I’ve thought about kissing you a lot. I’ve thought about being kissed by you a lot. Sometimes when you were near and things were lovely, my eyes wandered around your face and marked the spots my kisses longed for. If I could always start a day with kissing you, I think this is how it’ll go.
We both know I’m not a morning person, so let’s say I woke up during brunch time and you’ve been wandering around the house like usual. I would frown before searching, finding out the other side of the bed was empty, though I knew you’re probably somewhere in the kitchen or with the cats like usual. Then I washed my face, brushed my teeth and hair, making myself look decent before gluing myself to you.
The first kiss would land somewhere on your jaw when I hugged you from behind. I couldn’t reach your dimple because I’m too short for your frame and it irked me so much. You’d cook me a simple meal then we had a lovely breakfast. I mean.. brunch. You’d caress my hair and hug me, patiently waiting for me to finish the food. That’s the scenario where you didn’t oversleep. When you did, it would give me more chances to kiss you and that’s perhaps why I’ve been trying so hard to wake up before you.
It would start with your cheek, then the other side where your dimple hides, your jaw, then the crease between your eyes, the tip of your nose, the corner of where your smile fades, before finally one on your lips. I kissed them. Just a chaste kiss like a scared purring cat. I never went above soft, afraid it’d expose the lingering fire I’ve had for you since a long time ago. Then you’d wake up, hug me, engulf me with your arms, whisper to me a good morning with the endearment terms that I liked so much, and we’re both destined to be late for our schedules because then it’d be your turn to kiss me. Just as much. Wouldn’t it?
I think these words have lived inside me for so long that they no longer seem content remaining thoughts, so I will say it as it is: I am immensely in love with you. Today, and on all the ordinary days that follow.
I have written letters before. Be it love letters, departures, congratulatory, devastating ones but somehow it’s a lot harder to untangle my thoughts when it comes to you, but since this is your special day, I will try!
First and foremost, happy birthday to the dreamer whose mind captivated many, whose beauty and agony coexists so deep it is tranquilizing.
Recently I’ve been watching a lot of short films, and I loved it. Oh, perhaps I should tell you the reason as to why my watching habit switches from regular movies to short films. I haven’t been able to stumble upon a piece which could hook me to sit for two hours since Caddo Lake (2024), I think mostly because the piece I tried was lacking psychological depth or I was just dangerously near to a slump—I hate myself for that because to a certain depth, watching movies is my brief and cheap escapism from life. Until one day I stumbled upon Yorgos Lanthimos’ short films titled Nimic (2019) on the day we reconciled and have been on a run since then. It reminded me of you. Of how I feel being with you.
To me, 오빠, you feel a lot like a brilliant 16mm short film I stumbled upon on a random Saturday. It’s as if you are out there written very thoughtfully, specifically made for me. It’s as if your main characters are there to walk through life I couldn’t and speak words I wasn’t allowed to. It’s as if the scoring department went through a peaceful walk, had eight hours of sleep, and great coffee before composing your music score that it’s so good I heard them in my dreams. It’s as if the cinematographer of your landscape was being hands on handled by the Greg Feiser himself, securing a vacant amount of time and space between his demands in big cinemas and devoted himself to you.
You feel like my personal favorite psychological thriller piece I could always cling to whenever I feel like a day is a little too intense and crazy and I will always run to you to unwind and immerse into your turning series of events. You feel like a film I’ve been wanting to watch for decades which later will engulf me with a hug after the credits roll as it ends. You feel as though being directed by Joe Wright himself who is renowned for blending beauty and tragedy seamlessly throughout his work. You feel like my most anticipated film that was previously being pushed back, postponed, put on indefinite delay and everyday I was yearning and longing to be able to see you and when the day comes it just eases me to finally have your voice echoing and your presence close to me.
To note that as I’m writing this, not a single film lasts long enough to be addressed as one because it changes from time to time; you feel like my lifelong favorite comfort film, like I could watch and be with you whenever, wherever, and it feels like you will always hold me in stillness and tenderly during those certain hours. For that, for you, I am grateful.
I am grateful to have stumbled upon you amid the monotony of my daily routine. I am grateful to be the one who’s by your side and to witness how you truly are—curated and written as a person. My fingers were actually itching to answer when you asked me that question. How do I see you other than as the handsome guy in his personally tailored Prada long coat?
Birthday boy, I see you and think of you, almost in everything. Other than my on top hyperfixation, I also found you a lot in yours. I found you in Dostoevsky writings whenever he spoke of his neverending need of isolation and his peculiar obsession of misery. I found you in 10 Things I Hate About You tweets from a tumblr dot com shaped account talking about Katarina Stratford. I found you in poetry excerpts about a dreamer echoing agonies and solitary and somehow despite the pieces being heart-shattering, its beauty exists harmoniously with the sorrow.
I found you in days I get the chance to annotate you or in days I only get to read you. I found you in places, space, and time when I wasn’t even trying to—in moments I wasn’t seeking you and on the day you are turning a year older I hope it means it brings more days for me to find and see you everywhere, everytime, and in everything. Once again, happiest birthday to you, my love.
To Jiwon unnie,
one of the very few best friends I always treasure.
Today, you’ve gained another number on top of your age. To me, it feels like a special tint marking yet another year of your sun-infused presence. I’m forever grateful for the friendship we share and the random things we bonded over, and I’m also glad for that minor inconvenience which sparked our acquaintanceship into something deeper.
On your special day, let me wish you tons, if not every, kindness humankind could offer to follow your every step, for it’s the only thing you’ve ever given and done for those around you.
May you stick around, happy for a long time, and may my presence continue to align with yours, even when it seems rather distant (totally my fault, hehe).
Not sure what should I say on your birthday when we have celebrated it many times, but just like any other day, I'm here to wish you nothing but truly everlasting grace following you everywhere you go. May kindness surrounds you, may the people you find is kind, may the world will always be a little kinder to you than to anyone else.
Words might not cut it but your presence, being your best friend, having the chance to be in a beautiful friendship with you is one of the most beautiful blessings I've been carried since the day we met.
Our friendship might not be perfect, both of us are childish and we had a lot of ups and downs, but even on such days I'm still thankful that the friend I most cling to here, is you.
Don't let any randos ruin today for you, eat a lot, enjoy the sky, enjoy the sun, and may the moon dims a little lower tonight, because it's your day to shine.
It feels not fair to have your last letter for me left unreplied, so.. let me try.
I know I made a promise and this time you are the one who's a step ahead of me, haha. I guess you found out by yourself, I guess you've heard from people I'm close with but please know that initially I wanted to tell you in person.
Turns out it's not a promise that I can easily keep, it's hard to convince myself that of all people you should know about it first. Maybe because, of all people, it scares me the most to realize that upon learning the state, you'd become a ghost again. A ghost that, despite the closed chapters, I will always reminisce about.
So for that, I am sorry. I am sorry for not coming soon enough to let you know that this time I've decided to wake up from our crushed sinking bed and welcome those who tried.
It's been a very dreadful decision. Am I happy? Obviously. But it's not something I concluded with ease, because there used to be a piece of me that held close to your dimmed presence, hoping that what we had would anchor you hard enough that you'd come back and this time stay.
But even raindrops stop, the sun sets, the ocean recedes. So who am I if not someone who failed to hold on to the slightest hope, for it's starting to kill more than it did to love... and like what I have said to you before, I want to remember you as who you are now. Someone who loved me, tried for me, and despite his fear and trembling hands, managed to introduce me to days where all I knew was tenderness—not as someone whose slightest presence would screech me to tears.
All this time we spent together, I never once worried about how you walked through your days, because I knew you would only stand up twice as hard when something knocked you down. I might have reminded you to rest, to sleep, to eat, but those came from a place of wanting to take part in your day. That even in your busiest hours, at least there used to be me, and me alone.
I wish for you only gentle days, be it with friends, be it with the clock that never once stopped for you, be it when you decided to drop by here in your usual quiet chatter, and if later our memories come and visit, may you remember it with smile. May time wash the ache they carried, both from the thoughts and your heart.
Thank you for trying, for existing, and for coming back once, every now and then.
From someone whose heart once ached for you, Younjungi.
The content written is solely fiction. Medical scenarios are for storytelling and character development, not professional advice; inaccuracies may occur. Some topics may explore critical conditions—trigger warnings will be provided if needed. Reader discretion is advised.
The story contains trigger warnings for medical trauma, gore, body horror, severe illness, and invasive procedures. It includes unsettling descriptions of blood loss, vascular damage, and emergency resuscitation. Themes of psychological distress and uncertainty in high-stakes medical situations are also present.
Previously:
Juliette answered sharply. “That’s the problem. There are no open wounds. No external bleeding. But his hemoglobin is dropping.”
Shiv frowned, mind snapping into medical mode. First priority: stabilization. She pressed two fingers to his wrist. His pulse was erratic, fluctuating between weak and impossibly strong. The cardiac monitor beeped in alarm as his blood pressure spiked dangerously high—then plummeted within seconds.
“BP’s tanking,” Juliette muttered.
“He’s hypovolemic,” Miguel added. “We need to start fluids.”
Shiv nodded. “Good call. Normal saline, one liter, wide open.”
A nurse moved swiftly, inserting the IV and starting the infusion. For a moment, the patient remained still. Then the change happened. The bruising darkened instantly. The deep purple patches spread outward, racing like ink through his veins. The moment the fluids entered his bloodstream, his body rejected them violently. His limbs convulsed. His blood pressure, instead of stabilizing, plummeted further—70 over 40. The cardiac monitor wailed.
“Stop the fluids!” Shiv snapped. The nurse immediately clamped the IV line, but the damage was already done. The bruising expanded in real-time, crawling over his chest, his arms, his throat.
Miguel’s face was pale. “What the hell was that?” Shiv looked at the scene in horror. “His capillaries are compromised. The fluids are leaking into the tissues instead of staying in his bloodstream. We just made it worse.”
Juliette asked, hesitantly. “So how do we get volume back up without killing him?”
Shiv turned back to the patient, watching the bruises spread further across his body. Her voice was calm, controlled, but urgent. “His vascular system is under attack, but we still don’t know the cause. The pattern of bruising suggests something endothelial, meaning the blood vessel walls themselves are compromised. The fact that fluids worsened the condition means the capillaries are either leaking uncontrollably or breaking down.”
Miguel looked at her in confusion. “Sepsis? Some kind of toxic exposure?”
“Unlikely,” Shiv said, shaking her head. “Sepsis would show organ failure by now, and there’s no fever or infection source. Toxins? Possible, but his symptoms don’t match any known poisoning. His heart, circulation, and oxygenation are all acting unpredictably.”
She gestured to the bruising. “These aren’t standard contusions—no trauma, no impact. The pattern follows blood vessels, meaning it’s internal. Could be an autoimmune attack on the endothelium or a clotting disorder breaking down the vessels.”
Juliette cleared her throat. “Could this be DIC?”
Shiv exhaled. “A possibility, but there’s a problem—DIC typically presents with both clotting and hemorrhaging. If this were DIC, we’d expect to see microthrombi forming in his organs, leading to ischemia, but his perfusion is unstable, not failing outright. And when we attempted IV fluids, the bruising spread rather than improved. That suggests his vascular permeability is compromised at a fundamental level—possibly capillary leak syndrome, but even that doesn’t fully explain this rate of deterioration.”
What happened to this patient? Think, Shiv, think.
A nurse glanced at the patient’s vitals. “BP is dropping—85 over 50. Oxygen saturation is unstable.”
Shiv acted quickly. “He’s losing intravascular volume. We need to maintain perfusion without worsening the damage. Start a slow infusion of albumin instead of crystalloids. His capillaries are compromised, and standard IV fluids are making it worse.”
The residents nodded. The nurse prepared the albumin infusion while another tech set up for the echocardiogram. Shiv pressed the ultrasound probe to his chest again, carefully scanning for abnormalities. The image flickered, distorting for a second before revealing his heart.
She frowned. The movement inside the right atrium was clearer now. It wasn’t just irregular blood flow. Something was there. Miguel adjusted the screen’s contrast. “That’s… not a thrombus.”
Shiv narrowed her eyes. “Indeed, no.”
A cold silence settled over the room. Juliette’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Should we confirm with a full cardiac MRI, Doc?”
Shiv hesitated. Every instinct told her that would be a mistake. The way his body rejected traditional treatment, the way fluids had worsened his condition, the way his circulatory system seemed to be failing by an unknown mechanism—none of this followed normal pathology. And if they were dealing with something they didn’t understand, rushing into advanced imaging could push him over the edge.
She took a breath. “Not yet. We stabilize him first. No MRI until we rule out the risk of further deterioration.”
A nurse called from the bedside. “Doctor, his bruising is spreading again.”
Something inside him was still changing.
Hours passed in a blur of controlled chaos. The albumin infusion helped, but only slightly. His blood pressure stabilized but remained critically low, and his oxygenation continued to fluctuate.
Shiv ordered steroids and high-dose IV immunoglobulin, suspecting an underlying autoimmune process attacking his vascular system. A plasmapheresis setup was prepared, an attempt to remove whatever was triggering his body’s catastrophic response.
The patient remained unresponsive but alive. Then, just as the plasmapheresis machine began its cycle, his vitals plummeted again. “BP’s crashing!” Juliette yelled. “Heart rate’s dropping—40 beats per minute!”
“Push epi, please.” Shiv responded. The nurse administered the dose. No response. His heart rate continued to slow.
Shiv grabbed the ultrasound probe, pressing it to his chest. The dark mass in his right atrium was still there—but now, it was shrinking.
“What the hell—” Miguel started, but then, the monitors beeped again.
His heart rate steadied. His blood pressure rose—90 over 60. The team held their breath. The bruising, still horrific, had stopped spreading.
Shiv didn’t relax until the patient’s numbers remained stable for the next five minutes. “He’s critical,” she murmured, uncertainty weighing down her voice. “But he’s alive.”
Juliette froze, still trying to process what had happened. “What did we just do?”
Shiv shook her head. “We bought him time.” And for now, that was enough.
The content written is solely fiction. Medical scenarios are for storytelling and character development, not professional advice; inaccuracies may occur. Some topics may explore critical conditions—trigger warnings will be provided if needed. Reader discretion is advised.
Trigger Warning: Medical Trauma, Cardiac Emergency, Possible Violence, and Attempted Homicide
Previously:
Shiv, arriving at the scene after just a brief sleep, watched as the trauma team worked swiftly around the patient. His injuries didn’t match a long fall—bruises across his chest, swollen eyelids, and an open wound on his femur.
“ECG is showing nonspecific ST-T changes,” Soleil, her most trusted resident, reported. “Troponins are slightly elevated.”
She frowned at the strangeness. “His heart’s under stress, but not from blunt trauma. Something else happened before he hit the ground.”
A nurse called out, “BP’s dropping—98 over 60. Tachycardic at 122.” She speculated that if his injuries weren’t consistent with trauma, then something else had led to his collapse. “Dr. Soleil, we need an aortogram and pulmonary angiography—stat.”
“Pulmonary embolism?” Soleil asked, already signaling for the scan.
“It fits,” Shiv stated. “A sudden PE could have caused syncope. If he collapsed near a window, he might not have fallen—he might have been pushed after losing consciousness.”
They rushed him to imaging, the machines whirring as contrast dye illuminated the hidden battle inside his body. There it was. A pulmonary embolism. A massive clot blocking circulation in his lungs.
Soleil swore under her breath. “That explains the collapse.”
Calmly interpreting the result, Shiv added. “It also means he never jumped. He lost consciousness before he ever hit the ground.”
Back in the trauma bay, the patient’s vitals were deteriorating. His heart was struggling, starved of oxygen, his breathing rapid but shallow. He was in danger of cardiac arrest. Fast, Shiv instructed her team. “We need immediate anticoagulation. Get a heparin drip started—low dose. We have to break down the clot before it causes a full-blown infarction.”
Soleil grabbed the medication, carefully calculating the dosage. Heparin, an anticoagulant, would help dissolve the clot, but it came with a risk—his open leg wound. If they thinned his blood too much, he could bleed out.
“We’ll titrate the dose carefully,” Soleil said, adjusting the IV pump as the anticoagulant began flowing into his bloodstream.
“Good call. Keep an eye on his BP. If it drops further, we’ll need vasopressors to support perfusion.” The team moved swiftly following her instructions. Meanwhile, a nurse secured a compression bandage over his femoral wound, monitoring for any signs of excessive bleeding.
His oxygen levels were still a concern. “Dr. Shiv, he’s desaturating,” Soleil warned. “SpO2 dropping to 91% despite high-flow oxygen.”
Responding in seconds, she called a respiratory therapist. “Increase O2 flow. If he worsens, we prepare for intubation.” His body was struggling against the clot, but they needed to do more than just slow it down. “Get alteplase ready.” They begin again. “If he doesn’t improve in the next thirty minutes, we start thrombolysis.”
Soleil hesitated. “That could worsen his bleeding.”
“And if we don’t act, his heart won’t survive,” She countered.
The minutes stretched long, filled only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Then—his heart rate began to stabilize. His oxygen levels steadied.
Soleil let out a breath. “He’s responding.”
Shiv allowed herself a small relief, but she stayed cautious. The man was still unconscious, but alive. His heart had fought through a deadly clot, through trauma, and through something else—something that had happened before he ever left that building.
