said. “For now.”
There was a sharp exhale, like Kai had been holding his breath for hours.
“Which hospital,” Kai asked.
“Seoul Central.”
“I’m coming,” Kai said immediately.
Jisung closed his eyes. “She didn’t ask for you yet.”
Kai didn’t argue. That scared Jisung more than if he had.
“Did I push her,” Kai asked hoarsely.
“You pushed,” Jisung replied honestly. “You didn’t cause the tumor. But tonight… you pushed.”
“Her parents are coming,” Jisung added. “If you come, you come quietly. No press. No chaos.”
“I understand,” Kai said immediately. “I won’t make this worse.”
Jisung hesitated. “Let me talk to her first.”
“Please,” Kai said. “Please don’t shut me out.”
Jisung ended the call without promising anything.
He went back into the room.
Y/N stirred as he approached, eyes fluttering open, unfocused but alert enough to read his face.
“You called them,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Jisung said, sitting beside her. “Your parents. And Jongin.”
Her lips pressed together. A tear slipped sideways into her hair.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I guess I don’t get to pretend anymore.”
Jisung took her hand carefully. “You shouldn’t have to.”
She squeezed back weakly. “Is he angry.”
“He’s scared,” Jisung replied.
She closed her eyes. “Good. Maybe now he’ll stop yelling.”
Jisung huffed softly, the closest thing to a laugh either of them could manage.
Outside, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Her parents were on their way.
And so was Kai.
And nothing about tonight would ever be quiet again.
The hospital corridor filled before anyone announced their arrival.
Jisung heard it first—the uneven rhythm of hurried footsteps, the sharp intake of breath that belonged to panic you couldn’t rehearse away. He stood up instinctively just as Y/N’s parents rounded the corner.
Her mother reached the doorway first.
She stopped short when she saw the machines.
Not because she hadn’t seen them before.
Because this time, they were attached to her daughter.
“Oh,” her mother breathed, one hand flying to her mouth as if the sound alone might break something. “Oh my baby…”
Her father caught her elbow, steady but pale, his eyes locked on Y/N’s still form. He didn’t cry immediately. He just stood there, shoulders rigid, like if he moved the wrong way the ground would give out beneath him.
Jisung stepped aside quietly.
“She’s sleeping,” he said softly. “The meds helped.”
Her mother didn’t answer him. She walked in slowly, like she was approaching something sacred, something fragile. She sat on the edge of the chair and reached out, fingertips trembling as they brushed Y/N’s hair back from her forehead.
“You promised,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You promised you wouldn’t scare us like this.”
Y/N stirred at the sound.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening slowly as she took in the familiar shape of her mother’s face.
“Ma,” she murmured.
Her mother’s composure shattered instantly.
“Oh God,” she sobbed, gripping Y/N’s hand carefully, like it might disappear. “I’m here. I’m here. Don’t you dare leave me like that again.”
Y/N tried to smile. It came out weak and crooked.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “I just… forgot.”
Her father finally stepped forward then, placing a hand on Y/N’s arm, grounding himself in the contact.
“You scared us,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she replied. Tears slid sideways into her hair. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded once, jaw tight. “You don’t get to apologize for being sick.”
Her mother shook her head fiercely. “You don’t get to leave without telling us where you’re going. Not anymore.”
Y/N closed her eyes, a tear escaping. “Okay.”
For a moment, the room felt almost full. Heavy with love. Heavy with fear.
Then the door opened again.
Kai stopped just inside the threshold.
He didn’t move forward right away.
He stood there, frozen, taking in the scene—the IV line, the monitors, the way Y/N looked smaller than he remembered, paler, fragile in a way she never allowed herself to be.
Her father noticed him first.
He turned slowly. “Jongin.”
Kai bowed instinctively, deeply, more out of reflex than intention. “Sir. Ma’am.”
Her mother turned, eyes red, expression unreadable for a long moment.
“You’re here,” she said finally.
“Yes,” Kai replied quietly. “I came as soon as I heard.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked toward the door.
Their gazes met.
For a second, everything else faded.
“You didn’t have to,” she said weakly.
“Yes,” he replied, voice tight. “I did.”
Her mother looked between them, understanding dawning with a painful slowness.
“You fought,” she said softly.
Y/N didn’t answer.
Kai swallowed. “Yes.”
Her father exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This isn’t the place.”
“I know,” Kai said immediately. “I’m not here to argue. I just wanted to see her.”
Y/N shifted slightly, wincing. Kai was at her side before he even realized he’d moved, stopping himself just short of touching her.
“Does it hurt,” he asked, quietly enough that only she could hear.
“Less now,” she replied. “I’m just tired.”
He nodded. “I know.”
Her mother watched that exchange closely. Too closely.
She turned to Jisung. “What happened.”
“She missed her medication,” Jisung explained gently. “The stress didn’t help.”
Her mother’s gaze snapped back to Kai, sharp now. “What stress.”
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. “Ma, please.”
Kai straightened. “I raised my voice,” he said, owning it without defense. “I shouldn’t have.”
Silence followed.
Her father spoke first. “You don’t get to make this harder.”
“I know,” Kai said again, voice barely holding. “I won’t.”
Y/N opened her eyes, exhaustion weighing them down.
“Can we not do this,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”
Her mother immediately softened, brushing her cheek gently. “Of course. Of course.”
Her father nodded. “We’ll talk later.”
Kai stayed where he was, hands clenched at his sides, unsure whether to step closer or back away.
Y/N looked at him then, really looked at him.
“You didn’t tell them,” she said quietly, not a question.
“No,” Kai replied. “That’s your story.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”
Her parents exchanged a glance, not missing the tension, the unsaid things hanging between the three of them.
Her mother stood slowly. “Jisung, could you give us a moment.”
Jisung hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be outside.”
As he left, the room grew smaller.
Y/N lay between the two people who loved her in very different ways—her parents on one side, Kai standing uncertainly on the other.
“Jongin,” her father said after a moment. “Sit.”
Kai obeyed immediately, perching on the edge of the chair like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space.
Her mother watched him for a long moment.
“You care about her,” she said finally.
“Yes,” Kai replied without hesitation.
“Then stop making her fight alone,” she said sharply. “She’s tired.”
Kai’s throat tightened. “I know.”
Y/N turned her head toward him.
“I didn’t forget my meds on purpose,” she whispered. “I just needed space.”
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t forgive him. Not yet.
But she nodded.
And for tonight, that was enough.
The machines hummed softly around them, bearing witness to a fragile truce held together by fear, regret, and the unspoken knowledge that time was no longer something any of them could afford to waste.
The doctor arrived just after midnight.
Not rushing. Not panicked. That alone made everyone straighten a little.
He introduced himself calmly, reviewed the chart on the tablet in his hands, then looked directly at Y/N before addressing anyone else.
“How are you feeling right now,” he asked.
“Tired,” Y/N replied honestly. “And embarrassed.”
Her mother frowned immediately. “Don’t say that.”
The doctor offered a small, understanding smile. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. What happened tonight was not a failure. It was a reminder.”
“A reminder of what,” her father asked quietly.
“That her condition requires consistency,” the doctor replied. “The medication she’s on is not optional support. It’s what keeps the symptoms from escalating.”
Y/N nodded faintly. “I know.”
“You missed one full cycle,” he continued. “Given the location of the tumor, that was enough to trigger increased intracranial pressure. Headache, nausea, collapse. If you had waited longer to come in, this could have been much worse.”
Her mother’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened.
“How much worse,” she asked, voice trembling.
The doctor didn’t soften it. “Loss of consciousness. Seizure. Potential permanent damage.”
Silence settled heavily in the room.
Kai looked down, jaw clenched, guilt pressing so hard it felt physical.
The doctor turned his attention back to Y/N. “You stabilized quickly once we administered medication intravenously. That’s good news.”
“So I get a gold star,” Y/N murmured weakly.
Her father shot her a look. “This is not the time.”
The doctor allowed the humor but didn’t indulge it. “You’ll stay overnight for observation. If there are no further complications, we’ll discharge you in the morning.”
Her mother’s head snapped up. “Discharge. Already.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Hospitals are not where she’ll be most comfortable long-term. But there will be changes.”
He looked directly at Y/N again.
“No more skipping medication,” he said firmly. “No matter the circumstances.”
She nodded. “Understood.”
“No driving alone when you’re symptomatic. No pretending fatigue is optional. And no high-stress environments without support.”
Y/N opened her mouth.
Her mother cut in. “She works.”
The doctor nodded. “I’m aware.”
Y/N straightened slightly despite the IV. “I’m not stopping entirely.”
Kai’s head snapped up. “You should.”
She glanced at him sharply. “Don’t.”
The doctor raised a hand gently. “Let’s talk realistically.”
He turned the tablet toward them. “You can continue professional work, but it must be modified. Reduced hours. Remote where possible. No court appearances. No prolonged stress spikes.”
Her father sighed. “She’ll never agree to this.”
“I already have,” Y/N said quietly.
Everyone turned to her.
“I’m stepping back from litigation,” she continued. “I’ll continue as a legal consultant only. Advisory. Strategy. No active trial work.”
The doctor studied her. “That’s reasonable.”
Her mother searched her face. “You didn’t tell us that.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Y/N said softly.
Her mother laughed once, broken. “You really don’t learn.”
The doctor nodded. “If you adhere to this, I’m comfortable discharging you tomorrow with strict follow-up.”
He looked around the room. “She will need support. Not supervision. Support.”
His gaze lingered briefly on Kai.
“I expect someone to make sure medication schedules are followed,” he added.
Kai spoke immediately. “I will.”
Y/N rolled her eyes weakly. “I can set alarms.”
“And someone to intervene when she ignores those alarms,” the doctor said.
Kai didn’t hesitate. “I will.”
The doctor nodded, satisfied.
Discharge paperwork took hours.
Vitals checked. Medications reviewed again and again. Instructions repeated until even Y/N stopped joking.
Her parents hovered, reading every page twice. Her mother asked questions about side effects. Her father asked about warning signs.
Kai stood slightly back, absorbing everything silently, committing it all to memory.
When the nurse finally disconnected the IV, Y/N winced slightly.
“You’re free,” the nurse said gently. “But not invincible.”
“I’ve never been invincible,” Y/N replied.
By the time they left the hospital, dawn was just beginning to creep into the sky.
Her parents insisted on walking her to the car, fussing over her coat, her scarf, her posture.
“I’ll come by later,” her mother said firmly. “With food.”
Y/N smiled tiredly. “Okay.”
Her father hugged her tightly, longer than usual. “You scared us.”
“I know,” she whispered into his shoulder.
When they finally left, the silence between Y/N and Kai stretched long and awkward.
He opened the car door for her without comment.
She let him.
The next few weeks settled into a strange new rhythm.
Y/N turned her apartment into a hybrid of office and recovery space.
Her legal consultancy began quietly.
Emails instead of courtrooms. Strategy calls instead of confrontations. Carefully timed meetings with breaks built in. She worked from the couch, from bed, from the dining table—wherever her body allowed that day.
Kai hated it.
Not the work. The way she pushed herself.
“You’re pale,” he said one afternoon as she typed furiously on her laptop.
“I’m productive,” she replied without looking up.
“You’ve been working for four hours.”
“And.”
“And you’re shaking.”
She finally glanced at her hands. They were, slightly.
“I’ll stop after this email.”
He crossed his arms. “You said that an hour ago.”
She sighed, leaning back. “Jongin, please don’t turn into my mother.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said,” she snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. I know.”
He sat down across from her, voice quieter. “I’m not trying to control you. I just… don’t want another night like that.”
She closed the laptop slowly.
“I don’t either,” she admitted.
From then on, he became infuriatingly attentive.
He set reminders. Brought water. Interrupted calls when they ran too long. Took her laptop away when she pushed past her limits.
She complained constantly.
“Give that back.”
“I was mid-sentence.”
“You’re abusing spousal authority.”
He ignored her.
And slowly, begrudgingly, she complied.
The consultancy flourished anyway.
Clients listened. Respected her boundaries. Valued her insight.
Y/N realized something surprising.
She didn’t need to fight to matter anymore.
And Kai, watching her from the doorway one evening as she slept mid-email, finally understood something too.
This wasn’t about control.
It was about time.
And for the first time since everything began, he was afraid of wasting even a second of it.
Italy started as a promise.
Not the kind you say lightly, but the kind you tuck carefully between breaths because you’re afraid the moment you say it out loud, reality might object.
They were sitting around Y/N’s dining table again—her parents this time, not files or contracts spread out but mugs of tea, a plate of cut fruit her mother kept nudging toward her, and a thick, awkward silence that only family could carry.
Y/N broke it first.
“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands once, a little too brightly. “Italy.”
Her mother blinked. “What about Italy.”
“I want to go,” Y/N replied simply. “With you. Both of you.”
Her father frowned slightly. “We can go anywhere. Why Italy.”
Y/N leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the window. “Because it’s slow. Because it’s old. Because people sit and eat and argue and don’t rush off to the next thing. And because I want memories that aren’t… hospitals.”
Her mother’s lips trembled immediately.
“We can go,” her father said at once. “Of course we can.”
Kai, who had been standing near the counter pretending not to listen, straightened instinctively. “I’ll take care of the bookings,” he said.
Y/N turned to him. “No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“This one,” she said gently, “is not for you to manage. I want them to plan it with me.”
Kai hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll just… help if you ask.”
Her mother reached across the table and squeezed Y/N’s hand. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I know,” Y/N said softly. “I just want to choose.”
They pulled the laptop closer.
Her mother immediately gravitated toward pictures. “Oh, look at this. Venice.”
Her father shook his head. “Too many stairs. Too many crowds.”
“Florence,” Y/N said quietly. “Art. Food. Walkable.”
Her mother smiled faintly. “You always liked paintings.”
“And Rome,” Y/N added. “I want to see things that outlast people.”
Her father swallowed, then nodded. “Rome and Florence.”
They began slowly, carefully.
No red-eye flights. No rushed transfers. Hotels close to hospitals, just in case, though her mother tried not to make that obvious. Y/N noticed anyway and didn’t comment.
Her mother insisted on ground-floor rooms or elevators. Her father insisted on travel insurance. Extensive travel insurance.
“You’re both adorable,” Y/N said fondly.
“We’re terrified,” her mother replied honestly.
The itinerary was softer than Paris.
Mornings with no alarms. Long lunches. Afternoons reserved for rest. One major activity a day, maximum.
“No museums back-to-back,” her father said firmly.
“No pretending you’re fine,” her mother added, eyes sharp.
Y/N raised her hands in surrender. “I agree.”
They argued gently over food.
“I want pasta every day,” Y/N declared.
“You’ll get sick of it,” her mother warned.
“I want to get sick of it,” Y/N replied.
Her father laughed softly for the first time that evening.
They chose a small hotel in Florence with balconies and quiet streets. Another in Rome near a garden instead of a monument.
When the bookings were finally confirmed, Y/N closed the laptop and exhaled deeply.
“We’re really doing this,” she said.
Her mother reached up and cupped her face gently. “Yes, baby. We are.”
Kai watched from a distance, heart heavy and full all at once.
Later, when her parents had left and the apartment settled into quiet again, Y/N stood by the sink, staring at nothing.
“Thank you,” she said suddenly.
Kai looked up. “For what.”
“For letting that be just ours,” she replied. “For not turning it into logistics.”
He nodded. “It deserves to be… yours.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re learning.”
He hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Are you excited.”
“Yes,” she said immediately. Then, after a pause, “And scared.”
“Me too,” he admitted.
She glanced at him, surprised.
“I don’t want to forget how you laugh with them,” he said softly. “I want to remember it.”
Her throat tightened. She turned away before he could see.
Italy wasn’t just a trip.
It was a reclaiming.
And all of them knew it,even if none of them were brave enough to say that out loud yet.
Guys next is Mafia! D.O. FF, the moment i finish I Plead Guilty... which I promise I will do so in the coming weak... I apologise for the extremely late updates but a lot of things happpened this year. While that is no excuse.. I appreciate your support to my work.
Kai noticed the change before he ever understood the reason.
It began with sound.
Y/N used to move through life quietly, measured steps, economical words, laughter kept neat and contained like it belonged behind closed doors. Now she laughed loudly, openly, without checking who might hear. Once, in the middle of a restaurant, she threw her head back and laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.
Kai had stared at her, stunned.
“What?” she’d asked, grinning unapologetically.
“Nothing,” he’d said. “You’re just… loud.”
“Good,” she’d replied. “I paid for vocal cords. I’m using them.”
She danced now.
Not well. Not gracefully. Just because music existed. In the kitchen, barefoot, swaying while food burned slightly on the stove. In the living room, dragging him up by the hands until he reluctantly followed.
“You’re going to fall,” he warned once.
“Then I fall,” she said, spinning once too many times and laughing when she had to grab the counter to steady herself.
She started saying yes.
Yes to dessert. Yes to midnight drives. Yes to random detours that made no sense.
She stopped asking should I and started asking why not.
And yet, Kai noticed the pauses.
The way she inhaled before standing, like she was negotiating with gravity.
The way she pressed her fingers briefly against her temple when she thought he wasn’t looking.
The small silver pill case she carried everywhere now, hidden quickly, swallowed discreetly.
One night, he caught her in the bathroom mirror, tilting her head back to take medication.
“What’s that?” he asked gently.
She froze.
Just for half a second.
“Supplements,” she said easily. “I’m aging. Don’t judge.”
He didn’t believe her. But he didn’t push. Not yet.
The envelope arrived on a Thursday afternoon. Cream-colored. Heavy. Official. Y/N knew exactly what it was before she touched it.
She waited until Kai left for a meeting before opening it. She sat at the dining table, posture straight, fingers steady, even as her heart slowed into something deliberate and calm.
She slid the papers out.
Her will.
Printed. Registered. Final.
She read every word carefully not because she doubted it, but because she needed to see herself reflected in something permanent.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF KIM Y/N
I, Kim Y/N, presently residing in Seoul, Republic of Korea, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all prior wills, codicils, or testamentary dispositions made by me at any time.
1. DECLARATION OF INTENT
This Will is made voluntarily, with full understanding of its legal effect, and without coercion, duress, or undue influence of any kind.
2. PAYMENT OF LIABILITIES
I direct that all legally enforceable debts, administrative expenses, and final medical and funeral costs arising from my death be paid promptly from my estate prior to any distribution.
3. STATEMENT OF ESTATE VALUE
As of the date of execution of this Will, my net estate is valued at approximately:
KRW 9,200,000,000 (Nine Billion Two Hundred Million Won)
This valuation accounts for projected income from legal consultancy, anticipated medical and living expenses, and liquidated assets.
4. DISTRIBUTION OF ESTATE
After satisfaction of all debts and expenses, I direct that my remaining estate be distributed as follows:
a. Parents
I bequeath KRW 3,066,666,667 (Three Billion Sixty-Six Million Six Hundred Sixty-Six Thousand Six Hundred Sixty-Seven Won)
to my parents, to be shared equally between them, without restriction or condition.
b. Kim Jongin
I bequeath KRW 3,066,666,667 (Three Billion Sixty-Six Million Six Hundred Sixty-Six Thousand Six Hundred Sixty-Seven Won)
to Kim Jongin, my lawful spouse, to be received outright and without limitation.
c. Lee Jisung
I bequeath KRW 3,066,666,667 (Three Billion Sixty-Six Million Six Hundred Sixty-Six Thousand Six Hundred Sixty-Seven Won)
to Lee Jisung, my closest friend, in recognition of his role as my constant support and chosen family.
5. LIFE INSURANCE BENEFICIARIES
I designate the beneficiaries of my life insurance policies, valued at KRW 2,500,000,000, as follows:
KRW 1,250,000,000 (One Billion Two Hundred Fifty Million Won) to Kim Jongin
KRW 1,250,000,000 (One Billion Two Hundred Fifty Million Won) to Lee Jisung
6. POWER OF ATTORNEY
In the event of incapacity, I appoint Lee Jisung as my Attorney-in-Fact for all medical and financial decisions. Should he be unable or unwilling to act, I appoint my parents as alternate Attorneys-in-Fact.
7. MEDICAL DIRECTIVES
I direct that no extraordinary life-prolonging measures be taken should I lose meaningful neurological function. Comfort and dignity shall be prioritized at all times.
8. FINAL ARRANGEMENTS
I request cremation. I request no public funeral or memorial service. Privacy is to be respected.
9. EXECUTION
Executed on this day, freely and voluntarily.
Signed:
Kim Y/N
She folded the papers carefully. Not because she was afraid. Because she respected them. She slid them back into the envelope just as the front door opened.
Kai came inside the room and saw the envelope. "What is that?" He asked "Sit." Y/N said gesturing to the sofa and got up from the dining table and moved there.
They sat across from each other, not touching.
There was space between them, and neither of them tried to close it.
“Jongin,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not allowed to fix it.”
His stomach dropped. “That’s not a good start.”
“I have cancer.”
The words landed flat. Clean. Undramatic.
Kai blinked. “What?”
“I have a brain stem tumor,” she continued. “It’s inoperable.”
He stood up immediately.
“No,” he said. “No, that doesn’t-this is-no.”
She watched him pace once, then stop.
“How long?” he asked finally, voice low.
“Ten months,” she said. “Maybe less.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“That medicine,” he said slowly. “You’ve been taking-”
“For symptoms,” she nodded.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to stay because you felt obligated,” she said quietly.
His jaw tightened.
“This marriage already isn’t real,” he said. “Now you’re dying and what am I supposed to pretend it is?”
She flinched, but didn’t interrupt.
“I care about you,” he continued, frustrated. “I don’t want you suffering. But don’t confuse that with”
“With love?” she finished for him. He didn’t answer. That was answer enough. She nodded once. “I’m not.”
There was a long silence. Finally, he said, “I won’t abandon you.”
She looked at him. “That’s not the same thing.” “I know,” he said quietly.
After that, Kai became attentive in ways that confused her.
He reminded her to eat.
Drove slower when she looked tired.
Sat nearby when she slept on the couch.
But he still texted Yeorum first. Still stepped outside to take her calls.
Still softened in ways Y/N never received.
His care was careful. Measured. Boundaried.
It was the care of a good man who didn’t want to be cruel, not the care of someone in love. And Y/N knew the difference.
That was the problem.
Y/N sat in the car long after turning the engine off.
The house looked the same.
The porch light was on. The curtains were half drawn. From the window, she could see her mother moving around the kitchen, probably cleaning something that didn’t need cleaning. Her father would be nearby, pretending to read the news, pretending everything was fine.
Normal.
Her chest tightened so hard she had to bend forward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
You’ve faced judges. You’ve faced criminals. You can do this.
But this wasn’t a courtroom.
This was the house where her brother’s shoes had once sat by the door until they didn’t anymore.
She stepped out of the car.
Her mother opened the door before she knocked.
“There you are,” she said automatically. “You should’ve called...”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Y/N’s face gave her away.
“What is it?” her mother asked, voice already shaking. “What happened?”
“Can we… sit?” Y/N whispered.
Her father appeared behind her mother instantly. “Sit for what?”
“Please,” Y/N said again.
Something in her voice made her mother step aside without another word.
They sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where her mother had once cried silently after the funeral.
The same table where they had learned how to exist again after losing a child.
Her mother pushed a glass of water toward Y/N, hands trembling.
“You’re scaring me,” she said. “Just say it.”
Y/N took a breath.
Then another.
“I’m sick,” she said.
Her mother let out a short, nervous laugh. “Everyone gets sick. You look tired, that’s all.”
“I have cancer,” Y/N said.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then her mother laughed again, too loud, too sharp.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t prank us like that.”
Her father stared at Y/N, eyes searching her face. “This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking,” Y/N whispered.
Her mother shook her head violently. “No. No. You don’t joke about cancer.”
Her father finally asked, voice low and controlled, “What kind?”
“Brain stem tumor,” Y/N replied.
Her mother stood up so fast her chair fell backward.
“No,” she said. “No, that’s not, doctors get things wrong. They always do.”
“Is it terminal?” her father asked suddenly.
Her mother spun on him. “Don’t ask that.”
Y/N hesitated.
Her mother’s eyes locked onto her face.
“…Is it?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Y/N said softly.
Her mother staggered back, grabbing the counter.
“No,” she said again. “No, you’re lying. Say you’re lying.”
“I can’t,” Y/N whispered.
Her father’s voice broke. “How long?”
“Ten months,” she said. “At most.”
Her mother let out a sound that was closer to a scream than a sob.
“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t lose another child.”
She pressed both hands to her chest, shaking.
“I already buried one,” she sobbed. “I can’t do it again.”
Y/N rushed forward, grabbing her mother.
“I’m still here,” she cried. “I’m still here.”
Her mother clutched her desperately, like she might vanish.
“We fought so hard to survive after him,” she whispered. “You don’t get to take that away from us.”
“I’m not trying to,” Y/N sobbed. “I swear.”
Her father sat down heavily, hands shaking.
“There must be something,” he said. “Surgery. Radiation. Trials.”
“I don’t want them,” Y/N said quietly.
Her mother pulled back sharply.
“What?”
“I don’t want chemo or radiation,” Y/N repeated. “I don’t want to spend my last months in hospitals.”
Her mother’s face twisted in fury and terror.
“You don’t get to decide that!” she screamed. “You don’t get to give up!”
“I’m not giving up!” Y/N cried. “I’m choosing how to live.”
Her mother slapped the table.
“You’re choosing to leave us!”
The words cut deep.
Y/N collapsed into her mother’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I don’t want to die,” she cried. “I’m so scared. But I don’t want my life to be machines and needles.”
Her mother held her tightly, shaking.
“I already lost your brother,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you too.”
Her father joined them, wrapping his arms around both of them, tears finally spilling.
“We’ll get through today,” he murmured. “Just today.”
They stayed like that on the kitchen floor for a long time.
Eventually, her mother pulled back, cupping Y/N’s face with trembling hands.
“You’re selfish,” she said hoarsely. “Cruel.”
“I know,” Y/N whispered.
“And I love you so much it feels unbearable,” her mother said, pulling her into a crushing embrace. “So much it hurts to breathe.”
Y/N clung to her parents, sobbing.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
Her mother pressed her lips to Y/N’s hair.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because that means you still want to live.”
And in that moment, surrounded by grief that never fully healed and love that refused to let go.
Y/N knew this would be the hardest goodbye of all.
Y/N didn’t sit down.
She stood at the head of the table, fingers resting on the back of the chair, as if she needed something solid to keep herself upright. Jisung sat close beside her, close enough that their knees brushed, close enough that she knew he would step in the second her voice failed. Her parents sat opposite her. Her mother’s eyes were already red and swollen from crying earlier, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap, a nervous habit she had never been able to shake since the accident years ago. Her father sat rigidly beside her, spine straight, jaw clenched, holding himself together through sheer will.
Kai sat slightly apart from the others. Not distant, but not fully inside the circle either. His arms were crossed loosely, posture guarded, eyes fixed on Y/N with an intensity that made her chest tighten. It was not anger in his gaze. It was fear, and something like guilt.
Jisung cleared his throat softly.
“Let her talk,” he said gently.
Y/N inhaled slowly.
“I asked you all to be here,” she began, her voice steady but quiet, “because I don’t want the rest of my life to be spent avoiding conversations we’re already having in our heads.”
Her mother shook her head at once.
“I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered.
“I know,” Y/N said. “But I need you to.”
Silence pressed down on the room, heavy and suffocating.
“I’ve made a will,” Y/N said.
Her mother let out a broken sound that caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
“Why do you keep saying things like that?” she cried. “Why do you keep talking like you’re already gone?”
“Because one day I will be,” Y/N replied, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it even. “And I don’t want that day to be chaos for you.”
Her father finally spoke, his voice low.
“You shouldn’t be thinking about money.”
“I am,” Y/N said. “Because money doesn’t grieve. People do.”
She explained the will carefully. The equal division. The exact amounts. The reasons behind each choice. When she mentioned Jisung, her mother stiffened.
“Why him?” her mother asked sharply.
“Because he knows me,” Y/N replied. “Because when I can’t speak for myself, he will.”
Jisung stared down at the table, tears blurring his vision.
When she said Kai’s name, the room shifted.
Kai’s jaw tightened.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Y/N replied. “I did.”
“Why?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Because this marriage put you in the line of fire,” she said. “And I won’t leave you exposed when I’m gone.”
Her mother looked between them, confused and pained.
Kai exhaled sharply, rubbing his face.
“You don’t owe me that.”
“I know,” Y/N said softly.
There was something devastating in that admission.
She swallowed and continued.
“When I die, I want to be cremated.”
Her mother stood abruptly.
“No. No, stop.”
“I want my ashes used to grow a cherry blossom tree,” Y/N said. “There’s a process. The soil absorbs what’s left of me. The tree grows with me.”
Her mother broke completely.
“I don’t want a tree,” she sobbed. “I want my daughter.”
Y/N crossed the room and knelt in front of her mother, gripping her shaking hands.
“You’ll still have me,” she cried. “Every spring. Every bloom.”
Her mother clutched her desperately.
“I already lost one child,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you too.”
Her father turned away, covering his face as his shoulders shook. The sound of his grief was raw and uncontained.
Kai stared at the floor, his throat tight.
“I don’t want a traditional funeral,” Y/N said after a long pause.
Her father looked up slowly.
“What do you want?”
“I want music,” Y/N replied. “My favorite songs. The loud ones. The embarrassing ones.”
Her mother sobbed harder.
“This is torture.”
“I want my favorite food,” Y/N continued. “Too much of it. I want people eating and telling stupid stories about me.”
Her mother shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face.
“I want everyone to wear purple,” Y/N said quietly. “No black.”
Her father let out a broken laugh.
“You always hated black.”
“And I don’t want mourning,” Y/N finished. “I want laughter. I want jokes. I want people celebrating that I existed.”
Jisung wiped his face with the back of his hand, his voice shaking.
“You’re making us plan your death.”
“No,” Y/N said gently. “I’m asking you to remember my life.”
She opened her notebook and laid it on the table.
“This is how I want to spend the time I have left.”
Her mother stared at the pages as if they were knives.
“I want to go to Paris,” Y/N said, glancing at Kai. “With Jongin.”
Kai looked up sharply.
“Not because of love,” she added. “Because we’re married, and because I want that memory.”
Kai hesitated, then nodded once.
“I want to go to Italy with you,” she said to her parents. “Eat too much. Walk slowly. Be normal.”
Her mother sobbed openly.
“I want to go to Vegas with Jisung and our high school friends,” Y/N continued. “I want to be loud and irresponsible for once.”
Jisung let out a broken laugh through tears.
“You’re going to kill me before the cancer does.”
“And one last ridiculous trip,” Y/N said. “Like a Hangover movie. Me, Jisung, and two of our closest friends. No planning. Just chaos.”
Jisung finally cried openly, burying his face in his hands.
“I want to attend an EXO concert,” Y/N said softly. “As a fan. In the crowd.”
Kai looked away.
“And I want to sit in on a song recording,” she added. “Just once.”
Her father’s voice cracked.
“You’re trying to live a lifetime in months.”
“I have to,” Y/N replied. “Because I won’t get another.”
Kai stood up suddenly.
“You’re talking like this is already decided,” he said, his voice rough. “Like we don’t get a say.”
“You get a say in how you stay with me,” Y/N said. “Not in how I leave.”
He clenched his fists.
“I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to sit here and listen to you plan your death.”
“I’m not asking you to understand,” she said softly.
“Then what are you asking?” he snapped.
She looked at him, really looked at him.
“Don’t disappear,” she said. “Even if you don’t love me.”
The room went completely still.
Kai swallowed hard.
“I won’t,” he said quietly. “I swear.”
Her mother surged forward and pulled Y/N into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
“How am I supposed to survive this?”
“You don’t have to survive it yet,” Y/N whispered into her mother’s shoulder. “Just live it with me.”
Her father joined them, finally allowing himself to cry out loud. Jisung stood frozen, tears streaming down his face, unable to speak.
Ten months.
Every single one of them knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
The conference room at EXO headquarters had seen countless crises. Contract disputes. Scandals. Emergency PR meetings that stretched into early morning hours. But that day, the air felt different, almost fragile, as if one wrong word could shatter something irreplaceable.
Everyone was already there when Y/N arrived with Jisung.
Suho sat at the head of the table, hands folded, posture calm but eyes sharp. Kyungsoo sat to his right, unreadable as ever, gaze lifting the moment she stepped inside. Xiumin sat across from him, quiet, attentive, the kind of stillness that meant he was already bracing himself. Chen sat next to Xiumin, his usual warmth subdued, eyes searching Y/N’s face for clues. Chanyeol leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, joking energy completely absent. Sehun sat beside him, foot tapping restlessly against the floor. Lay appeared on the large screen at the far end of the room, video call already connected, his expression serious despite the distance.
Kai sat near the end of the table.
He hadn’t looked up yet.
Baekhyun was the only one who didn’t look confused.
He looked devastated.
When Y/N took her seat without opening a folder, without pulling out documents or notes, Suho’s expression shifted immediately. That alone told him this wasn’t a routine meeting.
Jisung didn’t sit. He stood near the wall, arms crossed loosely, eyes alert. Not as a participant, but as a safeguard.
Suho cleared his throat. “You said this was urgent.”
“It is,” Y/N replied.
Her voice was calm, but the room felt like it leaned toward her.
Baekhyun swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the table. He already knew. He had known since the café, since he had overheard words no one should ever overhear by accident. He hadn’t said a word since then, not to the members, not even to Jongin. He had waited. For her.
Y/N folded her hands together.
“I’m going to be very direct,” she said. “Because anything else would be dishonest.”
Chen frowned slightly. “You’re scaring me.”
“I have cancer,” Y/N said.
The words landed hard.
“What?” Chanyeol said instantly, sitting forward.
Sehun blinked. “No. No, you don’t just say that.”
Xiumin’s brows knit together. “What kind?”
Lay leaned closer to the screen. “Y/N, is this confirmed?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s a brain stem tumor.”
The room went silent.
Kai’s head snapped up. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table.
Chen shook his head, almost laughing in disbelief. “That’s… that’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking,” Y/N replied. “It’s terminal.”
That word cracked something open.
Sehun’s tapping foot stopped completely. Chanyeol dragged a hand through his hair. Xiumin exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on her face as if searching for any sign that this wasn’t real.
“How long,” Kyungsoo asked quietly.
“Ten months,” Y/N said. “At most.”
Chen covered his mouth with his hand, eyes already shining. “No. You were just here. You were working like normal.”
“I tried to,” she said.
Lay’s voice came through the speaker, strained but controlled. “You’re saying there’s nothing they can do.”
“There are treatments,” Y/N said. “I chose not to pursue aggressive ones.”
Kai’s jaw tightened visibly.
Suho leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why are you telling us now.”
“Because I don’t want to vanish,” Y/N replied. “And because this affects the company.”
She took a breath.
“I’m stepping down as EXO’s primary legal counsel.”
Baekhyun flinched, even though he had expected it.
“I’ll stay on as a legal consultant,” she said. “Strategic oversight, emergency advice. I’ll personally select and train my replacement so there’s no disruption.”
Kyungsoo nodded slowly. “You planned this.”
“I had to,” Y/N said.
Baekhyun finally spoke, voice rough. “You’re still thinking about our contracts while you’re dying.”
She looked at him gently. “Old habits.”
Silence fell again.
“There’s something else I need to say,” Y/N continued.
Baekhyun’s gaze lifted sharply. He already knew what was coming, but it still hurt.
“I’ve never said this professionally,” she said. “Because it would’ve been inappropriate.”
She looked around the table. At Suho. At Kyungsoo. At Xiumin, Chen, Chanyeol, Sehun. At Lay’s face on the screen. Finally, at Kai.
“I’m an EXO-L,” Y/N said. “An eri. I’ve been one for years.”
The reaction was instant.
Sehun stared at her. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “Concerts. Albums. Fan chants. All of it.”
Chen let out a broken laugh. “You defended us like that… and you were one of us.”
“I didn’t take Jongin’s case because I was a fan,” Y/N said quickly. “I took it because it was right. But being an eri made me refuse to walk away.”
Xiumin exhaled slowly. “That explains why you never gave up on us.”
Lay nodded. “You loved us quietly.”
Baekhyun wiped his eyes roughly, voice trembling. “You idiot.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re my bias wrecker.”
He scoffed through tears. “This is not how I wanted to find out.”
Y/N turned serious again.
“I had a few requests,” she said. “From my bucket list.”
Baekhyun straightened immediately. “I already took care of them.”
Everyone looked at him in surprise.
“The concert,” Baekhyun said, swallowing. “We can make it happen. You’ll be in the crowd. No spotlight. No press.”
Y/N’s breath caught. “Thank you.”
“And the recording session,” he continued. “Not a feature. Just sitting in. Listening.”
Lay nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re there.”
Chen wiped his eyes. “You don’t get to leave quietly.”
Chanyeol added, “You’re stuck with us now.”
Kai finally spoke, voice low and tight. “You’re really leaving.”
“I’m choosing how I stay,” Y/N replied. “Not how I go.”
Suho stood slowly, the leader in him finally cracking. “You’re family. Whether you like it or not.”
Baekhyun walked around the table and pulled her into a careful hug, voice breaking near her ear. “You should’ve told us sooner.”
“I wasn’t ready,” she whispered.
Jisung watched from the side, eyes wet, knowing that in this room, the truth didn’t just hurt.
It bound them together.
e room stayed heavy even after the initial shock settled.
No one rushed to speak.
Suho was the first to straighten, the leader instinctively resurfacing even through the grief. He folded his hands on the table, gaze steady on Y/N, then briefly on Jisung, acknowledging his presence without words.
“Alright,” Suho said quietly. “We need to talk about next steps. Properly.”
Kyungsoo nodded once, already shifting into that calm, precise mode that appeared whenever something fragile needed structure.
The head of the legal team, Director Han, who had been sitting silently near the end of the table, finally cleared his throat. His face was professional, but his eyes were visibly strained.
“If you’re comfortable,” he said gently to Y/N, “we should discuss transition logistics.”
Y/N nodded. “That’s why I wanted this meeting.”
Suho leaned forward. “First,” he said, “your position.”
“I’ll formally resign as Chief Litigation Counsel effective the end of this quarter,” Y/N said. “That gives enough time for overlap.”
Kyungsoo interjected calmly. “You already have someone in mind.”
“Yes,” Y/N replied. “Two candidates. Both external. I’ll interview them myself, vet their background, and recommend one. Final approval stays with the board.”
Director Han nodded. “That ensures continuity.”
“And you’ll remain on as consultant,” Suho said, confirming.
“Yes,” Y/N replied. “Strategic advisory only. Contract disputes, crisis escalation, final review on sensitive matters. No court appearances.”
Kyungsoo glanced at Director Han. “We can redistribute litigation workload internally once the replacement is onboard.”
“That’s feasible,” Director Han agreed.
There was a brief pause before Suho continued, voice careful.
“Now… compensation.”
The word felt clinical in the room, but necessary.
Y/N didn’t flinch.
“I’ve thought about this,” she said. “My consulting fee needs to reflect reduced hours but sustained responsibility.”
Director Han slid a folder forward. “We ran projections based on your current retainer.”
Y/N opened it briefly, scanning.
“Alright,” she said. “Here’s what I propose.”
Everyone listened closely.
“A fixed monthly consulting retainer,” Y/N said, “set at forty percent of my current executive compensation. No bonuses, no performance incentives.”
Director Han frowned slightly. “That’s significantly lower than market for your level.”
Kyungsoo looked at her sharply. “You don’t need to—”
“This aligns with my estate planning,” Y/N said quietly, cutting him off without harshness. “My projected income over the next ten months has already been accounted for in my will. I don’t want discrepancies.”
The room went silent again.
Suho exhaled slowly. “You’re still thinking about balance even now.”
“I have to,” Y/N replied. “If the consulting income exceeds projections, it complicates distribution.”
Director Han hesitated. “For clarity… your current annual package is approximately ₩1.8 billion.”
“Yes,” Y/N said.
“At forty percent,” he continued carefully, “that places your consulting retainer at roughly ₩60 million per month.”
“That’s correct,” Y/N confirmed.
Kyungsoo did the math silently. “Over ten months… ₩600 million.”
Y/N nodded. “Which matches the conservative projection already included in my estate planning.”
Jisung shifted slightly, jaw tight. He already knew these numbers, but hearing them spoken aloud still felt brutal.
Suho looked at Director Han. “And legally, this doesn’t interfere with her will.”
“No,” Director Han said. “The amounts align. No conflict.”
Baekhyun, who had been quiet through all of this, muttered under his breath, “She planned this down to the last won.”
Y/N gave him a faint smile. “I’m a lawyer.”
Suho straightened again. “Then it’s settled. We’ll draft the consulting contract accordingly. No loopholes. No ambiguity.”
Kyungsoo added, “And full discretion. No press knowledge of this arrangement.”
“Agreed,” Director Han said.
Suho turned back to Y/N, his voice softer now. “Is there anything else you need from us, professionally.”
Y/N shook her head. “Just cooperation during the transition.”
“You’ll have it,” Suho said immediately.
Kyungsoo nodded. “Always.”
There was a brief, heavy silence after the business concluded.
The numbers had been spoken. The structure put in place.
And somehow, that made everything feel more real.
Baekhyun broke the quiet, voice low. “I hate that you’re this prepared.”
Y/N met his eyes. “I hate that I had to be.”
No one argued.
The meeting moved on, but the weight of it stayed in the room long after the contracts would be signed.
Jisung didn’t start with a list.
He started with panic.
He sat on the floor of Y/N’s apartment with three phones spread out in front of him like evidence. His current phone. An old phone he hadn’t used since college. And Y/N’s laptop, open to a dusty Google Drive folder labeled “School Stuff (DO NOT DELETE)”.
“Why do you still have this,” he muttered, opening a scanned copy of their tenth-grade timetable.
Y/N, sitting cross-legged on the couch, smiled faintly.
“Because that’s where everything went wrong,” she said. “Chemistry was at 8 a.m.”
He stopped at one and tilted the phone toward her.
“Why is she saved as ‘FutureDoctor???’”
Y/N leaned forward.
“Because she said she’d be a surgeon and then became a wedding planner.”
“Iconic,” Jisung said, already typing.
He didn’t write a group message. He sent them individually.
Every message slightly different, because each person had been important in a different way.
Hey. This is Jisung.
It’s been a long time.
Y/N wants to see you.
She asked me to reach out personally.
It’s important.
To another:
I know we haven’t spoken in years.
Please don’t overthink this.
She just really wants to see you.
To another, more blunt:
Don’t ask questions.
Just come.
She needs us.
The replies came faster than either of them expected.
Is she okay?
I thought she moved abroad.
She still hates olives, right?
Tell her I’m already crying.
When? Where?
One reply came as a voice note. The moment Y/N hit play, the sound of someone sobbing filled the room.
“She didn’t even say why,” the voice cracked. “But I’m coming. I don’t care what day it is.”
Y/N covered her mouth with her hand.
“They still… sound the same,” she whispered.
“They grew up,” Jisung said gently. “They didn’t forget you.”
They decided on the café without discussion.
The one across from their old high school.
The one where the owner used to let them sit for hours as long as they ordered one drink each. The one where Y/N had once cried because her crush ignored her and everyone had pretended not to notice.
The day of the meetup, Y/N took longer than usual to get ready.
She changed outfits three times.
“Do I look too… different?” she asked.
Jisung glanced up from tying his shoes.
“You look like someone who survived law school. They’ll understand.”
Outside the café, Y/N froze.
Her hand hovered inches from the door handle.
“What if they look at me like I’m already gone,” she whispered.
Jisung didn’t tease her.
“Then we leave,” he said. “And we’ll get tteokbokki somewhere and complain about them.”
She laughed weakly, nodded, and pushed the door open.
The bell rang.
Someone looked up.
Then screamed.
“Y/N?!”
A chair scraped violently against the floor as someone stood up too fast.
“No way. No way. Turn around.”
Before she could say anything, she was engulfed.
Someone hugged her so tightly her feet almost lifted off the ground. Someone else grabbed her face between their hands.
“You’re real,” they said, tears already spilling. “You’re actually real.”
They pulled chairs together, knocking over bags, ignoring stares from other customers.
The conversations overlapped immediately.
“When did you get married?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You look tired.”
“You look exactly the same.”
“Yes,” Y/N said, holding up her hands. “Yes. No. Probably. And no, I don’t.”
Someone leaned forward, eyes sparkling.
“So. Is it true?”
“What.”
“That you married EXO Kai.”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The café exploded.
“YOU DID IT.”
“SHE MANIFESTED IT.”
“I REMEMBER THIS.”
Jisung groaned.
“She used to say it every day.”
“She had his photo card in her wallet,” someone said.
“And cried when she lost it,” another added.
“I WAS SEVENTEEN,” Y/N protested.
“You wrote his name in your diary,” someone laughed.
“And planned your wedding,” another said.
Jisung shook his head.
“She made me promise I’d be best man.”
Laughter rang through the café, loud and unrestrained.
Then someone noticed the pills.
A small bottle had slipped out of Y/N’s bag when she leaned over to grab her phone.
It rolled slowly, clicking softly against a cup.
The laughter stuttered.
“What’s that,” someone asked quietly.
Y/N stared at it for a long moment.
Then she picked it up and set it on the table.
“I didn’t bring you here to lie,” she said.
Everyone leaned in.
“I have cancer,” she said. “It’s terminal.”
Someone laughed immediately.
“No. Stop.”
“I’m serious.”
“How long,” someone whispered.
“Ten months.”
The café went silent.
Someone stood up abruptly and walked outside. Someone else covered their face and cried openly.
“You’re still here,” someone said finally.
“Yes,” Y/N nodded. “That’s why I called you.”
She told them everything. The diagnosis. The choice not to do aggressive treatment. The bucket list.
Paris. Italy. Vegas. The concert. The stupid trips.
“You want us to be idiots with you,” someone said through tears.
“Yes,” Y/N said. “Professionally.”
Someone laughed weakly.
“You always were selfish.”
“And dramatic,” another added.
They promised her time.
They promised chaos.
They promised to show up.
Later, when they spilled onto the street, arms slung around shoulders like they were seventeen again, Y/N lagged behind for a moment.
She watched them.
This version of herself.
“I thought I lost this,” she whispered.
Jisung stood beside her.
“You just forgot where you put it.”
Her phone buzzed.
Kai: Are you home yet.
She typed back.
Not yet. I’m with people who remember me before you did.
For the first time since everything began, Y/N felt something close to peace.
She hadn’t just reconnected with her friends.
She had reconnected with the girl who once believed she could have everything.
Kai didn’t go to Yeorum immediately.
He sat in his car for nearly twenty minutes after parking outside her apartment, hands resting uselessly on the steering wheel, engine already off. The city lights reflected faintly on the windshield, blurring and doubling, like his thoughts. He had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in his head, and every version ended the same way: her crying, him feeling like the villain no matter what he said.
He checked his phone once.
No missed calls. No messages.
That made it worse.
Finally, he got out of the car.
The elevator ride felt unbearably short. Each floor number lighting up felt like a countdown he hadn’t agreed to. When the doors opened, he hesitated again, then walked down the familiar hallway and pressed the doorbell.
“What,” Yeorum’s voice snapped through the intercom. Then, softer, surprised, “Jongin?”
“It’s me,” he said quietly. “Can we talk.”
There was a pause. Too long.
Then the door unlocked.
She stood there barefoot, wearing one of his old hoodies, hair loose, face already wary. She didn’t smile.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
The apartment smelled like citrus cleaner and something sweet she’d been baking earlier. It felt wrong to notice that.
He walked in and stopped near the couch, not sitting, not taking off his jacket. Yeorum closed the door behind him with a soft click and crossed her arms.
“You look like you’re about to give me bad news,” she said.
Kai exhaled slowly. “I am.”
Her jaw tightened. “Is this about her.”
He didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.
“Yes.”
She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Of course it is.”
Kai rubbed his hands together, grounding himself. “Yeorum, listen to me. Just, please listen before you react.”
“I’ve been listening for months,” she snapped. “Go on.”
He swallowed. His throat felt dry.
“She’s sick,” he said.
Yeorum blinked. “What.”
“She has cancer,” he continued, forcing the words out evenly. “Brain stem tumor. It’s terminal.”
The color drained from Yeorum’s face so fast it startled him.
“That’s not funny,” she said immediately. “Why would you say something like that.”
“I’m not joking,” Kai replied. “I wish I were.”
She shook her head, stepping back slightly as if the words had physical weight. “No. You’re lying. This is another excuse. Another story.”
“I’ve seen the reports,” he said quietly. “I’ve been to the appointments.”
Her eyes flicked to his face, searching. “How long.”
“About ten months.”
Silence fell between them.
Then Yeorum laughed. A small, broken sound. “You expect me to believe this.”
Kai’s voice cracked for the first time. “I wouldn’t make this up.”
She sat down heavily on the arm of the couch, hands trembling. “Then why is she still walking around like everything’s fine.”
“Because that’s who she is,” Kai said. “She doesn’t want pity. She doesn’t want to disappear.”
Yeorum stared at the floor. “And what does this have to do with us.”
Kai closed his eyes briefly. This was the part he’d been dreading.
“She’s stepping back from her job,” he said. “She’s made a will. She’s planning… everything.”
Yeorum looked up sharply. “A will.”
“Yes.”
Her voice dropped. “And you’re telling me this now because.”
“Because I can’t keep lying to you,” Kai said. “And because things are going to change.”
Her breath hitched. “You mean the marriage.”
“Yes.”
The word sat between them, heavy and ugly.
“You said it was just business,” Yeorum said. “You said it didn’t mean anything.”
“It still doesn’t,” Kai said quickly. “Not like that.”
“Then why are you here,” she demanded. “Why do you look like you’re mourning someone you’re married to.”
Kai ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt tangling together. “Because I live with her. Because I see her every day. Because she’s dying.”
Yeorum stood abruptly. “Stop saying that.”
“It’s the truth,” he said. “And I can’t pretend it doesn’t affect me.”
She turned away, hugging herself. “So what. You’re going to play the devoted husband now.”
“No,” Kai said firmly. “I’m going to be honest.”
She laughed again, tears spilling now. “Honest would’ve been choosing me.”
Kai winced. “Yeorum—”
“You keep saying her name like it hurts,” she cried. “You never say mine like that anymore.”
“That’s not fair,” he said, voice rising despite himself. “This isn’t a competition.”
“It feels like one,” she shot back. “And I’m losing.”
Kai stepped closer, stopping just short of touching her. “I care about you. That hasn’t changed.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re slipping away,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because the truth was complicated.
“I don’t love her,” he said finally. “But I won’t abandon her.”
Yeorum turned to face him, eyes red. “And what am I supposed to do with that.”
“I don’t know,” Kai admitted. “I don’t have the answers.”
She wiped her face angrily. “You’re asking me to be understanding while you play husband to another woman who’s dying.”
“I’m asking you not to make this harder than it already is,” he said quietly.
Her shoulders shook. “You don’t get to decide what’s hard for me.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
The word sounded small, inadequate.
They stood there in silence, the weight of the truth pressing down on both of them.
Finally, Yeorum spoke, her voice hollow. “So this is it.”
“No,” Kai said. “It’s not the end. But it’s not the same anymore either.”
She nodded slowly, as if something inside her had settled into place. “You should go.”
He hesitated. “Yeorum”
“Go,” she repeated, not looking at him. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”
Kai nodded once, chest tight, and walked toward the door.
As his hand rested on the handle, she spoke again, barely above a whisper.
“Does she know you’re here.”
He paused. “No.”
“Figures,” she said bitterly.
He left without another word.
The door closed softly behind him.
Outside, the hallway felt colder than before. Kai leaned briefly against the wall, breathing hard, the weight of two lives pulling him in opposite directions.
For the first time, he understood that no matter what he chose next, someone was going to be hurt.
And this time, there was no way to outrun it.
Kai didn’t remember when the weight started.
Not exactly.
If he was honest with himself, it had been there since the first morning after the court ruling, when everyone had congratulated him, hugged him, told him it was over. He had smiled, bowed, thanked them. Then he had gone home and watched Y/N fall asleep on the couch with a legal file still open on her chest, her breathing shallow, uneven.
That was the first time fear crept in quietly.
Not the loud, panicked kind. The kind that settles behind your ribs and never quite leaves.
From the outside, everything looked fine.
His reputation was intact. EXO was stable. The marriage had done exactly what it was supposed to do. Fans believed in him again. The headlines had softened. The industry had moved on.
But Kai hadn’t.
He watched Y/N more than he meant to.
He noticed the way she paused before standing, like her body needed a second longer than her mind. The way she kept painkillers in three different bags. The way her laughter came easier now, louder, almost reckless, as if she was trying to outrun something invisible.
He noticed the pills before she ever told him anything.
He noticed the nights she fell asleep halfway through conversations. The mornings she woke up already tired. The days she pushed herself too hard and the nights she paid for it.
And every time he asked, she smiled.
“I’m fine,” she said.
He didn’t believe her.
Yeorum noticed too.
She said it differently.
“You’ve changed,” she told him once, sitting across from him, arms folded. “You’re not really here anymore.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to say she was imagining things. That nothing had changed.
But he knew better.
Because even when he was with Yeorum, part of his attention was elsewhere. On whether Y/N had eaten. On whether she’d taken her medication. On whether she’d pushed herself too hard that day.
It made him feel like a traitor.
Not because he loved Y/N.
But because he cared.
And caring, he was learning, was dangerous.
The night Y/N told EXO the truth, he hadn’t planned to speak.
He sat there, listening, watching their faces fall one by one as the words landed. Cancer. Terminal. Ten months.
Each word felt like it knocked something loose inside his chest.
He hated how calm she sounded. How prepared.
He hated how much she had already decided without him.
And he hated himself most for the thought that came uninvited, sharp and ugly.
This is why the marriage makes sense.
The guilt of it burned.
When she said she was stepping down, when she talked about replacements and consulting fees, he realized something that made his stomach twist.
She was already leaving.
Not physically. Not yet.
But mentally, she was already arranging the world without her in it.
He wanted to stop her.
He didn’t.
He didn’t know if he had the right.
When she told them she was an eri, something shifted.
He remembered her, years ago, in a courtroom hallway, eyes sharp, voice steady, completely unshaken by the chaos around them. He remembered thinking she was terrifyingly competent.
Now he saw her differently.
Not less strong.
Just more human.
When Baekhyun hugged her, Kai had to look away.
Because something in his chest hurt in a way that didn’t make sense.
Going to Yeorum that night felt inevitable.
Necessary.
Cruel.
He didn’t know what he was hoping for. Understanding, maybe. Forgiveness. Space.
What he got was grief mixed with jealousy mixed with fear.
And he couldn’t blame her.
When he told Yeorum the truth, saying the words out loud made everything real in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. Terminal. Ten months.
He watched her disbelief turn into anger, then into something quieter and more dangerous.
When she accused him of slipping away, he wanted to deny it.
But the truth was he already had.
Not toward Y/N.
Toward responsibility.
Toward inevitability.
What scared him most wasn’t losing Y/N.
It was the realization that one day, soon, she would stop needing him.
She would finish her lists. Say her goodbyes. Put everything in order.
And then she would be gone.
And he would still be here.
Living with the memory of someone he never loved the way the world expected him to, but cared about in a way that felt just as heavy.
He didn’t know what that made him.
Selfish.
Coward.
Human.
He only knew one thing for sure.
No matter how this ended, no matter who stayed and who left, he was already guilty of something he couldn’t undo.
Not loving her.
And not being able to stop caring anyway.
Kai went back two days later.
Not because he thought things would be better.
Not because he believed he could fix anything.
But because the silence between them had become unbearable.
He didn’t text first. Didn’t call. He just drove, hands tight on the steering wheel, replaying every word he should have said and didn’t. Every look Yeorum had given him that night, sharp with hurt and something like resignation.
When he rang the bell this time, she answered almost immediately.
She looked different.
Calmer. Quieter. Like someone who had already made a decision and survived it.
“You came back,” she said flatly.
“I needed to talk,” Kai replied.
She stepped aside without a word.
The apartment felt colder than it had before. Cleaner. Too tidy. Like she’d been trying to erase something by rearranging it. His hoodie was gone from the couch.
They stood facing each other, neither sitting.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kai said, breaking the silence.
Yeorum let out a short laugh. “Good. Someone should be.”
He flinched. “Yeorum—”
“No,” she said, holding up a hand. “Let me talk first.”
He closed his mouth.
She took a breath, steadying herself.
“I didn’t sleep the night you told me,” she said. “Not because of her. Because of you.”
Kai swallowed.
“You stood here,” she continued, voice quiet but sharp, “and told me you didn’t love her. And you thought that would make everything okay.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You were,” she cut in. “You were trying to make me stay.”
He said nothing.
She walked past him slowly, pacing.
“I realized something,” Yeorum said. “Love isn’t just who you want. It’s who you choose to show up for.”
She turned to face him again.
“And you’re already showing up for her.”
Kai shook his head. “She’s sick.”
“I know,” Yeorum said. “And that makes it worse.”
He looked at her, confused.
“Because now,” she continued, “if I ask you to choose me, I become the villain. The girl who couldn’t handle sharing. The one who walked away from a dying woman’s husband.”
“That’s not fair,” Kai said hoarsely.
“Neither is this,” she replied.
Silence stretched between them.
“You don’t look at me the same anymore,” Yeorum said quietly. “You’re always somewhere else. Thinking about whether she’s eaten. Whether she’s tired. Whether she’s okay.”
Kai opened his mouth, then closed it.
Because she was right.
“You don’t need to love her,” Yeorum said. “You just need to care. And you do.”
His shoulders sagged slightly.
“I can’t compete with death,” she continued. “And I won’t try.”
He stepped forward instinctively. “Yeorum, I don’t want to lose you.”
She smiled sadly. “You already have.”
The words hit harder than shouting ever could.
“I don’t hate you,” she said. “And I don’t hate her. I hate the position this put all of us in.”
She reached for his hands and held them briefly, squeezing once before letting go.
“I love you,” Yeorum said softly. “But loving you like this is destroying me.”
Kai’s chest tightened painfully. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why this hurts so much.”
She stepped back.
“So this is me letting you go,” she said. “Before I start resenting you. Before I become someone I don’t recognize.”
He stood there, frozen, as if any movement might shatter something.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Yeorum added. “I’ve already decided.”
He nodded once, eyes burning.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She nodded too. “I know.”
He turned toward the door, stopping just before opening it.
“For what it’s worth,” he said without looking back, “you mattered. You still do.”
Yeorum’s voice trembled slightly when she answered. “I know.”
He left quietly.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded final.
Kai stood in the hallway for a long time after, staring at the blank wall, chest aching in a way he didn’t have a name for.
He hadn’t chosen anyone.
But he had lost her anyway.
And that, somehow, felt like the heaviest consequence of all.
The plane touched down in Incheon just after dawn.
Y/N watched the runway lights streak past the window, blinking rhythmically like a heartbeat she suddenly didn’t trust. Her forehead rested lightly against the cold glass. Ten months. The number replayed in her mind not yet confirmed, but looming, waiting to be stamped into certainty.
Kai slept beside her, exhaustion finally winning after days of restless nights and unresolved tension. His head had tipped slightly toward her shoulder but didn’t quite touch it, as if even in sleep he was careful not to cross a line.
She didn’t move.
She let him rest.
She wondered, not for the first time, how strange it was that she could love someone this deeply and still feel so completely alone.
At arrivals, cameras flashed immediately. Reporters shouted questions they already knew the answers to. Kai’s hand found hers automatically, grip firm, reassuring for the cameras, for her, maybe for himself.
“Welcome back,” someone yelled.
She smiled.
She always smiled.
Inside, everything was counting down.
The consultation room felt deliberately neutral.
No bed. No IV stand. No heart monitor humming in the background. Just three chairs, a desk, and a screen mounted too high on the wall. Y/N noticed it immediately. Rooms like this were meant for decisions, not comfort.
She sat straight-backed, ankles crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap as if she were about to argue a case. Jisung sat beside her, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
The neurologist entered first, followed by the oncologist. Both greeted her by name. Both sat down slowly.
That slowness told her everything.
“Ms. Y/N,” the neurologist began, “thank you for coming in so promptly. We now have the full biopsy report, MRI comparisons, and neurological assessments.”
Y/N nodded once. “I’d like everything explained clearly. No euphemisms.”
The oncologist glanced at his colleague, then nodded. “Of course.”
He turned the screen toward them. The scan filled the display—her brain, sliced into precise layers, a faint but unmistakable mass lodged deep within the brain stem.
“This,” he said, circling the area with a digital pointer, “is the tumor. Its location is within the brain stem, adjacent to structures that regulate respiration, heart rate, and consciousness.”
Y/N leaned forward slightly. “Surgery?”
The neurologist didn’t hesitate. “Not an option. Any attempt at resection would almost certainly result in immediate death or irreversible loss of autonomic function.”
“Meaning I wouldn’t survive the table,” she said calmly.
“Yes.”
Jisung sucked in a breath beside her.
“Radiation?” she asked next.
The oncologist nodded. “That is an option for some patients. However, in your case—due to proximity to critical neural pathways radiation would likely cause significant neurological damage before offering meaningful tumor control.”
“Define significant,” Y/N said.
The oncologist hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Loss of speech. Difficulty swallowing. Progressive paralysis. Cognitive impairment.”
She absorbed this without visible reaction. “Would it extend my life?”
“Possibly,” he said. “By weeks or a few months. There is no guarantee.”
“And chemotherapy?”
The oncologist exhaled slowly. “Chemotherapy has very limited efficacy for tumors in this location and with this pathology. The blood-brain barrier reduces its effectiveness significantly.”
“So,” she summarized, “radiation and chemotherapy may buy me marginal time at the cost of my ability to function independently.”
That silence afterward was confirmation enough.
“Yes,” the neurologist said quietly.
She leaned back in her chair.
“Any experimental trials?” she asked.
The oncologist shook his head. “Nothing appropriate for your tumor type and location at this stage.”
“Medication?” she continued. “Steroids. Symptom management.”
“Yes,” the neurologist said quickly. “We can manage inflammation, headaches, dizziness. Focus on comfort and preserving function as long as possible.”
Y/N folded her hands again, considering.
Jisung turned toward her, eyes glossy. “Y/N—”
She raised a hand gently, silencing him.
She looked back at the doctors.
“I will not undergo radiation,” she said evenly.
Both doctors stiffened slightly.
“I will not undergo chemotherapy,” she added.
The oncologist leaned forward. “Ms. Y/N, I want to be clear those options, while imperfect, may offer”
“Time,” she interrupted calmly. “At the cost of myself.”
She met his eyes steadily.
“I am not interested in surviving as a shadow of who I am,” she said. “I am not interested in being kept alive while losing speech, autonomy, or dignity.”
The neurologist nodded slowly, respect flickering across his face. “That is your right.”
Jisung swallowed hard. “How long?” he asked hoarsely.
The oncologist hesitated.
“With conservative management,” he said gently, “we estimate approximately ten months. Possibly less. Unlikely more.”
Ten months.
Y/N didn’t flinch.
“Will I know when it’s getting worse?” she asked.
“Yes,” the neurologist replied. “You’ll experience increased fatigue, balance issues, possible cognitive lapses.”
“And pain?”
“We will manage it.”
She nodded. “Good.”
She stood then, smoothing her coat as if the meeting had simply concluded.
“Thank you for your honesty,” she said. “I will not change my mind.”
The doctors stood as well.
“We’ll respect your decision,” the oncologist said quietly. “We’ll support you.”
Outside the room, the corridor buzzed with life phones ringing, nurses walking briskly, someone laughing at the far end.
Jisung leaned against the wall the moment the door closed, hands covering his face.
“You just… chose to die sooner,” he whispered.
She shook her head gently. “No. I chose how I live.”
He looked at her then really looked at her and finally understood.
She wasn’t giving up.
She was taking control.
The private advisory room was quiet in a deliberate way.
Not the uncomfortable kind of silence, but the kind curated to make people feel safe enough to say things they normally wouldn’t. The air-conditioning hummed steadily. A glass carafe of water sat untouched at the center of the table, condensation forming slow, uneven lines down its sides.
Y/N took a moment before sitting.
She removed her coat carefully, folded it once, then twice, and placed it on the empty chair beside her. It was a habit one she used before difficult meetings, court appearances, negotiations where every word mattered. Control started with preparation.
Jisung sat down only after she did.
He looked smaller here, shoulders hunched slightly, hands clasped together as if he were afraid they might start shaking if he let go. This wasn’t his world. He dealt with crime scenes and interrogation rooms, not spreadsheets and end-of-life planning.
Across from them, the financial advisor adjusted his glasses and glanced at his tablet again, as though confirming that the name on the screen truly belonged to the woman sitting in front of him.
“Ms. Y/N,” he began gently, “you mentioned over the phone that you wanted to discuss comprehensive estate planning.”
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “Including projections.”
Jisung looked up. “Projections?”
“Yes,” she said, turning slightly toward him before facing the advisor again. “I want to know what my net worth would look like if I continue working as a legal consultant.”
The advisor nodded, impressed rather than surprised. “That’s reasonable.”
He tapped a few keys, and her financial profile appeared on the wall-mounted screen.
“Your current net worth,” he began, “stands at approximately ₩8.67 billion.”
The number appeared large, stark, unfeeling.
“This includes liquid assets, investments, insurance policies, and projected income for the remainder of the fiscal year.”
Y/N nodded. “Break it down.”
“₩1.87 billion in liquid funds,” he said. “Spread across checking and savings accounts. Immediate access.”
She made a small note in her mind.
“₩4.3 billion in investments,” he continued. “Low-risk bonds, index funds, blue-chip equities. Conservative, stable.”
“I wanted predictability,” she said quietly.
“You achieved it,” he replied.
“And insurance?” she asked.
“You have private medical insurance and employer-linked coverage,” he said. “Additionally, life insurance policies totaling ₩2.5 billion.”
He paused.
“Currently, no beneficiaries are designated.”
“That changes today,” Y/N said without hesitation.
Jisung inhaled sharply but said nothing.
The advisor nodded and opened a new document.
“Now,” the advisor said, “you asked about projections if you continue working as a legal consultant.”
“Yes,” Y/N said. “Assume I keep my consultancy active for as long as I’m able.”
He nodded and began inputting figures.
“Based on your current consultancy fees, retained clients, and historical earnings,” he said, “your projected income over the next ten months would be approximately ₩1.1 to ₩1.3 billion, assuming no major disruptions.”
Jisung’s throat bobbed.
“With that,” the advisor continued, “and assuming conservative spending, your net worth at the end of that period would rise to approximately ₩9.6 to ₩9.8 billion.”
Y/N leaned back slightly, absorbing the number.
“And expenses?” she asked.
“Let’s factor those in,” the advisor replied.
“Medical expenses first,” Y/N said. “Symptom management only. No radiation. No chemotherapy.”
The advisor nodded, typing carefully.
“Neurology consultations, medications, potential palliative support we estimate approximately ₩180 to ₩250 million.”
“Add travel,” she said. “International. Significant.”
He adjusted the numbers. “With travel, accommodation, and elevated lifestyle spending, we’re looking at roughly ₩550 to ₩600 million total expenses.”
The advisor recalculated.
“That would leave your final net worth at approximately ₩9.1 to ₩9.2 billion.”
Jisung let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to breaking. “You’re planning to live… fully.”
“I’m planning not to leave things half-done,” Y/N replied.
“Based on that projection,” the advisor said gently, “we can now discuss distribution.”
“Yes,” Y/N said. “Equal percentages.”
He hesitated. “How many beneficiaries?”
“Three.”
Jisung straightened.
“Thirty-three point three three percent to my parents.”
The advisor typed.
“They raised me,” Y/N continued softly. “They deserve security without fear.”
He nodded.
“Thirty-three point three three percent to Kim Jongin.”
Jisung turned sharply toward her. “Y/N”
She met his gaze calmly. “Think of it like this. I'm not leaving this to him as his wife, I'm leaving this to him as his fan.”
The advisor cleared his throat gently. “Your spouse.”
“Yes.”
“And the remaining thirty-three point three three percent to Lee Jisung.”
Silence fell like a dropped glass.
Jisung laughed once, broken. “Absolutely not.”
She turned toward him fully now. “Listen to me.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said hoarsely. “I want you alive.”
Her expression softened not breaking, but warm. “You don’t get to choose how I leave something behind.”
The advisor spoke quietly. “To confirm equal distribution, no conditions, no staggered release?”
“Yes,” Y/N said firmly. “No conditions.”
“Now,” the advisor said, “life insurance beneficiaries.”
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
“Split evenly,” she said. “Between Kim Jongin and Lee Jisung.”
Jisung’s head snapped up. “What about your parents?”
“They don’t need it,” she replied gently. “They need stability, not shock.”
The advisor typed slowly, carefully.
“So the full ₩2.5 billion policy will be divided fifty-fifty between Mr. Kim and Mr. Lee.”
“Yes.”
Jisung looked away, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
“Power of attorney?” the advisor asked.
“Lee Jisung,” Y/N replied immediately.
“And advanced medical directives?”
“No life-prolonging measures beyond comfort care,” she said evenly. “No resuscitation if neurological function is lost.”
The advisor nodded. “This will be legally binding.”
“That’s the point,” she replied.
He compiled the documents into a thick folder and slid it across the table.
“These will need signatures once finalized. We’ll register everything immediately.”
Y/N took the folder, holding it for a moment longer than necessary.
Jisung stared at her, voice barely audible. “You planned this like a case.”
She looked at him then eyes clear, steady, heartbreakingly alive.
“I planned it like a responsibility,” she said. “This is the last thing I can do properly.”
A will written.
A future calculated.
And love not measured in words, but in the people she chose to leave something behind for.
The café smelled like burnt espresso and sugar.
It was the kind of place where the tables were too close together, where strangers accidentally overheard pieces of each other’s lives without meaning to. The kind of place where big truths slipped out because the world didn’t feel important enough to perform for.
Y/N chose a table by the window, sunlight spilling across the scratched wood. She sat down slowly, setting her bag beside her chair, rolling her shoulders once like she was loosening armor she’d been wearing all morning.
Jisung sat across from her, hands wrapped tightly around his coffee cup.
He didn’t wait long.
“Why did you leave me money?”
The question was quiet but direct. No anger. Just hurt wrapped in disbelief.
Y/N sighed, stirring her coffee even though she didn’t need to.
“Because you’d be offended if I didn’t,” she said.
Jisung scoffed. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
She finally looked up at him. His eyes were tired more than usual. The kind of tired that came from carrying something too heavy without permission.
“You’ve been there for every version of me,” she said quietly. “Before the degrees. Before the reputation. Before I became… this.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want your money.”
“I know,” she said gently. “But I want you taken care of. You’re my family, Jisung. You always have been.”
He swallowed hard.
“That doesn’t mean I’m okay with it,” he muttered.
She smiled faintly. “I didn’t say you had to be.”
There was a pause.
Then she leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.
“I don’t want my last ten months to be like this,” she said suddenly.
Jisung frowned. “Like what?”
“Controlled. Careful. Responsible,” she replied. “I’ve spent my entire life planning outcomes, managing risks, being the smartest person in the room.”
She laughed softly, almost fondly.
“I want to be the old Y/N again.”
“The menace?” he offered.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “The one who loved life. The one who didn’t care what people thought. The one who wanted to do stupid shit just because it felt good.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook.
Her bucket list.
She slid it across the table.
“I’m not dying quietly,” she said. “I’m living loudly.”
Jisung opened it slowly, reading.
Paris.
EXO concert: from the crowd.
Sit in on a song recording.
Convertible road trip.
Vegas club hopping.
Get blackout drunk.
Hangover-movie disaster trip.
He let out a breath that turned into a laugh.
“You’re insane.”
“I finally have an excuse,” she said.
Behind them, a chair scraped lightly against the floor.
“Okay, I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping”
Y/N froze for half a second before recognizing the voice.
She turned.
Baekhyun stood there with a coffee in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, looking somewhere between guilty and amused.
“…Hi,” he said weakly.
Jisung raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”
Y/N exclaimed. “THATS BYUN BAEKHYUN!! DUMBASS”
"Sorry, my mind is not in the right place rn." Jisung said
Baekhyun pointed between them. “You’re Jisung, right? We met during their wedding"
Jisung snorted. “Yeah, the fog machine was epic.”
Baekhyun grinned despite himself.
Y/N sighed. “Sit down, Baekhyun.”
He did—immediately.
She didn’t waste time.
“I have cancer,” she said plainly. “Brain stem. Ten months. Max.”
Baekhyun’s smile vanished.
“What?” he whispered.
“I’m not joking,” she said gently.
His eyes filled instantly. “Why—why are you so calm?”
“Because panic doesn’t change math,” she replied.
He nodded, wiping at his eyes quickly. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”
She leaned forward slightly.
“I didn’t take Kai’s case because I was dying,” she said firmly. “I took it because it was right. And because I knew he was innocent.”
Baekhyun nodded fiercely. “He is.”
“I took it because I’m a lawyer first,” she continued. “And yes because I’m an EXO-L. Those two things can coexist.”
Baekhyun let out a shaky laugh. “God, that’s so you.”
She smiled faintly.
“And since we’re being honest,” she added, tilting her head, “you’re my bias wrecker.”
Baekhyun blinked. “Wait what?”
“Kai’s my bias,” she said calmly. “You wreck it.”
He stared at her for two full seconds.
Then burst out laughing through tears. “I knew it. I knew I had power.”
She smiled genuinely this time.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said.
“Anything,” Baekhyun replied without hesitation.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “Not Suho. Not the members. Not Kai.”
His smile faded. “That’s… a lot.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But this is mine to tell.”
He nodded. “I won’t say a word.”
“And,” she added, tapping the notebook, “I need help.”
“With what?”
“I want to cross two things off this list,” she said. “The EXO concert from the crowd. And sitting in on a recording session.”
Baekhyun didn’t even think.
“Done,” he said. “No questions.”
Jisung watched the exchange silently, something like awe settling in his chest.
Y/N leaned back in her chair, sunlight warming her face.
Y/N’s office was quiet in the way only law offices ever were controlled, intentional, disciplined.
The case file lay open on her desk, pages neatly tabbed, margins filled with precise notes. It was Jisung’s investigation, one she’d agreed to review before charges were finalized. She had already gone through it once.
She read the same paragraph again.
The witness claims the encounter occurred at approximately 11:40 PM.
She underlined the sentence.
Paused.
Her eyes drifted to the margin.
The same sentence was already underlined.
Her handwriting.
Y/N frowned.
“That’s strange,” she murmured.
A dull pressure pressed against the base of her skull—not pain, not quite a headache. More like someone pushing from the inside, slow and steady.
She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake it off.
Too little sleep.
She moved on.
Halfway through the next paragraph, the words stopped making sense. They blurred—not visually, but cognitively, like she could see them without understanding them.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her coffee mug slipped from her fingers.
It shattered on the floor.
“Damn it” she muttered, standing up too fast.
The room tilted.
Not spinning.
Sinking.
Her knees weakened, hands gripping the desk for balance.
“Y/N?”
Jisung’s voice came from the doorway. He froze when he saw her pale, unsteady, knuckles white against the desk edge.
“You okay?” he asked, already moving toward her.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically.
The lie came easily.
Her vision darkened at the edges. Her legs gave out.
Jisung caught her just before she hit the floor.
“Hey! hey, look at me,” he said urgently, lowering her into the chair. “Y/N, stay with me.”
She tried to speak. Nothing came out. Her head lolled slightly to the side.
“Okay,” he said sharply, fear finally breaking through his calm. “That’s not okay.”
She came back in fragments.
The hum of the engine.
The vibration of the road.
Jisung’s voice, steady but tight.
“Y/N, talk to me.”
“I’m here,” she murmured.
Her tongue felt heavy. Her thoughts moved slower than they should.
Jisung glanced at her again and again, one hand clenched on the steering wheel.
“You fainted,” he said. “Fully out. For almost a minute.”
“I… didn’t mean to,” she replied faintly.
“That’s not how fainting works,” he snapped, then softened immediately. “Sorry. Just stay awake.”
Her hand trembled slightly in her lap.
He noticed.
“Hey,” he said, pulling over abruptly. “Look at me.”
He snapped his fingers gently near her face.
“How many fingers?"
She squinted. “…Two?”
It was four. His stomach dropped.
“Okay,” he said, voice tight. “Okay.”
He reached for his phone.
Her hand shot out weakly, catching his wrist.
“Don’t,” she whispered. He froze.
“Don’t call yet,” she said, eyes clearer now, urgent. “Just get me there.”
“You’re scaring me,” he said honestly.
“I know,” she replied. “Just—please.”
He nodded once. And drove.
The car screeched into the hospital driveway. Jisung didn’t bother parking straight.
“I need help!” he shouted as he opened her door. “She collapsed"
Staff moved quickly. Y/N tried to stand. Her legs buckled instantly.
Jisung caught her, heart racing. “I’ve got you.” They lifted her onto a gurney.
A nurse leaned in. “Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”
“Y/N,” she whispered.
“Do you know where you are?”
“…Hospital.”
“Do you know today’s date?”
She hesitated. Jisung’s chest tightened. They wheeled her away.
They stopped him outside the ER doors.
“Are you family?” a nurse asked.
“No,” he replied. “I’m her emergency contact.”
“Any known medical history? Seizures? Fainting spells?”
“No,” he said immediately. “Nothing like this.”
“Is she under unusual stress?”
He almost laughed.
“Yes,” he said. “Constantly.”
The nurse nodded sympathetically. “We’ll run blood work, neurological exams, imaging if needed.”
Jisung sat hunched forward in the plastic chair, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Behind the ER doors, Y/N was being examined.
No answers yet.
No labels.
Just tests.
His phone buzzed.
He didn’t need to look to know who it was.
He still did.
Kai: She’s not answering. Is she with you?
Jisung’s chest tightened.
He glanced up through the glass partition. Y/N lay on the hospital bed, eyes closed, ECG leads attached, a nurse adjusting the blood pressure cuff around her arm. She looked smaller like this. Quieter.
Vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Finally:
Jisung: Her phone battery died. She’s tied up with work. I’m with her. She’s fine.
The lie felt heavy in his hands.
He hit send before he could reconsider.
Almost immediately:
Kai: Okay. Tell her to call me when she can.
Jisung: Will do.
He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket like it might burn him.
A nurse approached. “She’s stable for now. We’re running blood work and scheduling imaging. Has she had anything like this before?”
“No,” Jisung replied immediately. “Never.”
The nurse nodded. “Sometimes stress can cause syncope. We’ll rule things out.”
Rule things out.
Jisung leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
Please let it be stress, he thought.
Inside the room, Y/N stirred faintly, eyes fluttering open as the nurse spoke to her gently.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Y/N murmured.
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“…A little.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
She was already composing herself. Already putting the armor back on. Jisung watched through the glass, heart pounding.
She had asked him not to tell anyone. So he wouldn’t.
Not yet. Even if it meant carrying this alone.
Dr Lee came to examine Y/N around 5pm.
"Good evening Mrs Kim, I'm Dr. Lee Jungmin, I will be taking care of you today. This Dr. Park Ji-min she is a neuroligist that we had to consult after overlooking your scans."
Y/N sat upright on the hospital bed now, hair slightly disheveled, hands folded neatly in her lap like she was waiting for a meeting to begin rather than medical news.
"Good eveing doctors." Y/N replied
“We’d like to keep you overnight,” the neurologist said gently. “Your initial scans show something we need to investigate further.”
Jisung’s head snapped up. “Something?”
“A small abnormality,” the doctor replied carefully. “We can’t say what it is yet. The safest course is observation and further screening. We’ll also need to do a biopsy.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened imperceptibly.
“When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” the doctor said. “We’d rather”
“No,” she said calmly.
The doctors and Jisung turned to her.
“I can’t stay overnight,” Y/N continued evenly. “And I don’t want this dragged out.”
Dr. Park frowned. “Ms. Y/N, this isn’t something we rush.”
“I understand,” she said. “Then do the biopsy today.”
Jisung stared at her. “Today?”
“If you already know you’ll need tissue samples,” she said, voice steady, “then delaying serves no purpose except increasing the chance someone notices I’m missing.”
Dr. Lee hesitated. “You’re married,” he said carefully. “Your spouse”
“Does not need to know,” she interrupted firmly. “Not yet.”
Jisung opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.
He knew that tone.
The doctors sighed. Dr. Park continued “I’ll need your consent. And I need to be clear this is invasive. There are risks.”
She nodded. “I’ve read worse contracts.”
After a long pause, the doctor said, “We can schedule it in 3 hours But if anything changes, you stay.”
“Understood,” she replied.
"But before we schedule it. You need to fast atleast 12 hours before the biopsy." Dr. Park said
"Dont worry, I havent had anything today and the only cup of coffee I wanted drink it spilled." Y/N said sighing and the doctors nodded while Jisung shook his head.
The procedure room was cold.
Y/N lay perfectly still as they positioned her head, antiseptic biting at her skin. A local anesthetic dulled the surface, but she could still feel pressure deep, unsettling.
“Try not to move,” a nurse murmured.
“I won’t,” Y/N replied.
She focused on breathing. On counting seconds. On not thinking about what they were taking or why.
Jisung stood outside, hands shaking for the first time that day.
When it was over, they wrapped her head carefully, a small patch of gauze taped low near the nape of her neck, just beneath her hairline.
“It went smoothly,” Dr. Park told them. “We’ll have results in a few days.”
Y/N nodded once.
“Can I go home?” she asked.
The doctor studied her. “You shouldn’t.”
“I will,” she said.
After a moment, she relented. “If you experience dizziness, confusion, vomiting anything you come back immediately.”
“I will,” she promised.
She always did.
The car was quiet.
Too quiet.
Jisung kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye, watching the way her head rested carefully against the seat, the way she moved like every action required intention.
“You shouldn’t have left,” he said finally.
“I had to,” she replied. “One night missing becomes questions. Questions become people.”
“And people become panic,” he muttered.
She smiled faintly. “Exactly.”
They pulled into her building close to 2 a.m.
“You’re not alone,” Jisung said as she opened the door.
“I know,” she replied softly. “You’re here.” For now.
Kai was awake.
He was sitting on the couch, phone in hand, brows furrowed with quiet concern. He looked up the moment the door opened.
“There you are,” he said, standing immediately. “I tried calling you.”
“My phone died,” Y/N replied smoothly.
She stepped closer and that’s when he saw it.
The gauze.
Just visible beneath her hair at the base of her skull.
He froze.
“What happened?” he asked, voice careful but sharp.
Y/N didn’t hesitate. “I slipped at the office. Hit my head on the desk.”
His eyes searched her face. Then the bandage. Then her posture too controlled, too guarded.
“That doesn’t look like a desk injury,” he said quietly.
She met his gaze. Calm. Measured.
“I insisted they clean it properly,” she said. “You know how hospitals are.”
He didn’t believe her.
Not really.
But he also didn’t push.
“You should’ve called me,” he said.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
He nodded slowly. “Sit.”
She did.
He disappeared briefly and returned with water, holding the glass until she wrapped her fingers around it.
“You need rest,” he said.
“I will,” she replied.
A beat passed.
Then he spoke again, softer.
“I talked to PR today,” he said. “About the honeymoon.”
Her heart skipped despite herself.
“We leave for Greece in three days,” Jongin continued. “Santorini first. They want sunrise photos, minimal press. Just enough to set the narrative.”
She nodded. “That’s… soon.”
“I know,” he said. “If you’re not up for it-”
“I am,” she interrupted gently. “It’s fine.”
He studied her again, worry flickering behind his eyes.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Then we’ll go.”
She smiled faintly.
And turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the fear she hadn’t managed to swallow yet.
Greece began the way all carefully planned illusions did—beautifully.
The airport cameras caught them first. Kai’s hand at the small of Y/N’s back, his posture protective but distant. Y/N smiling easily, composed, every inch the lawyer who never cracked under pressure.
They looked perfect.
Newlyweds.
Untouched by scandal.
Untouched by doubt.
The flight was quiet.
Kai scrolled through his phone more than usual, replying to messages he didn’t explain. Y/N pretended not to notice. She watched the clouds instead, letting the hum of the plane lull her into something close to calm.
Santorini greeted them in white and blue and blinding light.
Kai paused the moment they stepped out of the car, taking in the view. “It’s… unreal.”
Y/N nodded. “It looks fake.”
He smiled faintly. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she said automatically.
It was the first lie of many.
Publicly, they were effortless.
Kai knew exactly when to pull her closer for photos. Y/N knew exactly when to tilt her head, when to laugh softly, when to rest her hand against his arm like it belonged there.
The press ate it up.
In between flashes, Kai would murmur, “You good?”
And she’d murmur back, “Yeah.”
That was their rhythm.
At dinner the first night, she barely touched her food.
“You don’t like seafood?” Kai asked.
“I do,” she said. “Just not very hungry.”
“You’ve barely eaten all day.”
She shrugged. “Jet lag.”
He accepted it. For now.
In private, the cracks started to show.
Y/N moved slower than she usually did. She sat down more often. Sometimes she’d pause mid-sentence, blinking like she’d lost a thought and couldn’t quite find it again.
Kai noticed everything.
“You don’t have to keep up with me,” he said on the second day as they walked along the narrow stone paths.
“I’m not trying to,” she replied.
“You are,” he said gently. “You always do.”
That night, she fell asleep early.
Kai lay awake longer, listening to her breathing, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dim light.
Something felt off.
It happened on the third night.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
They were standing on the balcony, the sea stretching endlessly below them. Kai leaned against the railing, phone in hand. Y/N sat wrapped in a shawl, legs tucked beneath her.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
“I’m tired.”
“You’ve been tired since we got here.”
She didn’t respond.
He glanced at his phone again, thumb hovering.
Y/N watched him for a moment before speaking. “Is that Yeorum?”
He didn’t lie. “Yes.”
Something tightened in her chest.
“She’s not taking this well,” he continued. “She thinks she’s being replaced.”
Y/N let out a slow breath. “And you think I did that?”
Kai frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to,” she replied. “You keep explaining her pain to me like I’m supposed to apologize for existing.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Y/N said quietly. “It isn’t. But neither is pretending I’m not standing right here while you’re still emotionally somewhere else.”
His jaw tightened. “You knew this was complicated.”
“I knew it was an arrangement,” she said. “I didn’t realize I’d be sharing a marriage with someone who’s still in another relationship.”
Silence fell between them.
“You think I wanted this?” Kai asked finally. “You think I wanted to hurt her?”
“No,” Y/N said. “I think you don’t want to feel guilty.”
That landed harder than either of them expected.
The next argument was worse.
She’d gone dizzy earlier that day just briefly but Kai had seen it. The way her hand gripped the edge of the table. The way she steadied herself like it wasn’t the first time.
“Sit,” he’d said.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
Now, hours later, the tension finally snapped.
“You won’t tell me what’s wrong with you,” Kai said, voice low but sharp. “You keep saying you’re fine, but you’re not.”
“And you keep watching me like I’m about to fall apart,” Y/N shot back. “It’s suffocating.”
“Because I’m worried,” he said. “You disappear into yourself and shut me out.”
She stood, the movement too fast, anger pushing her past caution.
“And you’re honest?” she asked. “You tell me everything? Or do you just tell Yeorum?”
“That’s not”
“You accuse me of hiding,” she continued, voice shaking now, “while you carry your entire guilt over her into this marriage.”
He stared at her. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You stepped into this knowing exactly what I could and couldn’t give.”
“I never asked you to love me,” she said.
“But you want me to.”
The words landed like a slap.
She laughed once, bitter. “Congratulations. You figured it out.”
Later that night, she sat on the edge of the bed, dizzy again, breathing shallowly.
Kai noticed immediately.
He knelt in front of her without thinking, hands steadying her knees. “Hey. Look at me.”
She did.
“Just breathe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
For one dangerous secon just one she let herself believe that meant something else.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder.
He stiffened.
Then gently, deliberately, moved back.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
Her throat tightened.
“I didn’t ask you to,” she whispered.
But they both knew that wasn’t entirely true.
“I care about you,” Kai said. “But I won’t lie about where my heart is.”
She nodded slowly.
“I know,” she said. “You’ve been very clear.”
That night, facing away from him in bed, Y/N finally let the truth surface.
I love him.
Not loudly.
Not desperately.
Just fully.
And one day—
he would accuse her of ruining his relationship.
she would accuse him of ruining her heart.
and they would both be right.
But for now, Greece held them in this fragile in-between.
Where she loved him silently.
Where he cared but did not choose her.
And where every conversation became a rehearsal for the confessions still to come.
It happened late at night.
Kai had fallen asleep after another long, unresolved silence between them lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes like sleep had taken him mid-thought. The balcony doors were slightly open, letting in the sound of the sea, constant and unbothered.
Y/N sat awake on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely interlaced.
Her phone vibrated.
Once.
She didn’t look at the screen immediately. She already knew.
She stood slowly, careful not to wake Kai, and stepped onto the balcony, pulling the door shut behind her with deliberate quiet. The stone beneath her feet was cool. The air smelled faintly of salt and flowers.
She answered.
“Yeah,” she said.
There was no greeting.
No easing into it.
“Y/N,” Jisung said, and his voice- his voice was different. Not panicked. Not rushed. Broken in a way he couldn’t hide.
She closed her eyes.
“Tell me,” she said softly.
A pause.
The sea moved below her, waves crashing gently against the rocks like nothing in the world had changed.
“It’s malignant,” Jisung said. “The biopsy confirms it.”
The word landed without drama.
No explosion.
No collapse.
Just a quiet, internal shift like something sliding irreversibly into place.
“Oh,” she replied.
She sank down onto the balcony chair, phone pressed to her ear, staring out into the darkness.
“They’re calling it aggressive,” Jisung continued, words tumbling now that he’d crossed the threshold. “The location makes surgical intervention nearly impossible. They’ll talk to you about radiation, symptom management, timelines—”
“I know,” she interrupted gently. “You don’t have to explain.”
Silence stretched.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve told him. I should’ve”
“No,” she said firmly. “You did exactly what I asked.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“How long?” she asked.
Jisung inhaled sharply. “They won’t give an exact number yet. Months. Possibly more. Possibly less.”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her.
“Okay.”
That was all.
No crying.
No bargaining.
Just acceptance settling quietly into her bones.
“Jisung,” she said after a moment.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left being careful.”
His breath hitched. “I figured you wouldn’t.”
“I want to do things,” she continued. “Stupid things. Loud things. Things that don’t make sense.”
A weak, broken laugh escaped him. “Of course you do.”
“Promise me something,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Don’t let me disappear into hospitals and waiting rooms.”
“I promise,” he said without hesitation.
They hung up without saying goodbye.
She stayed on the balcony long after the call ended, letting the night air press against her skin, grounding her in the fact that she was still here. Still breathing. Still looking at the same sea.
Behind her, the balcony door slid open slightly.
She turned.
Kai stood there, hair messy from sleep, concern etched deep into his face.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She met his eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
And hated herself for how easy the lie was.
Later that night, after Kai had fallen asleep again, Y/N sat at the small desk by the window with a notebook open in front of her.
Her hands were steady.
Her mind was terrifyingly clear.
She wrote the title carefully, pressing hard enough to leave an imprint on the page beneath.
Things I Refuse to Miss
She stared at the blank page for a long moment.
Then she started writing.
Paris
Walk until my feet hurt. Sit in cafés. Watch people. Exist anonymously.
An EXO concert: from the crowd
No backstage. No protection. Lightstick. Screaming until my throat hurts.
Sit in on a song recording
Watch music be built from nothing.
She paused, smiling faintly.
A long drive in a convertible
No destination. Loud music. Wind ruining my hair.
Get blackout drunk at least once
With people who will make sure I survive it.
She laughed quietly as she wrote the next one.
Club hopping in Vegas
Bad decisions encouraged.
A Hangover-movie-level disaster trip
Wake up confused. Regret everything. Laugh later.
She put the pen down and stared at the list.
This wasn’t denial.
This was rebellion.
She closed the notebook and looked toward the bed, where Kai slept peacefully, unaware that time had just become the most valuable thing she owned.
She loved him.
She would never tell him.
And she would live fully, recklessly, unapologetically until her body forced her to stop.
Just the muted hum of Seoul waking up outside tall glass windows and the faint buzz of Kai’s phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Y/N was already awake.
She sat at the dining table of Jongin's apartment, hair tied back neatly, laptop open, a writing pad beside her. She was still in her robe, coffee untouched, eyes focused as she scrolled through overnight media reports.
Kai stepped out of the bedroom, freshly showered, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans. He paused when he saw her.
“You didn’t sleep?” he asked.
“I slept,” she replied without looking up. “I just woke up early.”
She turned the laptop slightly toward him. Headlines filled the screen.
KAI’S WEDDING: A QUIET AFFAIR THAT SPEAKS VOLUMES
EXO’S KAI MARRIES PROMINENT LAWYER—INDUSTRY PRAISES TRANSPARENCY
NO SCANDAL, NO DRAMA: A RARE CELEBRITY WEDDING
Kai scanned them, exhaling slowly. “They’re being… reasonable.”
“For now,” Y/N said. “The next seventy-two hours are critical. I’ve flagged three outlets that might try to twist the narrative. EXO’s legal team is already on standby.”
He nodded, appreciative. “Thank you.”
She closed the laptop. “We should set ground rules. Now that we’re officially married.”
Kai pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
“Agreed.”
She spoke first, voice calm, precise. “Public appearances will be coordinated through PR. No personal statements without review. If you’re meeting someone privately”
“I tell you first,” he finished. “For optics.”
“Yes,” she said. “Not permission. Information.”
He nodded again. “I’m meeting Yeorum today.”
Y/N didn’t blink.
“I assumed you would,” she replied evenly. “Where?”
“Her place,” Kai said. “She asked.”
“Okay,” Y/N said. “No photos. No overnight stays. And if anything escalates emotionally or publicly you call me or Suho immediately.”
Kai gave a small smile. “You sound like my lawyer.”
“I am,” she said simply.
A beat passed.
“And your wife,” he added, not teasing, just factual.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Legally.”
Silence settled again, not awkward just honest.
“I’ll be back by evening,” he said.
“I’ll be at the office,” Y/N replied. “We’ll brief again tonight.”
They stood at the same time.
No hug.
No lingering.
Just two adults stepping into roles they had chosen with open eyes.
Yeorum’s apartment was quiet when Kai arrived.
She opened the door slowly, eyes scanning him—not his face first, but his ring.
“You came,” she said.
“I said I would,” Kai replied.
They sat across from each other on the couch, a careful distance between them.
“I saw the wedding photos,” Yeorum said. “You looked… happy.”
“It was a performance,” Kai replied. “It was necessary.”
She nodded. “I know.”
He met her eyes. “Nothing between us changes except the boundaries.”
Yeorum exhaled shakily. “I’m not asking to be reckless. I just… don’t want to be erased.”
“You won’t be,” Kai said firmly. “But you can’t fight this reality anymore. Y/N isn’t your enemy.”
“I know,” Yeorum whispered. “I just need time to catch up to what my head already understands.”
Kai softened slightly. “Take that time. Just don’t burn everything around you while you do.”
She nodded. “I won’t.”
They sat there quietly, not reconciling, not breaking up.
Just continuing.
Y/N stood at the window of her office, phone pressed to her ear.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “We’ll issue a joint clarification tomorrow. No interviews today.”
She ended the call and leaned back in her chair.
On her desk sat the marriage certificate.
Not romantic.
But real.
Her phone buzzed.
Kai: I’m with her. Everything’s calm. I’ll be back later.
Y/N: Noted. Drive safe.
She set the phone down and returned to her work.
This marriage was not about love.
Not about jealousy.
Not about fantasy.
The wedding did not begin with applause.
It did not begin with music, flashing cameras, or whispered congratulations.
It began quietly.
The sun had barely risen over Seoul when Y/N opened her eyes.
For a moment just a fragile, fleeting moment she forgot where she was.
Then she remembered.
The hanok room was bathed in soft amber light, paper windows glowing faintly as morning filtered through. The scent of pinewood and incense lingered in the air. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. Somewhere far away, the city was waking up.
Today, she was getting married.
Her chest tightened not with excitement, not with fear, but with the weight of inevitability.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Y/N-ssi,” a gentle voice called. “It’s time.”
She sat up slowly, feet touching the cool wooden floor. The hanbok lay folded neatly on a low table beside the bed ivory silk, rose embroidery, delicate but strong. Just like the role she was stepping into.
She wondered, briefly, if Kai was awake too. If he was staring at the ceiling like she had been. If his heart felt heavy in the same quiet way.
She pushed the thought away. Today wasn’t about wondering. It was about standing.
The Paebaek ceremony took place long before the main wedding, away from guests and cameras. It was private. Sacred. Honest in a way the public ceremony could never be.
Y/N entered the inner hanok room barefoot, her steps careful and deliberate. The silk of her hanbok whispered softly with every movement. Her hair was pinned back neatly, adorned with a single binyeo nothing extravagant, nothing unnecessary.
Across the room stood Kai.
Not in a tuxedo.
Not as EXO’s Kai.
But as Kim Jongin.
He wore a deep navy hanbok, the red-and-blue ties of his jeogori hanging straight against his chest yin and yang, balance and responsibility. His posture was straight, his expression composed, but she could see the tension in his shoulders.
For a split second, their eyes met. There was no smile. Just acknowledgment. They bowed. Deeply. Respectfully.
Between them sat the ceremonial table jujubes, chestnuts, dried fruits, clear rice wine poured into delicate cups. Symbols of continuity, prosperity, endurance.
The officiant spoke in a calm, steady voice.
“Marriage is not a promise of happiness.
It is a promise of presence.”
Y/N lifted the cup with both hands. Her fingers trembled not visibly, but enough that she felt it. Kai noticed. His hands were steady when he took the cup from her.
They drank. No cheers. No clapping. Just silence.
When the chestnuts and jujubes were tossed toward her skirt, she caught them instinctively, hands moving before her mind could process the symbolism. A faint, almost ironic smile touched her lips.
Children. Continuity. Legacy. Funny how tradition didn’t ask if you were ready.
Kai’s mother waited in the adjoining room.
She stood as they entered, dressed in a graceful hanbok, eyes already glistening. This woman had lost her husband. She had watched her son nearly lose everything. And now, she was watching him marry under circumstances no mother ever dreams of.
Y/N knelt first. “Kneel properly,” the elder whispered.
She did. “Eomeoni,” Y/N said softly.
Kai knelt beside her, his movement instinctive, protective even in tradition.
His mother reached out and took Y/N’s hands. Her grip was warm. Firm.
“Thank you,” she said, voice trembling despite herself. “For standing beside my son when the world turned cruel.”
Y/N bowed deeply. “I will protect him.”
It was not a promise of love. It was a promise of duty.
Kai’s mother pressed something small into Y/N’s palm a simple gold ring. Not the wedding ring. Something older.
“Strength,” she said. “You will need it.”
Y/N nodded. She already knew.
By afternoon, the Grand Walkerhill Seoul had transformed.
The terrace overlooked the Han River, white florals lining the aisle like a soft, flowing river of their own. Lanterns hung gently, swaying in the breeze. Everything was elegant. Controlled. Purposefully restrained.
Guests arrived quietly.
Executives. Actors. Lawyers. Idols.
And EXO.
They stood together near the front, unusually silent.
Suho adjusted his tie for the third time.
Xiumin whispered something about timing.
Chanyeol cracked his knuckles, visibly emotional.
Baekhyun was already crying.
Kyungsoo held tissues without comment.
Sehun stood tall, absurdly proud.
When the music shifted, the crowd fell silent.
The first notes of “When You Look Me in the Eyes” floated through the air soft piano, stripped down, intimate.
Y/N appeared at the entrance.
She wore white not dramatic, not excessive. A gown that flowed like water, lace tracing her shoulders, a soft veil framing her face. No diamonds. No statement pieces.
Just clarity.
Lee Jisung stood beside her.
“You good?” he whispered.
She exhaled. “If I trip, arrest me.”
He smiled faintly and offered his arm. They walked.
Every step felt heavy. Measured. Final. Kai waited at the altar. He had wanted black. They compromised.
A black suit, tailored perfectly, softened with ivory accents. No harsh lines. No defiance. He looked composed—but his eyes softened when he saw her.
Not love. Recognition.
The officiant spoke calmly.
“Marriage is not always born of romance. Sometimes it is born of courage.”
Kai went first.
“Y/N,” he said, voice steady but low, “ You stood beside me when lies were louder than truth. I promise you respect. I promise honesty. And I promise that I will never make your sacrifice meaningless. I promise you endless support and I promise to be with you in sickness and in health and in richness and poor."
Y/N inhaled slowly.
“Jongin,” she said, voice clear, “ I promise you loyalty. I promise to protect you with everything I know. And I promise that no matter how this began, I will never treat this lightly and I promise to always support you no matter what. I promise you to be with you in sickness and in health and in richness and poor"
The rings were exchanged.
Gold. Simple. Permanent.
“By law,” the officiant said gently,
“by choice, and by shared resolve… you are married.”
Applause followed.
Not thunderous. Earned.
If the wedding ceremony had been about composure, symbolism, and grace,
the reception was about how long EXO could pretend to be functional adults.
The answer was: eight minutes.
The moment the officiant stepped away and the soft classical music faded into a light instrumental hum, Suho visibly loosened his tie like a man released from a high-stakes negotiation.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “No scandals. No fainting. No one interrupted the vows. That’s a win.”
Behind him, Baekhyun was already crying.
“I don’t know why I’m emotional,” he sniffed, clutching a napkin like it was life support. “I was fine. Completely fine. And then she walked past me and smiled and said ‘thank you’ like I didn’t personally rehearse for three weeks and emotionally damage myself for this moment.”
“You met her six months ago,” Kyungsoo said flatly, handing him a tissue without looking up.
“That’s practically a lifetime in idol years,” Baekhyun argued weakly.
Chanyeol leaned dramatically against the piano. “I warned you. Weddings bring out unresolved feelings.”
“You cried at a furniture commercial yesterday,” Kyungsoo reminded him.
“It was about commitment,” Chanyeol said solemnly.
The terrace glowed under soft lantern light now, the Han River reflecting gold and silver beneath the evening sky. Everything was elegant—florals, table settings, soft music drifting in the background.
That illusion shattered the moment Sehun found the gelato station.
He stood frozen in front of it, eyes wide, like a man witnessing destiny.
“Is this… unlimited?” he asked the attendant.
“Yes, sir.”
Sehun nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Within minutes: Sehun had two cones and one cup. Baekhyun joined him “for emotional support.” Xiumin counted the scoops like an accountant. Kyungsoo marched over immediately.
“No,” Kyungsoo said.
“This is dairy,” Baekhyun argued. “It’s basically a salad.”
“You will eat actual food,” Kyungsoo replied calmly. “Or I will physically intervene.”
Sehun saluted and took another scoop when Kyungsoo turned around.
A soft clink of glass cut through the noise.
Suho stood at the center, champagne flute in hand, expression composed but his eyes betrayed him.
“As EXO’s leader,” he began, “I’ve stood on many stages. Some loud. Some painful. Some… legally complex.”
Laughter rippled through the guests.
“But today,” he continued, voice softening, “is about resilience.”
He turned toward Kai.
“Jongin, you went through something that could have broken you. You didn’t fold. You didn’t run.”
Then his gaze shifted to Y/N.
“And you stepped into chaos you didn’t create and held the line. Quietly. Firmly. That takes courage most people never understand.”
Y/N felt her throat tighten.
Suho lifted his glass. “To partnership. To truth. And to choosing integrity, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
“To choosing integrity,” the room echoed.
From the back, Baekhyun yelled, “I’M INTEGRITY-ING VERY HARD RIGHT NOW.”
Kyungsoo closed his eyes.
When Baekhyun stepped toward the microphone again, the chatter softened instinctively.
“This song,” he said, clearing his throat, “was personally requested by the bride.”
The crowd murmured warmly.
Y/N straightened slightly, surprised all over again by the sincerity of the moment.
“It’s my solo track,” Baekhyun continued, glancing at her. “And I wanted to sing it today not as a performance. But as a gift.”
Chanyeol leaned over to Kai and whispered, “He practiced in the mirror for days.”
“I did NOT,” Baekhyun snapped, already emotional.
The opening notes of “Bambi” filled the terrace.
Soft. Intimate. Controlled.
Baekhyun sang it the way it was meant to be sung not flashy, not dramatic but tender. Like devotion handled carefully.
Y/N stood still, fingers curling gently at her sides. This wasn’t awkward. This wasn’t ironic.
It was beautiful.
Kai watched her not the crowd, not the cameras her. He noticed how her shoulders relaxed, how her breath steadied.
By the second chorus: Chanyeol was openly crying and blaming allergies. Sehun had abandoned gelato entirely. Suho stared at the floor like he was holding his soul together. Kyungsoo sighed and muttered, “I told him not to do this.”
When the final note faded, the silence was profound.
Then applause slow at first, then full.
Baekhyun bowed deeply. “For you,” he said softly to Y/N. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”
She nodded, eyes warm. “Thank you for singing it.”
He stepped offstage and immediately collapsed into Chanyeol.
“I need water,” he croaked. “Or therapy.”
“Both,” Chanyeol replied, hugging him.
Kai’s sisters approached Y/N soon after.
“You look calm,” the eldest said gently.
“I’m trying very hard,” Y/N admitted.
“That’s enough,” she nodded. “That’s more than enough.”
Later, Kai’s mother hugged Y/N, whispering “thank you” again, like a prayer she didn’t want to stop saying.
Y/N hugged her back carefully, feeling the weight of gratitude settle on her shoulders.
Jisung appeared beside Y/N with two glasses of champagne.
“You alive?” he asked.
“Physically,” she replied. “Emotionally, I’m buffering.”
“You didn’t disappear,” he said quietly.
“I thought I might.”
“But you didn’t,” he repeated. “You stood.”
She smiled faintly. “Do you remember when I said I’d marry Kai in school?”
“I remember saying I’d be your best man,” he said. “I did not expect the universe to take notes.”
They clinked glasses.
Kai stepped away briefly, standing near the terrace railing, watching the river glow under lantern light.
He felt… steady.
Not happy the way people expected.
Not broken either.
Y/N joined him, leaving a respectful space between them.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded. “Better than I thought.”
They stood side by side.
“I won’t waste what you’ve done,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she replied.
And that was enough.
As the night deepened, dignity completely surrendered.
Chanyeol played something upbeat.
Sehun danced terribly.
Baekhyun filmed everything while crying.
Kyungsoo supervised cake like a military operation.
Suho pretended not to know any of them.
Y/N looked around—at laughter, noise, warmth, and the strange family she’d stepped into.
This wasn’t a fairytale.
But it was real.
And tonight, under lantern light, surrounded by chaos, sincerity, and unexpected kindness
That was enough.
Then flapping noises of white doves being released into the sky knocking over the chocolate fountain interrupted the party mood "Sehun!" Suho screamed "Hey! it had to be done, ok!" Sehun replied
"I'M GETTING THE FOG MACHINE!!!" Baekhyun said and Suho gave an apologetic look to the bride and grrom who were busy laughing at the chaos
