Genre/tropes: non idol au, fluff, forced proximity, mutual pining, best friends to lovers
Warnings: vague mentions of social anxiety, cursing
Word Count: 2,708
Summary: Your best friend Jisung takes you to the Fall Festival to have some fun on a day off. The only problem? Everyone thinks you're dating.
Author's note: this came to me while I was doom scrolling the other night...I love fall fics okay idc if it's barely September. Besides, I wanted to write something Jisung since the Creed MV dropped :P and it's basically his birthday teehee, short and sweet and fluffy!
The sudden breeze in the air made you shiver. Seconds later, goosebumps formed on the surface of your exposed arms.
From beside you, your best friend clicked his tongue in a quiet "tsk."
"I told you to bring a sweater, but you never listen to me," he groaned, dramatically placing a hand over his heart as he continued walking beside you.
"Shut up Ji, I'm too cold to think right now."
Jisung laughed under his breath before stopping to pull off the grey hoodie he was wearing. You stopped too, raising an eyebrow at him in response.
"Here."
With a small smile, he opened his hoodie back up and pulled it down over your head before you could protest. Instantly, the warmth from his body still lingering on the fabric enveloped you. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you melted into it as you took a deep breath in.
"Don't worry about me," he began, waving a hand in the air as if to swat away a bug, "I'll be warm enough with you by my side- thanks for asking!"
You rolled your eyes at his antics, but stood up on your tiptoes to peck his cheek anyway.
"Thank you, for real. Maybe I'll listen to you next time."
"Or maybe you just like it when I take care of you."
You shoved at him playfully, the two of you beginning to walk to your destination again in comfortable silence.
Things with Jisung had always been like this. From the moment you met, everything just clicked. It was instant friendship, and a close friendship at that.
Maybe there were some who would argue that it was a little too close. But everything with him just felt so natural. It wasn't weird for you to hold his hand or give him a quick kiss on the cheek. It just felt right.
It only felt "weird" when you were apart. Neither of you could stand to be away from the other for very long. In fact, most nights were spent sleeping over at the other's apartment. And usually, it was in the same bed or on the same couch, curled into each other so tightly, you'd have to take a few minutes to untangle your limbs the next morning.
More than once, you'd had to correct a stranger when they assumed you were dating. You suppose you couldn’t blame them for thinking that. But recently, it started to make you wonder…
Do you really act like a couple?
Are your feelings just platonic… or something else?
You'd never had such a close friend before, so naturally you assumed that this must be what it felt like. And while there were a few crushes you’d had in the past, you'd never really fallen in love. So you didn’t really have anything to compare it to.
“Hey,” the boy in question suddenly said, nudging you in the side gently, “we’re here!”
Startled, you looked up and saw he was right. The thoughts you were having must have distracted you from actually watching where you were going.
In front of you was a line of people waiting to get in the freshly opened Fall Festival your town always put on every year. Even though it'd just started at the beginning of September, there was a big crowd.
There were probably fifteen people or so before you in line, and already there were some gathering from behind. Jisung caught your eye as you turned around. He knew exactly what you were feeling.
“Hey,” he repeated, this time softer, “we’re good. It’s just this line.”
He reached out an open hand between your bodies and you gladly took it, lacing your fingers between his and squeezing tightly like you had a million times before. It comforted him just as much as it comforted you.
An unfamiliar heat rose in your cheeks, catching you off guard.
That didn't normally happen. You've held hands countless times before, and it never caused a reaction like that. Now your thoughts felt even more jumbled up, tumbling over each other before you had time to pin them down with words properly.
The line moved fairly quickly. There was a tired looking employee underneath the fall-themed archway leading in that was handing out tickets to everyone. You craned your neck to see the price board.
"Ugh," you groaned, settling back down into your spot. "The price went up this year for the all day tickets."
"Oh, really? How much?"
Jisung's eyebrows knitted together as he dug around in his pockets with his free hand.
"I think I should still have enough. I brought extra anyway in case you needed a snack or drink later."
You laughed breathlessly, suddenly very aware of how tightly he was holding onto your hand.
"Always looking out for me..." you whispered, so quietly that he didn't seem to hear.
By the time you got up to the front of the line, Jisung let go of your hand in order to count the money in his pockets for the tickets. Thankfully, he did have enough to buy each of you an all day one.
The employee glanced between the two of you before turning his attention to Jisung, noticing he had the money in his hand.
"There's a discount if you buy a couple's pass for you and your girl. It would be cheaper than buying two separate tickets."
Jisung's fingers froze as he began to hand the employee the money, as if he was in thought for a second. Then he cracked a smile and removed a few bills in order to only pay for the couple's pass.
"Thanks for letting me know."
Your ears burned as the employee dug out two wristbands to serve as your tickets. He wrapped one around Jisung's wrist and then yours, moving aside to let you in.
"Enjoy the Festival, kids."
As you walked by the employee, he smiled genuinely in your direction. This kind of thing had happened before. But this time felt different. It felt...strange.
If Jisung felt it too, he made no indication of it. Your heart, however, felt as thought it would burst out of your chest.
It was right about then that you realized that maybe...just maybe... the feelings you'd always harbored for Jisung were a little bit more than those of just friends.
"Ah, man. I'm so glad I could save a few bucks to spend on something else for you later, (Y/N). That guy did us a big favor."
You blinked rapidly, looking over to where Jisung walked beside you.
"You think so?"
"Yeah! I mean, everyone thinks we're dating anyway. Might as well play into that."
A sharp pain pierced your chest, moving up into your throat. When the ache dulled there, you felt as though you couldn't even speak. You couldn't help but feel as if something shifted. Whether it was in the air or within yourself, you weren't sure.
Wanting to have a good time today, you tried to shake away the feeling and focus on what was in front of you.
~
A few hours had now passed, and Jisung took you to several of the events and attractions. He managed to win the dart game (which you definitely thought was rigged) and gave you the stuffed animal he won as the prize. Then he took you to the food truck and bought you overpriced drinks and cookies without a single complaint. After that was the face painting booth, and now you stood next to the pumpkin patch, scanning the endless rows for the perfect one to take home.
"What about that one?" Jisung pointed out.
You followed his gaze and saw which one he was pointing at. A small, almost spherical one that stood by itself at the end of a nearby row.
"Aww, it's lonely," you said sadly, grabbing onto Jisung's arm.
He took a few steps and picked it up, turning it around in his hands a few times. Seeing it in comparison to the slightly lopsided one painted on his cheek made you giggle.
"Oh, yeah? Something funny?" Jisung asked with a mischievous smile.
"Nope, I was just comparing it to the one on your cheek. Yours is a little...different. And so is this one, so it's perfect. What do you think?"
He held it up next to his face for a few seconds before handing it to you.
"Ehh. It's round, like you."
"Hey!"
Jisung held up his hands in mock surrender, flinching as though you might chase him around.
"I'm kidding! It's small and cute. Just like you."
You felt as though you were drawing yourself inward as you hugged your silly little pumpkin. Jisung both teased you and complimented you all the time. So why did you feel this way now? Why today?
You knew. You had realized earlier. But you weren't brave enough to admit it just yet. Something like that could ruin everything, especially if he didn't feel the same.
But then again...what if he did? Everyone says you act like a couple. Even strangers think that.
Maybe they were seeing more clearly than either of you had ever been.
"What do you want to do next, pumpkin?" He stuck out a finger and poked your cheek softly, where your skin was painted with a matching one.
You swallowed thickly, not directly answering him, and instead looked around at all there was left to do.
"Hmm...corn maze?"
Jisung squinted at the maze that was a considerable distance away. Even so, you both could tell it was huge.
"Isn't it supposed to be like the biggest corn maze in the region? Didn't some kid get lost in it last year? What if..." he paused and visibly gulped before continuing, "...we become a statistic?"
"Good thing we're not mathematicians!"
He opened his mouth- surely to try to dissuade you- but you grabbed his hand and started dragging him away before any sound came out.
As you approached the entrance to the maze, you realized just how big it actually was. Rows upon rows of corn that was taller than both of you put together were spread as far as the eye could see in an intricate pattern. Even from the entrance, you could hear people scream across the way to each other, trying to find their partners or groups that they had somehow lost. They sounded miles away, but surely it wasn't that big. Right?
With one hand, you gripped your tiny pumpkin tightly, and with the other, your friend's hand. You could feel him hesitate without even looking in his direction.
"(Y/N), I think there is a reason we haven't done this in previous years."
"And what is that reason?"
"I'm a pussy."
You scoffed, pulling on his hand again to lead him into the maze.
"Come on, you big baby. Get lost with me."
~
Jisung bit his lip behind you. He seemed genuinely scared. Of what, you weren't sure. His hand tightened around yours until it almost hurt.
"(Y/N), I think we've been around this corner before."
"Jisung, we literally just walked inside. We haven't made any turns yet."
"Oh, right, right. They just say that in the movies. I wanted to be the main character for a minute."
A genuine laugh escaped you, and you glanced at him over your shoulder.
"Ji, I am the main character. You're the comedic relief- the slightly aloof, lovable dork that all the girls adore."
He smiled, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. The long brown strands framing his face made his smile seem even brighter than usual somehow.
"Yeah, but what if that character only wants one girl in particular? What does he do?"
You stopped walking and turned towards him. Time seemed to slow down, and the air felt heavier. Not suffocating, necessarily. But definitely more present...like a weighted blanket settling over your shoulders and keeping you in place.
He held your gaze, lips parted slightly. There was anticipation in his expression.
A few seconds passed, but you couldn't bring yourself to say anything. You weren't sure how to say what you wanted to, or even what words you wanted to use.
Jisung seemed to notice your hesitation. He tilted his head slightly, much like a puppy waiting for a treat.
But before you could even try to speak-
"Oh, no!"
Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in the side of your leg. It caused your knee to buckle slightly, but thankfully Jisung caught you before you could fall. You glanced around and saw a young child, who had seemingly fallen to his knees after crashing into you.
"I'm sorry, miss. I shouldn't have been running. But I don't want to be in the maze anymore."
Before you could ask him if he was okay, he stood and dusted his pants off, then ran out of the entrance that was still only a few feet away from where you stood.
Jisung glanced at you, stifling a laugh.
"I'm sure that's a good omen. Wanna keep going?"
You blinked, the pain in your leg dulling to an ache. Then you smiled at him.
"Yeah, of course."
He led the way this time, still holding onto you gently. But as you walked away, you couldn't help but turn and look over your shoulder at the spot you had been standing in just a few seconds ago.
You could almost see the unspoken words in the dirt- the moment you almost had but were now leaving behind. But mostly, you saw Jisung and the way he had just been looking at you.
That image would be burned into your mind for a while, you were sure of it.
~
What felt like an eternity passed before you finally stopped and sat down to collect yourself. Jisung's earlier words echoed in your mind, and now you could say with confidence that you had, in fact, passed this corner multiple times.
"Okay, Ji. You win. This was a bad idea."
He sunk down next to you, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening just underneath his hairline.
"Should we just cut through? I mean...it's just corn."
You groaned, fully laying out in the dirt path with your pumpkin now shoved into Jisung's hoodie pocket.
"But that's cheating."
He shifted until he was laying down beside you. Instead of meeting your gaze, he looked up at the sky, where faint stars were starting to shimmer. You followed suit.
"Good thing this place is open for a few more hours."
A comfortable silence settled between you, except for the slight rustle of the corn leaves in the breeze. It was comparable to the moment you shared earlier by the entrance, but this time it wasn't filled with anticipation. Instead, it was familiar. It felt right. It felt like it always had with Jisung.
You turned to look at him, not caring about the dirt that was surely in your hair. Instead of seeing the side of his head, you saw his face... then his eyes, which were already on you.
In this moment, the final, most concrete realization of the day hit you.
You were in love with him, and you always had been. And if you didn't know any better, you'd say he was in love with you too.
There was nothing to anticipate, nothing to be scared of. This was why everything always fell into place with him. It was comforting. Solid.
It was Jisung.
"Hey, Ji?"
"Hmm?"
You looked back at the sky, which was getting darker by the minute. The stars there cheered you on.
"What are we?"
He was quiet for a moment before he replied.
"I guess that depends on who you ask."
"Well," you began, "what do you want to be?"
A beat...two beats...and then-
"Yours."
It wasn't like the movies at all. There were no fireworks, no loud swells of music, and no big confession.
After all, how could you confess to something that everyone already knew?
Instead, it was an autumn breeze and thousands of corn stalks. A quiet realization between two closer-than-usual friends on a worn dirt path, sealed with a tight grip on each other's hand, and one final, hushed word spoken through your timid smile:
🌷I currently write for Stray Kids and Seventeen, but I may start writing for other groups in the future!
🌷as a rule of thumb, my ask box is always open for fic requests! I will also accept requests through DMs if you’d rather that :)
🌷please be SPECIFIC and DETAILED in your request so that I make sure I’m creating something that you will like!
🌷if you request something that I am not comfortable writing, I will let you know in a polite way, with no judgement. I’ll just review them case by case and go from there rather than making hard and fast rules (I simply ask that you be kind to me in return)
Genre/tropes: University AU, lovers to exes/strangers, angst/hurt, NO comfort, NO happy ending
Warnings: cursing, painful breakup, failing relationship, arguments, alcohol, suggestive themes, short make out scene (if I had to rate this one I would say suitable for 16 and up, since there isn't actually any smut)
Word Count: 4,036
Summary: After graduating college, more than just memories are left behind.
Author's note: okay soooo. This was heavily inspired by party 4 u by charli xcx and The One That Got Away by Katy Perry. Because idk it's the "end of something" vibes and I wanted to hurt my own feelings I guess? Also unfortunately inspired by something similar that happened to me in college so, ya know, art imitates life or whatever. Grab some tissues and enjoy the ride :)
The rain against your window grew increasingly loud. Round, fat drops of it pounded against the glass until you could no longer focus on anything else, despite how much you truly needed to right now. Clothing and sentimental trinkets were still waiting to be packed on every surface of your dorm room.
The first thing you had taken care of was the set of posters and pictures on the walls. At first, it seemed like the easiest thing to do. But now...the room felt too large and too suffocating all at the same time.
It felt unfamiliar. Intimidating. So plain and desolate that it was almost sterile.
You didn't like it one bit.
Obviously, this had been a long time coming. After all, who goes to college without the intention to graduate?
You glanced over at your cap and gown that you had hung on the back of your desk chair last night. Even though it had been there for hours, it still smelled of stale champagne. The scent brought back the memories of last night in a sudden avalanche in your mind.
After the ceremony, everyone had gotten together for a party that didn't have an end in sight from the moment you stepped foot in Chan's frat house. For someone that claims he "doesn't drink alcohol," he had seemed drunk sooner than anyone else.
Well... maybe Felix had him beat.
You laughed to yourself, fingers curling around the closest stuffed animal that you could find in an attempt to stop what you knew was coming next.
Thinking about the party and the champagne made you think about who doused you in it, of course. Someone who usually made you feel happy, even when he wasn't around.
Hyunjin.
But it was different this time. It was painful. A feeling that you didn't typically associate with him.
He had been...distant for the past two weeks. He hadn't been acting like himself. Last night was the first time in a while that you saw a glimmer of the boy you fell in love with two years ago as a sophomore. The goofy, dramatic, lovesick art major that asked you on a date three days after meeting you. His grin when he dumped the champagne on you was almost the same as the one he wore when you agreed to it. Almost.
It faded soon after. On the walk back to your dorm after the party, any remnants of that happiness had washed away as quickly as they had appeared.
That conversation with him began to replay in your mind before you could think about anything else.
~
"What's wrong, Jinnie?" you asked him quietly, eyeing him from behind since he was walking a few feet ahead of you.
His shoulders tensed up briefly, like he had forgotten you were there. With a half-glance over his shoulder, he shook his head.
"Nothing, just thinking."
You fiddled with the graduation-themed bear he had given you after the ceremony. It suddenly felt too heavy to carry. You were afraid you knew what he was thinking after the way he had been acting, and you didn't want to give it words. It had gotten worse and worse the closer you got to graduation.
He wasn't waiting for you. He kept walking in front of you, the flickering light from the nearby lamppost the only thing reassuring you he was even still there.
The rest of the walk to your door was in silence, minus the sounds of your footsteps echoing after his. Once you made it there, he finally turned to you, just like he always did when he wanted to kiss you goodnight after dropping you off.
He didn't kiss you, though. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the cracked tile beneath your feet.
"Look, (Y/N)..." he murmured, voice cracking almost imperceptibly. "In two days...we have to leave campus. Like, for good."
Tears pricked the corners of your eyes and you tightened your grip on the bear. Your mouth tasted almost sour in the sickening anticipation of what was to come next.
"Don't," you croaked. "Don't do this. You haven't even explained to me properly why you've been acting like this lately."
Hyunjin sighed, shuffling his feet and running a hand through his slightly damp hair.
"I know, and I'm sorry. But you're smart. So... I think you know why. And I thought saying it out loud would hurt you more."
"Fuck you."
Hyunjin flinched, his hands now balling into fists at his sides.
"You knew we'd have to leave after graduation. And you knew how far away we live from each other."
"Then why?!" you suddenly exploded, throwing the stuffed animal to the ground in frustration. "Why did you ask me out? Why did you stay with me for two years and tell me you'd do anything for me when that is so very clearly not true? How dare you make this sound like it's my fault when you're the one leaving me?"
"I don't know! I..." Hyunjin began, tears forming in his eyes as well. "I love you. I always have. That part is true. And you can't tell me that it isn't. I just thought I could do it, you know? The long distance. But I..."
He didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he bent down and got the bear, brushing off the dirt that stained its cheek without looking you in the eye.
"I'll always love you, (Y/N)."
You shook your head, yanking the stupid thing from his hands so hard it tore a hole underneath one of the arms.
"No. You stopped loving me the minute this conversation started."
~
The feeling of a sudden heat on your cheeks drew you from your thoughts. You reached up, hand shaking, and wiped away the tears that had apparently been flowing for several minutes.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you looked down and saw that the plushie you had been holding onto was the stupid bear from him. Your finger harshly stabbed into the hole under its arm, over and over, until tufts of the stuffing began to fall out with the repeated motion.
You groaned, gripping onto the now slightly deflated bear like it owed you money. And then without another thought, you threw it against the wall and watched as it bounced onto your floor in a sad little pile of fabric.
After a few seconds passed, you glanced at your phone laying beside you and tapped the screen to bring up the clock. Time was ticking away faster with every passing minute, it seemed.
However, what really caught your attention wasn't the time. But a message notification underneath it. Faster than you would like to admit, you yanked your phone up and opened the message.
It was from Hyunjin. You couldn't decide if that made you happy or pissed you off. Nonetheless, you replied to him, and within seconds he read your message and replied back to you as well- like he had been sitting by his phone and waiting.
do NOT answer: When are you leaving?
You: I already told you. Why do you even care?
do NOT answer: I want to say goodbye.
You: fuck off.
do NOT answer: Please, (Y/N).
You: I'm leaving tomorrow at noon.
do NOT answer: I want to see you before then. I'm at the pool.
You didn't reply to this message. Instead, you dropped your phone on the bed beside you and sat there until the screen went dark.
You shouldn't go. Why would you? He's leaving you after everything you've been through and said to each other. All the study sessions together, the museum dates, the anxiety and feelings of hopelessness that came with the stress of finals, finding comfort in each other on late nights with cold fast food and cheap alcohol...
Did any of it mean anything anymore?
Before you could decide against it, you stood up and grabbed your things. Even after everything that happened last night and the past two weeks...you still loved him. And that was probably what hurt the most.
~
The rain didn't let up.
It was a hot, heavy, humid rain. Long before you got to the pool, you felt as though you had already dove under the water. You hadn't bothered to get your umbrella, and it barely phased you as it covered your skin and soaked your clothes. The now heavy fabric clung to your bones as you walked- no, marched- to the school's indoor pool.
You were surprised it was even open, considering everyone had to leave tomorrow. But then again, this wouldn't have been the first time Hyunjin had broken into it when he wanted to swim on a different schedule than everyone else. He liked to come here to think and to be alone. Then there were the other times that he most definitely did not want to be alone, and instead wanted nothing more than to be with you in the dimly lit pool way past bedtime, gripping your hips tightly under the water as he left evidence of his desire along your neck and collarbone.
A thought that normally would've made you laugh or blush now only brought about a feeling of despair. Deep, longing pain carved a hole into your chest where your heart should be, and he hadn't even left yet. You were walking to him now, past the cracked door and across the wet tile, and yet- he had never felt so far away.
He was the only one there. Of course he was. And he sat with his back facing you on the edge of the deep end of the pool. The sound of your footsteps slapping against the floor made him look up, turning his neck suddenly like he really hadn't expected you to come.
Hyunjin opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out at first. Instead, he looked you up and down like it pained him to do so, his eyes becoming more hollow with each passing glance.
Now you were only a few feet away from him, and the sounds of your sharp footsteps had been replaced by a soft plop plop caused by the rainwater dripping from you onto the pool tile.
Still, he said nothing. He only sat beneath you and floundered like a fish out of water.
This made it all worse. Made you feel even more stupid than you already did. You had expected him to say something...anything. But instead, you were greeted with a silence that was loud enough to tell you everything you needed to know.
You scoffed, spinning on the ball of your foot to leave.
"(Y/N)."
A hand shot out to you, gripping onto your wrist to keep you from moving any further.
You didn't turn to look at him. You couldn't. With gritted teeth, you kept your eyes fixed on the door ahead of you, blinking away angry tears for what felt like the millionth time in the past few days.
"What?"
Even from behind, you could tell Hyunjin shrank away from you at the harshness of your voice. You could feel it in the way his grip loosened slightly for a fraction of a second. But he tightened it again in an instant, almost imperceptibly pulling you down to him.
You didn't budge.
"Stay. Please."
A sharp, stabbing pain hit you right in your chest. The way his voice wavered, the way he sounded like he was begging for you to not leave even though he was planning to do that very thing the next day...it made your head spin.
Still, you didn't look at him. Your head twitched, nearly betraying you, but you stood firm.
"I don't understand you anymore, Hyunjin."
He took in a deep breath before replying.
"I know. I'm being selfish. And you deserve better."
"If you're leaving me, why ask me to stay? Do you know how stupid you're making me feel?"
"You think I want to?"
His voice cracked then, like he was close to tears. This is what finally made you break and turn to look at the man you once loved. The man you still loved, at least partially.
You hadn't noticed it before, but he looked like a shell of himself. The bags under his eyes were extremely pronounced, and his dark hair was slightly frizzy but damp at the same time, like he had jumped in the pool and gotten out, only to get right back in over and over again in a pointless attempt to wash away the things he didn't want to think about. His bare chest heaved with every breath he took, water trailing its way down the center.
Your eye caught on a stray lock of hair that was stuck against the side of his mouth with pool water. It took everything in you not to reach out and brush it away.
"I don't want to leave you, (Y/N). But being with you and not being able to see you every day would hurt even more. I figured this was the best way. Now, you don't have to tie yourself down just for me anymore. You can be happy."
Your throat felt like it was being strangled with barbed wire from the inside out. You swallowed, trying to make the feeling go away.
"So, please. Just sit with me. One more time."
It was like your body moved before your brain had time to think. You had always had a hard time telling him no.
So, with his fingers still wrapped tightly around your wrist, you sank to the ground next to him.
Hyunjin let out a breath suddenly, seemingly relieved you didn't refuse. He blinked rapidly, looking away from you for a second.
"Thank you," he whispered, still not meeting your eye.
You didn't say anything. You only looked straight ahead to the other side of the pool, where the large glass windows showed the world outside.
The two of you sat in silence. Only inches from each other but not touching, except for his fingers on your wrist, like he was trying to anchor you to him. Or maybe... he was trying to anchor himself.
"Do you remember..." Hyunjin began suddenly, "the first time we came to this pool together?"
Your breath caught deep in your throat at his words.
"How could I forget?"
He laughed, but without any true joy. He laughed like he was trying to keep himself from crying.
"It was really late at night, maybe a few weeks after our first date. And I showed you how to jiggle the lock just right to get in here after hours."
You laughed too, in spite of yourself.
"Wasn't that the night the campus police caught us in here and I started crying so that they would let us go? We hadn't even gotten into the pool yet."
"Yes!" Hyunjin bobbed his head up and down slowly, the edges of his mouth curling into a small smile at the memory. "And then I took you back to my dorm and we watched some stupid movie instead."
The pain in your chest and throat was now a dull, throbbing one. It still hurt but...not as much.
You finally tore your eyes away from the windows, where the outside world was now darkening and slowing down for the evening, and looked at Hyunjin instead. When you did, you found that he was already looking at you, head slightly tilted as if he was waiting for you to speak.
"I didn't think it was stupid," you whispered, barely audible.
But he heard you. And he had to swallow away that feeling in his throat, too.
The conversation lulled then. The silence from before returned, stretching so far it felt as though it blanketed the two of you.
At first, you weren't sure how long it had been. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour? You couldn't tell. There was some part of you that didn't want to check...that didn't want it to end.
But then you realized just how dark it had gotten outside and how much you still had to pack.
Now the pain was sharp again.
"I have to go, Hyunjin."
He jumped slightly, the sound of your voice snapping him out of whatever he was thinking about.
Then he blinked a few times, remembering where he was, what he was doing, and who he was with.
"I know," he repeated solemnly.
Finally, he peeled his fingers off of your skin, opening and closing his fist a few times to relieve the cramps from holding on so long. There was a few more seconds of quiet before he spoke again.
"Let me leave first. If I don't, and I watch you go, I don't think I'll ever get up from where I'm sitting."
You nodded, not wanting to look at him anymore. In an attempt to distract yourself, you looked down at your hands and fiddled with your fingers nervously, like you were checking your nails. Or maybe you were just trying to keep from grabbing onto something yourself.
He stood up, stretching quietly and looking anywhere but down at you.
"I know you'll do great things, (Y/N)."
Your fingers and hands were blurry now, but still, you didn't move.
"It was a pleasure to have known you, and an even greater one to have loved you."
You could hear him take a few steps back, but he paused before beginning to fully walk away.
"I'm sorry. For...everything."
There was a slight breeze from his movement, and then you no longer felt his presence behind you.
You froze, feeling like time was moving in slow motion. The sounds of his footsteps growing more distant reverberated around you, carving that hole in your chest deeper and deeper.
One beat passed.
Two beats.
And then-
On the third, you jumped to your feet, hands balling into fists and eyes locking onto Hyunjin's back just as his hand touched the door handle of the exit.
"Hyunjin!"
Your scream echoed off every wall in the room. You didn't care.
He was visibly startled, the door handle jerking violently in his grip. He turned to you with wide eyes and parted lips, waiting for you to continue.
You didn't know what to say. Honestly, you weren't even sure what possessed you to do this in the first place. You moved before you could stop yourself, screamed before you could hold your breath.
Should you ask him to stay? Beg him not to leave you after everything you had experienced together? Come up with some crazy plan to move in together even though you knew deep down that the two of you were broke college kids who couldn't afford it?
All of the things you thought about saying died on your tongue. He watched you as you stared at him, his resolve faltering with every passing second.
Eventually, your mouth finally opened again. And instead of going on some long winded rant, or making some desperate speech, you settled on two words, spoken so quietly you wondered if he would even be able to hear you.
"Kiss me."
He crossed the room in half the amount of steps it took for him to get there in the first place. Then his hands were on your face and his lips were on yours.
Hyunjin kissed you with everything he had, every unspoken word between you. He wasn't gentle. He didn't take his time. His hands moved from your cheeks and tangled in your hair as yours did the same to his, both of you pulling each other impossibly closer. Despite the circumstances, it felt familiar and comfortable, your bodies mirroring each other like they had countless times before.
Your lips moved against his, tasting the regret and chlorine on him all at once. Then you tasted something that was just so inherently him as his tongue met yours in a violent clash, that it made your chest ache in an entirely different way. A broken moan caught in your tightened throat.
Hyunjin eventually pulled away from your mouth like it pained him to do so, and buried his face in the crook of your neck. His plump, kiss-swollen lips left goosebumps in their wake as he trailed up and down your delicate skin there. There was an audible inhale, the scent of your shampoo intoxicating him and making his thoughts blur together.
Each of you were crying silent tears now. It was impossible to tell where one person's began and the other's ended.
"I love you," Hyunjin croaked, voice muffled slightly from how close his mouth was to your neck.
"I hate you."
He scoffed.
"I know."
You stood like this for a minute, arms drawn around each other, holding on tight. Part of you thought that if you ended up staying like this forever, maybe that would be okay.
But it would seem that all good things must come to an end.
The longer you stood here like this with him, the more it felt like the movie credits were ending, and the usher would soon come to kick you out of the theater.
"What are we doing?" you whispered.
Hyunjin lifted his head from your shoulder, searching your face for an answer that only he himself would have.
"I'm not really sure."
"Will you come see me tomorrow? When I pack my car?"
He didn't speak. He only drew his lips into a tight line, not meeting your gaze.
"Please."
The word felt foreign on your tongue. Your voice didn't sound like your own. Normally, you weren't one to beg and plead. You knew that by doing this, you were only delaying the inevitable. Hyunjin had made up his mind, he had already broken your heart. But you couldn't help but invite him to put another crack in it, one last time.
Still, he didn't answer out loud. He nodded once, offering you a hollow smile.
"I guess I owe you, right?"
His words echoed in your ears the entire way back to your dorm, and for the rest of the night after that.
As your head hit the pillow after finishing up your packing, you wondered who he was trying to convince. You, or himself?
You fell asleep before you could decide.
~
Hyunjin didn't come.
Your car was packed, and it was sitting in your parking spot idling away your last bit of gas before you would have to get more. And still, he didn't come.
It was 12:00 sharp. He knew that.
But you waited until 12:10...12:20...12:30.
Then at 12:45 you opened your phone and clicked on your message thread with him.
Your thumb hovered over your keyboard, afraid of what might happen if you sent him a message. You swallowed thickly.
As the minutes continued to pass, you realized that you were fairly certain of what would happen if you did.
But still, you did it anyway.
You: I don't hate you.
Automated text message: The person you are trying to reach is no longer receiving messages. Please try again.
You paused, your heart beginning to sink all the way to your toes. This is what you had been afraid of. Even now, you knew him better than anyone.
But you didn't cry. You honestly didn't think you could anymore. Instead, you slowly typed another message before turning off your phone completely and getting into your car with a deep sigh.
You: Goodbye, Hyunjin. Maybe in another life.
Automated text message: The person you are trying to reach is no longer receiving messages. Please try again.
You glanced out of your window and took in the campus around you.
Was he watching from somewhere? Had he already left?
You shook your head, turning to shift your car from park to drive.
The dorm you had spent four years in shrunk from view as you drove away. As it continued to get smaller, you decided to leave everything there. The pain, as well as the happiness... and above all him.
Please consider doing Stray Kids reacting to their S/O outcompeting them in something they're good at. They're all so talented and competitive as members so I wonder what they're like when defeated unexpectedly like at video games or missions.
Ooh this is a cute idea!! Do you have a certain member you’d like? Or were you thinking more like one of the OT8 things with a blurb for each member? I’ve never done one like that before so I’d be a little nervous teehee but I could try! Please feel free to DM me or send another ask with more details! 🩷🌷
no hum of central monitors or call lights chiming out of sync.
just the soft clack of your keys on the counter and the rubbery squeak of your shoes as you kick them off. your scrubs still smell like alcohol wipes and hospital rooms, your chest still tight in the way it always is after you’ve held your breath for twelve hours straight.
you don’t turn the lights on. you let the shadows stretch long across the kitchen tile instead, late-afternoon sun and citylight flickering through the blinds in tired bands of gold. your back hits the wall by the door and for a second, you just stand there.
eyes shut. hands in your pockets. swallowing the burn in your throat like it might go away if you wait long enough.
your phone buzzes before the tears have time to brim behind your tired eyes.
FACETIME REQUEST: jiniret🐭
you exhale— then swipe the screen to answer.
"hey," hyunjin says, warm and breathless. "you alive?"
on your screen, he’s pacing his locker room, front camera a little too low. his scrub top is halfway on, sleeves rolled to the elbows, surgical cap still untied. there’s a smudge of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. you’ll never understand why he doesn’t just get ready at home like a normal person, but that’s hyunjin: not quite normal.
"barely," you croak, sinking to the stool at your kitchen counter. the screen wobbles as you prop it against the bowl you meant to eat cereal in this morning but never did.
hyunjin hums. "you look like you got hit by a truck full of charting."
"feels more like a bus full of parents."
"oh no."
"yeah."
he’s tying his scrub cap now, twisting the fabric and tucking the tail in like muscle memory. the motion is smooth. practiced. the same way you tightened an ambu bag earlier with one hand and didn’t even notice until now.
"how bad was it?" he asks, reading the silent lines in your face, voice a little softer.
you don’t answer right away. just press your forehead to your palm and let yourself breathe, finally– really breathe. the air feels thick. your ribs ache with it.
"we almost lost lina today," you say.
hyunjin stills. his hands lower. his mouth sets into something gentler. "shit."
"renal crash. hyperkalimic episode came out of the blue. she coded on us."
"but…?"
"we got her back, thank god," you murmur. "rosced after a minute and a half. she’s stable now. pinked up. but—"
you stop. your throat closes around the rest.
"but it was close," hyunjin finishes quietly.
you nod. your voice is flat when you say, "i thought i’d feel it more. after. but right now it’s just… quiet. like it didn’t even happen. i’m more focused on what i said to a parent in the ICU than i am on her code. how fucked is that, huh?”
hyunjin squints. "you’re in shock."
"maybe. maybe i’m just used to it." you sigh with a shrug.
he frowns. crosses to his locker again, voice dipping into something firmer. like he knows you’re about to deflect every dull emotion roiling inside you until you can’t name them anymore. "don’t say that like it’s normal."
"but it is," you say. and god, the words sit so heavy on your tongue. "we do everything right, and sometimes they still crash. you know that. they teach us that. they say not to take it home, not to hold it too hard."
hyunjin leans close to the camera, dark eyes pinning you through the screen. "but you do hold it. i know you. you don’t know how not to."
a beat of pointed silence passes. you blink hard.
then he sighs, glancing over his shoulder at something out of frame. maybe another surgeon coming in. maybe just the clock.
"i wish i had more time to talk," he says, quieter now, "but i’m technically on shift as of thirty seconds ago. i’ve got an airway case in like twenty minutes. post-tonsil bleed, might need to scope. you know how it is."
you nod again, because you do. of course you do. it’s a miracle he even called, even more miraculous that it came through on the shitty hospital wifi.
"listen," he says, crouching down to the camera so you’re eye-level. "don’t do the isolation thing. not tonight, okay? just… don’t sit in this alone. talk to someone. make ramen. facetime felix and make him cry– he’s overdue. watch something with chan and changbin."
a shaky laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. "changbin’s working a double, poor thing. but you’re such a menace."
"it’s how i cope."
"you’re lucky you’re pretty."
he smirks. "i know."
you grin too, the pull of your lips faint and fleeting, and somehow that feels like the biggest relief of the night.
then hyunjin sobers again. "seriously. let yourself feel it, y/n."
"what if it hurts?" the question is rhetorical, barely a whisper. you can hear the choked-back emotion in your tone.
"then that means you’re still soft. and that’s not a bad thing."
you nod. “have a good shift, hyun.”
the screen freezes a second before it ends: hyunjin half-smiling, mid-wave, blue scrub top blurry in motion.
facetime call ended.
and in the silence that follows, you let your head fall against your hand. let the quiet rush in again.
but this time, it doesn’t drown you. not yet. you’re holding it off until you hear your favorite pair of keys jingle in the lock later tonight.
–
you’re halfway through a cup of ramen and barely even tasting it.
you’re not hungry, not really. you just don’t want to feel lightheaded when you inevitably cry later. and it felt wrong to leave the kitchen as empty as the rest of the house; so you boiled water, dumped in the flavor packet, and watched the steam curl like breath you’ve been holding all day.
now you’re on the large grey couch in your shared living room, fuzzy blanket over your knees, slurping halfheartedly while a verbal wrestling match unfolds on-screen between a man named zeke and his third fiancée in six months.
it’s garbage. which is exactly why you put it on– you need mindless drama to replace the clinical buzz that always lingers in your head after a hard shift.
the trashy show feels loud enough to drown out your thoughts. easy to watch, easier not to feel. you chew without blinking as zeke accuses lauren of sleeping with her personal trainer and lauren swears on her chihuahua’s life that she only did it once.
you’re just tilting the cup for the last few noodles when the lock clicks.
your body reacts before your mind does: shoulders dropping, neck relaxing, breath softening. it’s automatic, the safety that blankets you anytime he’s near.
the door swings open and there’s a familiar sigh. heavy. sounding just as tired as you. followed by—
"i’m hooome!"
chan’s voice is a singsong lilt, cracked with fatigue but still warm at the edges. he closes the door with his foot and sets his empty lunchbox carefully on the counter like it’s a ticking bomb.
you glance up. “hey, channie.”
he pads into the living room and catches sight of you sprawled across the couch, blanket pulled to your chin like armor. there’s an empty water bottle tucked into the pillows beside you and an unworn pair of hospital-issued gloves thrown like an afterthought on the coffee table. neither of you acknowledges them.
“good,” he says, toeing off his shoes. “you ate something.”
you shrug. “nutritional value debatable.”
he flops onto the couch beside you with a groan, legs sprawling, one hand going straight to his hair to push it back out of his face. his hair is still fluffy from when he towel-dried it this morning. you fight a smile at how he always looks like he just barely put himself together before his day started.
he glances at the tv. cringes hard. “so what dysfunctional couple are we watching fight tonight?”
“zeke and lauren.”
he squints. “is this the one where he brought his ex-wife to couples therapy?”
“mhm.”
“god. and i’m single.”
you give a weak laugh and nudge him with your foot. “don’t worry, you’ve still got time to ruin your life.”
“thanks, sweetheart. that’s what i needed to hear.” he says with a short huff.
the banter feels like breathing with one nostril: not quite right, but still enough to stay alive.
you both watch in silence as zeke throws a bouquet of apology flowers into a pool. lauren screams that she’s canceling their matching tattoo appointments. chan murmurs, “honestly, probably for the best.”
you nod.
he doesn’t say anything else right away. doesn’t press. he just sinks further into the cushions beside you, arms resting over the back of the couch, and lets the quiet settle between you like it’s welcome here. lets you have the space to unravel as he waits to catch the threads, the way he always does.
you don’t even realize how close you’ve drifted until your sock-covered knee brushes his thigh.
he doesn’t move away.
he never does.
instead, he lifts your legs and plops them on his lap without another thought, eyes not even bothering to leave the screen where zeke and lauren are starting to call friends and create even more drama. the motion is so chan: always near. always ready to be your anchor.
the tears brim at his touch. your cheeks flush and your vision blurs as they rise, fast and hot.
and as if he can sense every thought bouncing in your head, chan wordlessly scooches close enough to wedge himself right next to you and wraps one arm around you, pulling you into an embrace that he hopes is tight enough to squeeze out every drop of grief.
you curl into his side and feel the first tear slip down your cheek, rolling away until it drops off your chin and lands on his dinosaur-print scrub shirt. his hand rubs your back soothingly as you finally let yourself fall apart.
his palms are steady even as your back shakes with your silent crying. you don’t have room to feel embarrassed as chan holds you closer still, ever your rock, your safe place; he lets you tuck your head under his chin, never once complaining about your tears hitting his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
you sniffle and let the tears come– no more pushing them down. no more holding them at bay. you let the day’s emotions leave you in trails of salt down your cheeks, and allow your best friend to hold you as the grief leeches from your body.
chan stays quiet, but his hand never stops moving. he traces gentle, soft circles across your back, other hand rubbing up and down your shin affectionately. he doesn’t make you look at him; doesn’t tell you it’s going to be okay. doesn’t make you say or do anything but this– letting go. letting him cradle your emotions that were too heavy for you to hold in the first place.
you stay that way for a while, quietly crying into his shoulder, until the tears run dry and the hollow lump leaves your throat.
your breathing’s gone quiet again. not quite even, not quite calm— but he can feel it. the slow release. the weight finally loosening its grip on your chest.
chan adjusts slightly, his arms still firm around you, like he’s not sure if you’re ready to let go. like maybe he’s not ready either.
his voice comes low, threadbare at the edges.
“you don’t have to do it like this, you know.”
you don’t answer right away. just breathe him in— soap and cafeteria coffee and a lingering trace of the cologne you bought him last christmas.
“do what?” you murmur into his shoulder, voice thick.
“hold it all in ‘til it breaks you.”
his thumb sweeps another slow circle between your shoulder blades, gentler than anything you felt all day.
“i’m okay now,” you lie.
chan lets out a soft sound. not quite a laugh. not quite a sigh, either.
“no, you’re not.”
there’s no judgment in it; just truth. just care. just him– always knowing where you’re cracked, where you’re splintering, even when you pretend to be whole.
you swallow.
“i didn’t even cry when we coded her,” you whisper. “i just… froze. i did everything right, channie, but i still feel like—” you stop short. the words stick too tightly in your throat.
chan doesn’t push. he just rubs your shin again, the motion steady and grounding.
“you were there,” he says softly. “you were there, and you helped bring her back. you kept her breathing. that’s not failure, y/n. that’s what saved her.”
you shake your head, but it’s barely a motion. “i still feel like it was almost my fault.”
his next inhale stutters just a little. you feel it in his chest beneath your cheek.
“you always think it’s your fault when something goes wrong,” he says. “just like i always think it’s mine. you and i are horrible at that. but sometimes… it’s no one’s. sometimes we do everything right and it still goes to hell. it’s the job.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, and your eyes sting again at the sight of him—so tired, so earnest, so here. so safe. he looks just as worn down as you, just as hollow behind his waning smile.
“how do you live with that?” you ask.
chan’s eyes flick up to yours. he’s quiet for a beat too long.
then—
“by not living it alone.”
the words crack something open in you again, but this time it’s not pain. it’s relief.
it’s knowing he meant you and him. never alone. never breaking apart without the other there to catch the pieces and put them together again.
you hug him tight.
“what would i do without you?” you mumble, a wave of gratitude washing over you for being lucky enough to find a friend like him.
he shrugs, the motion moving you with him. “probably slip into a reality show-induced coma on the couch every night.” he deadpans. it’s true enough to draw a small laugh from you; quiet, but real.
he lets out a sigh, but this one isn’t heavy anymore. not quite light, but not weighed down like it was before. as if you somehow held him together the way he did for you, too.
silence settles again, quieter now— still. peaceful, in that raw, aching way that follows a good cry. chan’s fingers keep tracing your back like a lullaby. you stay curled into him, tired down to the marrow, safe where you are.
you don’t know how long you sit like that. but it’s enough for your heart to steady. enough for the guilt to quiet. enough to remind you that surviving the day counts, even if you didn’t do it perfectly. even if you barely made it.
you yawn, stretch, wiggle yourself out of chan’s cocoon of safety. he throws you a lopsided smile before leaning back on the couch cushions, your feet still in his lap.
you turn up the volume just a little now that the couple on the tv has stopped fighting, fully prepared to immerse yourself in trashy drama once more.
and then—
BANG BANG BANG.
you jolt so hard you almost spill the dregs of your cold ramen.
chan groans softly, dropping his head back against the couch. “please no.”
bang bang bang bang.
“i know you’re home, you fools!” han jisung bellows from the hallway. “i have donuts and a lot of unprocessed emotions, open up!”
you blink. chan blinks. neither of you moves.
“he’ll go away,” chan mutters under his breath. “just ignore him.”
“i’m emotionally unstable and sugar-dependent!” comes the follow-up through the door. “i’m gonna eat all twelve of these suckers on the floor of the elevator unless someone lets me in!”
you snort despite yourself. chan sighs in defeat.
“be right back,” he grumbles, untangling from you gently and standing up. his shirt is still damp where you cried, and you think he knows it. he doesn’t seem to care.
you watch him cross to the door and unlock it. the moment the bolt turns—
jisung explodes inside.
hoodie half-zipped. crocs on the wrong feet. hair in five directions like he lost a fight with a headrest. and he’s brandishing a crumpled pink bakery box like it’s a holy relic.
“behold!” he declares, holding the box aloft. “my peace offering. i came bearing donuts and your favorite respiratory therapist, yours truly.”
“hey, ji. changbin’s working a double tonight.” chan says flatly, stepping aside to let him in.
jisung ignores him completely. “is she okay?” he whispers almost comically loud, eyes darting past chan to find you on the couch.
you scrub hastily at your face with your sleeve, but there’s no saving the puffiness around your eyes. or the existential energy radiating off your blanket burrito.
“i’ve been better,” you admit, voice raspy from crying. you try for a smile, but you’re pretty sure it’s a grimace.
“cool. great. love that,” he says, striding across the room and kneeling dramatically in front of you like a knight. “please accept a donut as tribute. and my eternal devotion. and also half a jelly one because i got hungry on the way over.”
he opens the box. there’s a variety of donuts; one has a bite in it. another is upside down and sort of… dented.
“you tried,” you murmur.
“i did more than try,” jisung says with a sniff. “i nearly got into a fistfight with a lady in a muumuu over the last chocolate sprinkle one. this box cost me blood, sweat, and dignity.”
you roll your eyes at his theatricism. “you never had dignity.”
“correct,” he says proudly, shoving a glazed one in his mouth.
chan reclaims his spot beside you with a quiet thud and grabs a donut without looking. jisung collapses onto the floor in front of the couch, back against the coffee table, sugar dust on his hoodie sleeve. for a few minutes, none of you speak.
the room fills with the sound of frosting sticking to fingers, crinkling napkins, and the low drone of reality tv as zeke and lauren call in their respective mothers to defend their reputations.
jisung swallows, then breaks the silence with a sigh.
“we’re all doing great, huh?”
“so great,” you say quietly, nudging his knee with your foot. “peak performance.”
he smiles, tight but real. “cool. just checking.”
another beat of casual silence. then–
“i can’t believe you guys were watching our show without me.”
chan sighs heavily through his nose. “we don’t have a show, jisung. you say that about whatever we’re watching when you come over.”
“semantics.”
you laugh a little, the lightness of the jokes not quite filling you; but it slowly erases some of the hollow ache from your chest.
your tears are dry. your stomach is full. your couch isn’t empty.
and god, you have the greatest friends in the world.
–
the clock next to the tv reads 10:48 PM by the time jisung dusts off his sugar-powdered hands and rises from his seat at the foot of the coffee table.
“alright,” he groans, cracking his neck like he just fought a war. “i’m heading home to go dissociate in my bathtub for a few hours.”
“text us if you drown,” chan says without looking up from his phone.
han grins. “i’ll text the group chat live updates as the water rises.”
you snort, the sound muffled by the pillow you’re curled into. “thanks for the donuts, ji.”
he gives you a dramatic two-finger salute and slinks toward the door with all the grace of a gremlin. one of his crocs squeaks with every other step. you both wait to hear the lock click behind him, and when it does, the apartment sinks into silence again; this time softer, spent.
you and chan clean up without really speaking, but it’s not a quiet that feels cold. just tired. familiar. you toss empty wrappers and napkins into the trash while he wipes powdered sugar from the coffee table with the sleeve of his shirt. neither of you cares enough to do a good job.
then you both sort of… pause.
chan stretches with a sigh that ends in a wince. “okay. bed.”
you nod. “bed.”
you both retreat from the living room, arms bumping before you turn to your respective bedrooms. you peel off your scrubs like they’re the plague, tossing them into your hamper and snapping the lid shut.
you pull out tomorrow’s fresh teal pair and lay them across your chair.
always ready. always pushing to the next day.
you sigh as you continue getting settled for the night.
—
a few minutes later, you’re standing over the sink, toothbrush dangling from the corner of your mouth.
your reflection looks better than it did two hours ago– eyes still puffy, but no longer haunted. you feel… not fixed, not put-together. but steadier. held. like someone picked up your pieces and didn’t flinch at the shape of them.
chan knocks twice on the door before cracking it open. “that loser left his water bottle,” he says, holding up the bottle in question like a crime exhibit. “you think if i fill it with soy sauce, he’ll notice?”
you snort around a mouthful of toothpaste. “he drinks so fast that he honestly might not.”
chan grins, then leans against the doorframe, eyes scanning over you in the mirror. he doesn’t say anything for a beat– just watches you, quiet.
“you okay?” he asks finally, voice low and already winding down for sleep.
you shrug one shoulder. “i’ll be fine. you?”
“me?” he echoes, blinking slow like he has to think about it. “i’m alright.”
but it comes out just a little too soft to be true.
he nods it off like it hasn’t been a hard day; like helping you feel the weight made it easier for him to carry, too. he pushes off the wall, steps into the bathroom long enough to nudge your arm gently so you scoot over at the sink. you do– easily. like this routine has played out a hundred times before.
you finish brushing. rinse. wipe your mouth with a towel while you hand his toothbrush to him wordlessly.
he takes it, runs water over it as you put yours back in the stand. but before he starts brushing, he bumps his elbow lightly into yours. you glance up.
his eyes are soft when he says, “you were really brave today.”
you blink.
“not because you didn’t cry,” he continues. “but because you let yourself fall apart after. that takes guts too.”
you don’t answer, not really. just sort of… lean your shoulder into his for a moment. he leans back.
then he’s brushing his teeth, and you’re putting up your hair before wishing him goodnight.
you shuffle barefoot down the hall back to your room, and it’s late. you turn on your tv just to have something on in the background, something to keep the buzz in your head quiet.
but when you climb into bed, your blankets feel warmer than usual. like they remember how it felt to be held.
like you’re not hard to hold.
and somehow, sleep comes easier.
–
the first thing you notice when you pad into the living room the next morning is changbin’s arm dangling off the couch like a corpse.
his snoring mouth is wide open. his work badge is still clipped to his scrub top, lanyard askew like he lost a fight with gravity on the way down to the cushions. a half-kicked blanket is tangled over his legs like a spoil of war.
“poor guy didn’t even make it to his room,” chan murmurs behind you as he appears from the hallway, his voice low from sleep. “that double shift must’ve been hell.”
you nod, already moving to the kitchen to start the coffee. your body aches in that familiar way— less from exhaustion, more from being asked to show up again. another shift. another morning. another day to fill with patients and laughter and the still-fading tang of the daily grief you wear like it’s a second skin.
chan yawns as he passes by, ruffling his hair with one hand while the other retrieves a mug from the cabinet. it’s the one you painted for a team-building event at some local ceramics place last month. the one he claimed looked like “a frog with anxiety.” he uses it every day anyway.
he bumps your hip gently out of the way to get to the coffee tin. “you always put the filters in wrong,” he mumbles halfheartedly, like it’s a long-standing grievance.
“i’m adding character,” you shoot back around a sip of water. “besides, you don’t complain when the coffee’s done.”
he hums a non-answer, nudging your arm lightly with his shoulder as he scoops the grounds. it’s quiet again—soft, early. just the sound of the world coming alive and coffee brewing and changbin’s light snoring from the couch.
your toast pops up. chan’s oatmeal buzzes in the microwave. he hands you a spoon without asking when you open the yogurt in the fridge.
it’s so routine you could do it in your sleep, this rhythm you share. every movement feels choreographed from months of these mornings.
you eat at the counter, legs tucked up on the stool, watching the last legs of the sunrise catch on the edges of the buildings through the blinds. chan sits beside you, hunched over his mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“what unit are we on today?” he asks without looking up.
“post-op. surgical.” you scrape your spoon against the side of the yogurt cup obnoxiously, making chan shake his head. “low census. i think half the floor’s still sedated.”
“thank god,” he mutters. “i need a no-fire day.”
“mm. you and me both.”
he looks over then, and you catch the smallest smile on his lips. it’s the one he gives you when you say something that makes him feel seen. when you echo the things he doesn’t always say out loud.
you glance away. but you smile too.
twenty minutes later, you’re both in the bathroom—chan brushing his teeth while you wrestle your badge lanyard out of a knot. you’re both in fresh scrubs today: you in your usual teal, him in his superhero scrubs with spider-man’s face printed all over them.
your work bags are packed by the door, sneakers waiting by the mat. changbin is still dead to the world, one sock halfway off.
you bump chan’s hip with yours and he spits out toothpaste with a laugh. “you always do that.”
“you always stand too close to the sink.”
“well, maybe i like the company.”
the words slip out before he can catch them. you roll your eyes like his cheesiness bothers you; it doesn’t.
he plays it off with a smirk, wiping his mouth on a towel and nudging you again. “come on. if we’re late, lee know’ll put us on call light duty.”
you follow him out, tossing your hoodie on and tucking your stethoscope carefully into your bag. the front door clicks shut behind you.
and you head out into the day together, ready to save little lives all over again.
—
the med surge unit is unusually quiet when you walk in– for once, not in a bad way. just a sleepy one.
the ward hums with low lights, soft beeps. one or two call lights blinking politely instead of blaring. most of the post-ops are still riding out their anesthesia, either snoring gently or mumbling into their pillows. the nurses’ station is littered with empty coffee cups and a bag of stale popcorn left over from night shift. someone—probably janice, the ward clerk—has drawn a lopsided cat with laser eyes on the corner of the whiteboard and labeled it "our charge nurse." you have a sneaking suspicion it’s a portrait of lee know.
you scan the board: four patients coming out of anesthesia, two being moved to stepdown once a bed opens up, no procedures before noon. thank god.
chan whistles low behind you, reading the board over your shoulder as he takes your bag and sets it down beside his. “blessed be the census gods.”
you smile faintly. “they must’ve heard our prayers.”
chan busies himself with getting set up to go around and get vitals, and you start pulling up patient charts to see who your sleeping beauties are for the day.
jeongin’s already at the main computer, propped on one elbow and typing one-handed. he looks up as you approach and gives a bright, boyish grin, mirth that was missing yesterday glinting in his eyes.
“y/n,” he chirps. “today’s the day.”
you blink slowly. wrack your brain. today… wednesday, no one’s birthday– you're drawing a blank.
“the day for what, exactly?”
jeongin leans back in the rolling chair, balancing it precariously on two legs the way hyunjin always rags on him for doing. “the day you become a certified tiktok star.”
you huff a laugh, shake your head. “jeongin. no way. it’s too early for this.”
“felix told me about your little dance breakthrough with natalie,” he says brightly. “i figured it’s time you learned to dance like a pro.”
“i am no such thing,” you mutter.
“you will be.” he wiggles his phone in the air. “come on, y/n! i picked an easy one! no footwork, just vibes.”
“what does that even mean.” you deadpan, trying oh-so-hard not to give in to his infectious excitement.
“it means we’re doing the ‘hip swirl helicopter clap’ one.”
you roll your eyes, not quite sure what a word of that sentence means. you’re not exactly chronically online. “that’s definitely not a thing.”
“it is now.”
chan walks past just in time to snort under his breath, catching the tail end of the conversation. “you’re setting her up to fail.”
“only a little,” jeongin grins, spinning in the chair before he pops up to his feet. “come on, sunshine. let’s go viral.”
you let out a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh, but you follow him anyways, letting him lead you into an empty patient room. if anyone asks why you caved, you’ll say it’s only because he begs with puppy eyes and promises there’s no actual choreography.
as it turns out, he’s a liar.
‘no choreography’ goes right down the drain: three long minutes later, you’re flailing your arms like a malfunctioning scarecrow while jeongin demonstrates a very specific clap-shimmy-hip-pop combination that he claims will “slay the algorithm.” you claim it’ll slay your knee joints.
“am i doing it?” you gasp between steps, definitely not doing it.
jeongin is doubled over. “you’re doing something.”
you flip him off mid-hip-thrust.
chan chooses this exact moment to step into the doorway, holding a vitals machine and a faux judgmental expression. “am i interrupting something sacred?”
“do not film this,” you warn, already seeing chan’s phone in his hand.
too late. chan’s grinning like a lunatic, capturing every bit of the chaos.
he zooms in on jeongin’s deadpan face. “say hi to felix,” he narrates, voice lilting. “this is what happens when you tell people things in confidence.”
“it was for natalie,” you hiss, blushing madly.
“sure it was,” chan says with a shit-eating grin.
the camera pans back to you just as you botch the ending of the dance and nearly trip over a discarded chuck pad. you freeze mid-flourish, absolutely horrified. jeongin wheezes. chan doubles over in laughter, stopping the recording.
he sends it to the group chat immediately. you’re playfully shoving jeongin when the texts start pouring in, as if your friends have nothing better to do than stalk their phones for crumbs of conversation.
LIVE, LAUGH, SPONGE BATH 🧽:
channie: look what happens when i leave them unsupervised for five minutes.
lixie: NOOOOOOO WHY AM I MISSING THIS. im stuck in oncology while you guys have all the fun >:(
foxboy: we call this piece “RT loses core strength” lolol
jiniret: jeongin’s got main character energy. y/n looks like she’s being held hostage lmao
mong mong M.D: do your charting you absolute gremlins
binnie bear: i coded three kids and fell asleep in the shower. why are you all dancing
leebit: back to work before i assign you to the picky parents in 206.
you groan and walk back to the station, dropping onto the nearest chair and sending a short voice memo to the chaotic group chat. “i hate all of you.”
jeongin pats your knee with a solemn nod. “don’t beat yourself up, y/n. fame isn’t for everyone.”
chan leans against the vitals cart, phone tucked away now, eyes warm. you glance up at him, cheeks still flushed—but he’s smiling. jeongin’s still giggling. the air feels lighter than it did yesterday.
you roll your eyes just as janice strolls by the station, clutching her travel mug that says ‘code blue? i thought you said code brew’ like it’s a lifeline. she shakes her head at the chaos you just know she heard down the hall, muttering something about “kids these days. don’t understand ‘em.” you turn to jeongin and bust out laughing.
–
you’re wiping down the bed rails in room 114, scrubbing absently as chan fiddles with a post-op drain nearby. the soft beep of monitors and distant voices from the next wing over hum in the background.
“did either of us remember to restock the iv bay yesterday?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
chan glances up, smirking. “didn’t see you anywhere near it.”
“i was busy,” you say, shrugging. “besides, it looked like a puzzle someone gave up on halfway through. i wanted no part of that.”
“that sounds about right,” he says, shaking his head. “you’re lucky i’m not filing a formal complaint.”
“please,” you scoff, “you probably forgot where you put the box of new gloves anyway.”
he grins, “maybe. but at least i don’t rearrange things every other day like a neurotic cleaning fairy.”
you laugh, then glance over your shoulder. “hey, did you hear janice yelling at that new nurse again?”
chan snorts. “yeah, something about how to hold a clipboard without crushing it. i pity the newbie.”
“classic janice,” you say fondly, shoulders shaking with quiet giggles.
jeongin’s laughter floats in from the hallway. “you two are hopeless.”
“we prefer the term sanity keepers,” you say, voice low, “at this point, we’re just holding on to whatever keeps us from losing our shit.”
chan nods, wiping his hands on his scrubs. “sanity keepers has a nice ring to it. maybe we should change the group chat name.”
you fake a gasp of outrage, jaw dropping. “never! i believe in ‘live, laugh, sponge bath’ supremacy. don’t even think about messing with it.” chan throws his hands up in mock surrender.
“yes ma’am.” he salutes, dropping back into his seat to pull up charts.
you both glance around the calm ward—the antiseptic smell, the steady hum of machines, the muted chatter. it’s a hard place to stay light; but chan’s always been skilled at shining a bit of sun into the dark corners of whatever hospital ward he walks into.
your phone buzzes. you check it and grin at the group chat lighting up:
LIVE, LAUGH, SPONGE BATH 🧽:
foxboy: just heard janice tell a newbie, ‘stop calling the doc a wizard.’ she hates magic.
leebit: wizards can’t fix this place without coffee anyway. that’s what i call magic.
hanji: guys guys guys!! guess who just got assigned the ‘mom from hell’ in 206?
mong mong M.D: loserrr. #sucks2suck. is the dad a problem, or is it just the mom?
hanji: both. i’m preparing for battle.
jiniret: charting after that? bahaha no thanks.
leebit: nightmares incoming. han, you’re not allowed to hide in the nurse station.
you laugh softly, sliding the phone back in your pocket. chan bumps your shoulder.
too loud. too fast. too late? you won’t know for another few steps.
“code blue, room 16. code blue, room 16.”
you’re already moving before the second chime ends, your body obeying instinct. you reach out towards the figure in motion by the doors to the PICU, grab felix hard by the sleeve of his scrubs, and yank him into pace beside you.
“run.” he doesn’t need to be told twice.
you skid down the hall, running past the empty med cart. past the soft-lit playroom, the low hum of machines still blinking green. someone’s soup is steaming at the charting station—someone who didn’t hear a monitor flatline. felix keeps up with the frenzied rhythm of your shoes hitting the floor; too used to this to break a sweat, not used to it enough to keep the adrenaline from mixing with cold fear.
you turn the last corner.
room 16.
the door is wide open. changbin is already on the bed: knees locked. shoulders squared. arms pumping in steady, fierce rhythm that doesn’t break when you and felix enter the room.
“apnea started during a reposition,” he pants, voice tight. “she just— she just went, fast.”
you don’t stop to process the scene or fire off more questions. there’s no time for anything but action— you just throw on gloves and take position at the head of the bed.
lina. only twelve. in and out for congenital kidney failure—a regular; bright, outgoing, one hell of an artist when her hands touch a box of crayons. and now she’s in full code.
“bagging with fifteen liters. any pulse?” your voice is even, controlled. like the rest of you isn’t vibrating as you call out medical orders, waiting for the charge nurse to rush in and take over.
you move with practiced ease into the height of the code, kneeling next to the bed where one of your favorite patients lies unresponsive. “no pulse.” changbin replies, voice tight with the effort he’s putting into compressions, “vitals crashed, nothing readable yet.”
felix dives for the crash cart as lee know bursts in, already assigning.
“y/n’s bagging,” he calls out roles and you fall into them easily. “changbin’s on compressions. felix, stay on meds. where’s our doc?”
“here.” seungmin says from the doorway, calm as ever. pulling gloves like he doesn’t even need them—always the picture of control.
another call from seungmin: “v-fib, start the code.” the room kicks into overdrive as felix parks the crash cart, prepping epinephrine.
“jeongin—get vitals.”
he doesn’t move.
you see him freeze— eyes wide, shoulders rigid. your heart squeezes for him; god, not now. he can’t do this now. there’s no time.
seungmin leads the code with flawless efficiency. “push epinephrine, point one five in her iv.”
felix hooks up into lina’s iv line, setting up the drugs that you pray will save her life. he doesn’t hesitate. “pushing epi now.”
“next rhythm check in thirty,” lee know says. “blood pressure unreadable. sats at sixty four and falling. stay on compressions, changbin.”
“come on, lina…” you whisper as you squeeze the bag that lets you breathe for her. you keep a close eye on the rise; the fall. no resistance. you adjust her jaw, and she doesn’t fight you.
han jisung barrels into room 16, scrubs askew. “i’ve got a six millimeter cuffed tube, suction ready.” he’s breathless from the run but no less ready to handle intubation, eager to help lina breathe again.
seungmin stays cool and collected, marking his appearance. “y/n, stay on the bag. jisung, you’ll intubate.” you both nod and get to work.
you hold the bag steady, keeping air flowing. jisung slides the tube like he’s done it a hundred times. and of course, he has.
seungmin nods sharply before his next orders, “push calcium gluconate stat, 100 milligrams— this renal crash is likely hyperkalemia. we've gotta get her potassium down.”
felix is ready at lina’s side with the medicine. “pushing calcium.”
“also give bicarb and d10 with 0.1 units insulin.”
your hands don’t stop moving in life-saving ritual: compress. bag. count. breathe.
“compressions, rotate!”
changbin drops back with a sigh, sweat beading slick on his temple. lee know takes over in an instant. relentless. perfect.
beep.
then nothing… and the room buzzes with activity in the blink of an eye.
the perfectly synchronized chaos of your code team responding would be beautiful— artistic, even—if it didn’t mean death was approaching.
seungmin’s voice is still calm, but now it’s laced with an edge of alarmed authority. “v-tach on monitor! shock at 100 joules. clear the bed!”
you step back automatically. jisung tugs you a little farther, taking you out of the fray.
“clear.”
felix’s hands grip the defibrillator. he breathes deep, preparing to deliver the charge. then—
pop.
lina's little body jolts as the shock delivers.
there’s a moment of brief, terrifying silence as all of you hold your breath. eyes darting, you look at one another in quick succession, each of you wondering the same thing.
and then, finally, the monitor beeps again. and again. and again—her heart is beating once more.
felix leans forward, his voice cracking when he delivers the first good news in what felt like hours but was probably mere minutes. “we have rhythm. sinus tach, 112.”
the relief in the air at her pulse is palpable, enough to make you want to fall to your knees.
you’re still holding the bag—she isn’t out of the woods, not yet. you stay kneeling at the head of the bed, keeping her breathing until the rest of her body stabilizes. your eyes lock onto her favorite teddy where it rests on the floor beside your feet.
you hate the wait that follows the heartbeat. the gray area where no one knows if it’s over yet.
“jeongin, vitals. now.” lee know reminds the CNA, who still hasn’t moved from his spot in the corner. he’s still pressed against the cabinet. tears running. you meet his eyes, nod once as if to say, “i don’t blame you”. he nods back—but doesn’t speak. not yet. he just shifts and goes to the other side of lina’s bed, getting a read on vital signs.
seungmin exhales once her sinus rhythm begins evening back out.
“sats climbing back up to the 80’s,” jeongin says, the shame of not acting sooner clear in his tone. “blood pressure 90 over 58, approaching ideal range. respiratory rate looks like she’s coming out of apnea. sh-should we remove tube and place on vent?” he questions seungmin with wide, glassy eyes. you turn to look at the doctor, still polished in his white coat— though a bit more ruffled now.
you lower the bag as a tech comes in to hook her up to the ventilator. you sigh audibly, feel your knees tremble.
she’s alive. and at the very least, she’ll be stable. for now.
but in a pediatric hospital, there’s little time for celebration. always pushing forward, always making rounds; always moving on to the next patient, no matter what happened in the room you were in before them.
“hallway, hot debrief. let's go.” lee know instructs as felix stays at lina’s side, busying himself with her drips and starting vital checks. jeongin hangs his head as the group of you make your way out of the post-code mess.
the hallway outside room 16 is dim. quiet in that way only hospitals get—like even the air is bracing for bad news.
you’re the last to leave, letting the door close softly behind you. the mask comes off with a tug that feels shakier than you’d like. your gloves go next; they’re damp. not from sweat, exactly—just from everything. from the whirlwind of adrenaline that always comes with a code.
this one was laced with something more than adrenaline, though; lina is a long-timer. a familiar face, in and out of critical care for her little kidneys that just can’t quite keep up. loved by everyone, of course— but especially your crew. there’s more than one colorful drawing in her name hanging on the staff fridge of you and your friends holding hands, all stick limbs and wonky smiles.
you lean against the wall outside her door, palms braced behind you like they might keep your knees from giving way from the switch in pressure. the rush of the moment is gone, but your heart hasn’t gotten the memo. it’s still drumming madly behind your ribs, almost echoing in the quiet hallway.
changbin claps a hand on your shoulder on his way past. “i’ve gotta head back down to trauma bay,” he says, softer than usual. “text me if she declines.”
you nod. “thanks for jumping in.”
“always.” he disappears down the corridor, shoulders squared like nothing just happened—but you know better. changbin’s always been good at carrying weight that never looks as heavy as you know it feels.
seungmin leaves next, tugging his white coat meticulously back into place. “i’ll check on her in an hour,” he says, scanning a chart in his hands. “page me for anything.” his voice is as steady as ever, but his jaw is tight with the aftermath of coding a twelve year old. it never gets any easier for him to absorb, no matter how many of these he leads with expert precision.
that leaves just four: you, lee know, jisung, and jeongin.
lee know exhales through his nose, folds his arms. “alright. quick code rundown.”
you straighten instinctively out of professional habit, despite knowing the stoic charge nurse since your school days. so does jisung. jeongin just stares at the floor like it personally betrayed him.
lee know’s tone is clipped but even, giving away nothing of the man behind the mask yet. “compressions were clean as could be. meds were fast. airway was handled smoothly—good call on staying on the bag, y/n. we bought her enough time to stabilize. clean intubation, too.”
you nod once. jisung doesn’t speak, but you see him relax the tiniest bit at a job well done.
“she’s post-renal,” lee know continues, “still critical. we should watch her labs, especially potassium. if she spikes again, we’ll need to act faster or else she runs risks of hypoxic injury.” you all nod.
his gaze flicks over to jeongin.
and the younger boy’s shoulders crumple. like he’s already steeling himself for impact.
but lee know doesn’t raise his voice. he just steps closer, reaches out, and rests a hand on jeongin’s shoulder. the younger boy looks up, wide eyes riddled with confusion and shame.
“hey,” he says, clinical but calm. “freezing happens.”
jeongin blinks. his lower lip wobbles. sometimes, it’s easy to forget that jeongin’s still so young; but it showed today. he saw himself in lina—you caught that realization in his face when he went rigid behind the crash cart.
“but—i was supposed to get vitals, and i didn’t, and what if—”
“what if nothing,” lee know cuts in firmly—but gently. “you’re still learning this place. these floors. these codes. it’s a hell of a thing to see a kid go out that fast, and no one is blaming you.”
jisung chimes in, voice softer than its usual swell of laughter. “first time i saw a code, i dropped the oxygen tank. totally forgot how to talk, man—i even think i turned white. thought i was gonna puke all over my code leader’s shoes.”
you let yourself lean a little toward jeongin, nudge his arm affectionately. “you’re not the only one who’s ever frozen, jeongin. you’re just the one who got caught doing it this time.”
that earns the tiniest huff of a laugh from him. not much, but it’s something.
lee know’s grip squeezes once, then lets go. “the fact that you’re still here? that says more than anything you did or didn’t do in that room. so just don’t freeze next time, and you’ll be fine.”
jeongin wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. he doesn’t say thank you; doesn’t have to. lee know is already walking back to the nurse’s station.
jeongin stands a little taller now. not much. but enough. like he’s the kid finally able to breathe on his own again, even if he’s a little older than twelve.
“come on boys,” you say with a much lighter tone than the weight you feel in your chest, “we’ve got charting to do.”
-
the walk back to the nurse station feels longer than usual; like the hallway stretched itself thin to absorb the aftershock. it’s quieter now, less adrenaline, more ambient buzz. a distant iv pump beeps in a room down the corridor. someone’s giggle—probably one of the toddlers in step-down—bounces faintly off the walls.
this part of the unit houses kids who are no longer in critical care, but aren’t quite ready to go home yet, either. it’s supposed to be quieter here. safer. but safety is a spectrum in pediatric medicine, and today’s crash proved that more than ever.
bang chan is already at the nurse station when you return, one hand cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, the other typing fluidly into a chart. his voice is melodic with measured warmth, the way it always is when he talks to lab techs or pharmacy staff. the way he talks to anyone, really: safety and kindness, clarity and calm.
“—yep, that’s right. riley conner, room 31—her labs just came in. potassium’s back in range. thank you. yep, i’ll update the board.” you must’ve caught him on the tail end of a conversation with labs.
he hangs up with a soft click and swivels in his chair—eyes landing on you before anything else. there’s a small, affectionate smile already ghosting across his lips, but it falters slightly when he sees your still-ashen face. or maybe it just softens; like he recognizes something unspoken. if anyone could see through your fronts like you’re a glass window... it’d be chan.
“let me guess,” he says, voice quiet enough that only you can hear, tone solemn now. “you were one of the ones in lina’s room?”
“first in other than changbin,” you try to play it casual, leaning slightly over the counter to log into your workstation. “how’d you know?”
his smile turns knowing, like this is something he never doubted. like he knows you better than you know yourself— and god, he does. he does. “you adore lina,” he says simply. “i knew you’d drop everything if she went into a code.”
there’s no accusation in his voice, just fact. gentle, steady fact.
and that—that soft certainty—almost makes it worse.
you huff a quiet breath; it’s almost a laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “you make it sound like i’m a bleeding heart.” you tell him dramatically, playing humor to your favor to hide how stripped bare you feel beneath his knowing gaze.
“you are,” he says without hesitation. then: “not in a bad way— never a bad way.”
you shake your head, pulling up your next chart. “chan…” your voice is tight with unshed tears, with the well of emotions you stuffed down your throat so that you were able to deliver the best care possible.
he leans in just slightly. not enough to crowd you, never pressing your walls—but enough that you can feel his presence like a steady rhythm beside your chaos. enough to reassure you that he can see right over those walls you build.
“you know it’s okay to feel it, right?” he says, his words still low, private and gentle. “to feel anything after what just happened?”
your fingers pause over the keyboard. not typing. not ready. not willing to let down your guard when you’re barely even halfway through a grueling shift.
“i can’t afford to,” you murmur, voice softer than you meant it to be. “not while i still have patients.”
chan doesn’t argue. he just nods, slow and understanding. you know he sees you— he always does. but he lets you have your space, doesn’t pop the protective bubble you’ve built around yourself. just peers right through it at everything you’re carrying; wishing he could pick some of it up and lighten your load.
“then let me hold it for now,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “until you’re ready.”
you straighten a little, smile polite even if it’s a bit forced. “i’ve gotta go check on my vent kid in 20. he always gets fussy with his mask after meds.” it’s true— ian, eleven, hates having his independence stripped from him by a machine. but you’re dodging, and chan knows it.
chan just nods, accepting the gentle redirection for what it is. “of course.”
but as you walk off, you feel his gaze linger—not heavy, just present. like he's already memorized your tells and knows when you're deflecting. like he’ll let you have your space, but not your silence, not forever.
like he’ll still be there when you’re ready.
you don’t look back as you walk away from the nurse’s station.
not because you’re avoiding anything—even though you are—but because you know chan is still standing there. watching. and if you look, your walls might crumble just a little.
you tuck your hands into your pockets instead. try not to think about how they’re still faintly trembling. if anyone asks, you’ll blame it on adrenaline.
the hallways are quiet again. not the urgent kind of quiet that follows a code—just the ordinary hush of a post-ICU stepdown ward on a slow day. life-sustaining machines hum softly behind closed doors; monitors beep in comforting rhythm, tracking hearts and breaths and vitals. someone is playing a cartoon rerun too loud in room 17, but no one really seems to mind.
as you pass by room 18, you hear han jisung’s voice float into the hall—warm, animated, full of life. “no way you beat me at uno again, davie! you’ve gotta be cheating—are you hiding draw fours under your pillow? lemme see, bud!”
there’s a burst of giggles from inside. the lightness of it tugs a reluctant smile from your mouth.
you keep walking.
funny, you think. how this place used to feel enormous when you first started. how sterile it looked. how far away your people were—scattered across rotations, programs, departments, miles away from here. but now?
now it feels like home.
not because the work is easy—it never is. not because the days don’t leave marks—they do, every time.
but because… somehow, you all ended up here. together.
you didn’t all start in the same place, though. not really.
changbin, lee know, jeongin, felix—those were your nursing school years. the long nights in library basements together. the early mornings on community health rounds. the stress-eating huddle during pathophys finals. you practiced bedside manners, memorized veins and arteries, learned how to check pulses and hang fluids and pretend you weren’t on the verge of tears together.
and chan.
god— chan. your guardian angel on bad days, your closest and most trusted friend on good ones.
you met him your first week of school, sitting on the hallway floor outside your sim lab as you waited for the door to open, both of you in your first pair of scrubs and clutching your orientation papers like they might vanish.
he looked over, offered half his granola bar, and said, “fancy meeting you here. are you an early riser too?”
you’d nodded, thanked him nervously, accepted the half of his snack with grateful hands; and that was it.
“i’m bang chan,” he said with a smile so warm it felt like a hug.
“y/n.”
you didn’t even know it at the time, that you’d instantly rewritten your entire life when you gained his friendship sitting in that hallway.
but you’d smiled back anyway.
he was your first clinical partner. your first source of backup. the first person who ever noticed when your hands started to shake—before you even knew they did. you’ve seen each other through exams and all-nighters, heartbreaks and hospital floors.
he never blinked when you finished nursing school a semester early, never blamed you when you went off to pursue a second degree in respiratory therapy. he just nodded, smiled, and asked you to keep texting him during your lunch breaks— and of course you did.
then came the bridge program. your addition of RT to your brand-new RN badge. respiratory therapy training was a blur of ventilators and gas laws and twelve-hour clinicals through the nearby med school. and it was there that you met the others: jisung, seungmin, hyunjin. the med-side kids with their clipped badges and coffee orders, their notes scribbled with horrific handwriting on post-its and whiteboards, and too many unanswered questions about what they were supposed to become once they got the titles attached to their names.
somehow, over hospital shifts and overlapping rotations, lab calls and cafeteria nights—your worlds meshed. lines blurred. friendships formed; you never meant to be the common thread, but you were, and they all thanked you for it. nursing allies crossed over with med school members, and your circle grew outward.
and then came the miracle: years later, finally getting somewhere in your careers, you all applied to different wings of the same hospital, and every single one of you stayed.
somerset children’s hospital.
it doesn’t make sense, really. not statistically, not logically; that all eight of your best friends somehow, miraculously, wound up working under the same roof. it’s unheard of.
but you don’t need it to make sense. it’s your miracle.
because right now, in a ward full of kids learning how to breathe again, your people are only a few steps away. checking vitals. adjusting lines. comforting parents. tossing each other protein bars and inside jokes, swapping stories and sandwiches like tomorrow won’t be just as hard as today.
and you?
you’ve got another patient to see.
-
room 20 is dim when you enter.
you knock anyway, knuckles soft against the doorframe—more out of habit than necessity. the room is quiet except for the mechanical whirr-sigh-whirr of the ventilator, measured and even, like the sea pulling waves of breath after breath into the young boy in the bed.
ian blinks over at you when you walk in. no panic; just that stubborn, huffy kind of boredom that only eleven-year-olds can muster after a major surgery.
“hey, buddy,” you say gently, already washing your hands at the sink. “you hangin’ in there?”
he shrugs, barely—a small movement of one shoulder that doesn’t disturb the bundle of leads, tubes, and carefully positioned spinal support. you can see it in his face that he hates not having any freedom.
you dry your hands and tug on gloves, slow and easy. no rush, no flurry of movement. just the soft rhythm of caregiving. “you got your pain meds right on schedule, so i’m guessing you’re feeling okay physically. is it the mask that’s bugging you now?”
he nods.
your eyes move to the vent settings out of habit, trained to track subtle shifts in compliance and effort. he’s not breathing over it, which is expected— he’s still early post-operation— but the settings are low enough that it’s more of a supportive nudge than a lifeline now. just enough to take strain off his airway, give the swelling some time to ease. you’d be surprised if he’s still intubated by morning tomorrow.
but kids don’t live in the clinical timeline: they live in the now. and in ian’s now, this is misery.
you move closer, careful to stay in his line of sight as you tuck the blanket a little higher over his chest. “can i check your tube, ian?” you ask, even though he can’t answer. but he nods again, and that’s enough.
you check the securement at his mouth, peek at the position marker to confirm depth, adjust the soft strap that’s started to crease his cheek. he lets you work in silence, eyes tracking you the whole time with that annoyed edge in them.
and then, when you reach for his chart to see when his next med pass is so you can let seungmin know, he picks up the purple crayon beside his bed.
it’s a dull nub. the label’s peeled halfway down.
he scribbles something crooked across a torn page from a notebook, then turns it toward you for you to read.
“this suckz. i just wanna talk out loud.”
“i’m all better now, right?”
your heart pulls tight in your chest.
you squat down a little so you’re more level with him, hands braced lightly on the side rail, voice soft but steady as you try to comfort ian.
“i know it really sucks to not be able to talk,” you say, and the honesty is a balm. “and i know it feels like you’re all better now, because your pain’s gone and you’re wide awake and being so, so brave.”
his eyes flicker a little, a hint of pride warring with his frustration.
“but your body’s still healing,” you explain, “even when it feels like it’s fine. we’re waiting for not just your back to get all better, but your throat, too. that uncomfy breathing tube had to go in deep, remember? and when we do big surgeries like yours, sometimes the inside of your throat and chest gets puffy—like how your ankle might swell up if you fall riding your bike. and if we take the tube out too early... you might not be able to breathe well on your own.”
his fingers tighten around the crayon.
“you’re not gonna stay on it,” you add quickly to assuage the scare. “your numbers look great, kiddo. you’re getting stronger. we just wanna make sure we don’t rush it.”
he scribbles something else. it’s messier this time.
“but i feel fine.”
you nod. “you do feel fine. and that’s amazing, ian; i’m really glad you feel so good. but breathing’s one of those things where we don’t always notice trouble until it’s... well, really big trouble.”
you tap the ventilator gently with your knuckle, the sound hollow and soft. “this guy’s here to keep you ahead of the game. he’s not forever. he’s just your pit stop crew while we change out your tires.”
ian stares at you. then, slowly, he wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm.
you offer him the little board they sometimes use on this unit— a piece of plywood covered with velcro squares of symbols and emotions. he takes it reluctantly. doesn’t touch the "pain" square. doesn’t reach for "scared." he just pulls off the one that says “frustrated” and sticks it next to the image of the ventilator.
you smile. “yeah, fair enough.”
you adjust his pulse ox probe while you’re there, making sure it’s not pinching his finger. “wanna help me pick your weaning music later?” you ask, making it sound like it’s a fancy privilege. “some kids pick movie soundtracks. some go full popstar.”
he stares at you a second longer, then scribbles madly on the back of the notebook page: “kpop plz. i <3 shinee.”
you laugh just a little—you wouldn’t have pinned ian as a k-pop stan. “you want a k-pop playlist?”
he nods, eyes mischievous now. you nudge his shoulder very, very gently.
“good taste.”
as you update the chart at the foot of his bed, you watch him settle a little deeper into the mattress. his hand drifts back to the notebook, but this time he doesn’t write anything. just doodles in lazy purple spirals, the kinds that say: i’m annoyed, but not panicked anymore.
you take that as a win.
your eyes flick to the monitor. his sats are steady. heart rate’s calm. the vent sighs again, and you feel it match your own chest: in and out, slow and sure.
on your way out, you brush a hand against the rail.
“hang in there, ian,” you murmur. “you’re almost in the clear, little man.”
you leave the room the way you entered— gently. but your heart feels a little fuller than when you came in.
even if he can’t talk yet, ian’s still saying plenty. you just have to know how to listen.
you slip out of ian’s room quietly, like leaving too loud might unravel the calm you just built. you peel off your gloves, toss them into the bin, and flex your fingers once before curling them around the chart in your hand. the shift still is far from over. there’s still more to do.
the hallway is somehow brighter now, lights reflecting off the polished linoleum that squeaks against your shoes every few steps. you pass ginger, the peppy, freshly post-grad phlebotomist— she waves happily, like she doesn’t draw blood for a living.
you glance down at your clipboard to see who’s next on your list of kids to visit. you scan down below ian’s name to see the name and room number: natalie, room 24, still recovering from a lung volume reduction surgery.
she’s not on the vent anymore, just high-flow now. oxygen at 4 liters via cannula; labs are stable. lungs are recovering. but her mood? questionable.
you square your shoulders, tug your badge straight, and start walking.
a tiny sound down the hall catches your attention—someone’s TV humming, jeongin’s laugh from behind the desk, a parent talking low into a phone near the playroom. all normal. all safe.
you trek past the mural wall with the painted-hand butterfly projects the long haul kids did last month. past the laundry cart that an overworked staff member left still half-blocking the corridor. past the stretch of bulletin board paper where someone wrote in blue pen:
“this is a healing place.”
you believe it. some days, you help make it true.
room 24 comes into view.
you smooth your hair, knock twice.
and the moment you step inside, you feel the frustration in the air—tiktok echoing, teen girl scowling, eyes rolling before you even get words out.
uh-huh; so it’s gonna be like this.
it’s natalie time.
you know her far beyond the details tucked away in your clipboard: fifteen. chronic respiratory failure. formerly the captain of her school’s youth dance team—now a patient, post-lung volume reduction surgery, tethered to an oxygen cannula and stuck in a room she hates more with each passing minute.
you step in quietly, even though she clearly doesn’t care if you’re there, chart already half-pulled. “just checking on your meds, nat. you feeling okay today?”
nothing.
the tiktok on her phone keeps playing. you can somewhat make out a group of girls doing some viral shuffle in matching sweats from where you stand by the door. natalie watches them blankly, then rolls her eyes a second time like she’s physically allergic to the concept of joy.
then, wordlessly, she pops one earbud in and stares out the window. the message is clear: i am done with you hospital people today. leave me alone.
you pause a moment longer, unsure whether to speak again. eventually, you retreat. not out of defeat— you just… need a new strategy.
you find felix halfway down the hall, crouched to fix a beeping IV pole for another kid’s room. his blond hair bounces a little when he stands.
“hey lix,” you murmur, falling into step beside him. “got a sec?”
“for you? always.” he shoots you a sideways grin. “what’s up?”
you chew your cheek. “it’s natalie. i tried to check her meds, but…”
felix lifts an eyebrow. “let me guess, you got the classic eye roll and silent treatment?”
“right into the earbuds maneuver,” you confirm, sighing. “she didn’t even flinch.”
“oof. the ice queen is frigid today.”
“i can tell that she’s frustrated,” you say, watching your words carefully. “still recovering from the LVRS. she’s on enough oxygen to keep her stable, but she hates being stuck here. hates the vent history, the monitors, all of it. she’s seeing her friends do fun things on tiktok while she’s stuck in that hospital bed.”
felix’s smile dims with sympathy. “hmm. can’t be easy for a kid to feel that way.”
“especially for a dancer,” you add. “i think seeing all those viral dances on tiktok just makes her feel like she’s watching her life go on without her.”
felix hums, pensive for a second. then:
“well,” he says, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his scrub top with the flair of someone plotting a scandal. “guess it’s time to embarrass myself in the name of pediatric healing.”
you blink. “felix—what are you planning?”
but he’s already heading toward room 24.
“felix–!”
“trust me!” he calls, making his way down the hall.
you follow, apprehension bubbling up even though you know damn well that felix is one of the best nurses in the building.
inside the room, natalie doesn’t look up when the door opens, although you note with some satisfaction that she doesn’t have her earbuds in anymore. she doesn’t register much when felix saunters in with an exaggerated strut, hands clasped dramatically behind his back like he’s about to give an inspiring TED talk.
“miss natalie,” he intones, bowing slightly to the queen of cold shoulder. “your presence has been requested on the dance floor.”
nothing happens; tiktok plays on.
felix claps twice. loudly.
natalie blinks, startled. finally looks up.
he reaches behind him and—god help you both—pulls out his phone. he taps the screen; music starts blaring. the unmistakable beat of a current tiktok dance fills the room.
“felix—” you hiss, even though you’re holding back a disbelieving laugh.
but it’s too late.
felix starts doing the dance.
or… well, maybe the better word would be trying to do the dance.
his arms flail in what might be a tiktok dance, might be a wild bird’s mating ritual. he spins too early, throws a finger heart too hard and smacks his own chest. he completely misses the beat on the hip rolls and almost trips over the IV cord, swaying like a madman.
but you have to admit that when he commits to the bit, he commits hard.
you brace yourself for expletives, for teenage drama, for the sigh of the utterly unimpressed.
and then—
“oh my god, what is that—” she bursts out, a choked laugh ringing out through the tense room.
a laugh. actual, genuine laughter. sharp and unfiltered, just shy of a cackle. she clutches her ribs.
felix pauses mid-dramatic windmill. “you know this one?”
“yeah, but you don’t! you butchered it!” she gasps through peals of laughter.
he winks. “well, good thing we’ve got an expert here to coach me.”
natalie tries to suppress her grin. fails spectacularly— you feel your heart stretch three sizes. “that was the worst rendition of a body roll i’ve ever seen.”
“please,” felix scoffs. “that was my signature move. you just don’t know talent when you see it.”
you finally speak, unable to help yourself from falling into a fit of giggles. “you looked like you were wrestling a ghost, lix.”
“jealousy looks bad on you,” he shoots back, still doing the running man like his life depends on it.
natalie shakes her head, icy exterior completely melted. “you’re both insane.”
but the tension has cracked. the frost in her posture has loosened into something calmer, more alive.
felix bows again, more graceful this time. “at your service.”
“you’re not off the hook, mister,” she warns, eyes twinkling. “next time you try that, i’m filming you and putting it on my story for all my followers to see.”
“deal,” he says. “but only if you promise to duet me once you’re cleared to move again.”
natalie doesn’t answer, not really. but she doesn’t say no, either.
and that’s something. all thanks to felix— the patron saint of pediatric nonsense.
you step closer to check her chart while the last echoes of felix’s tragic dance fade into the quiet. her sats are strong; color’s better. those sassy dancer lungs are recovering nicely.
“meds on time,” you murmur, voice gentle again now that she’s more at ease. “you’re doing great, nat.”
she nods, just once.
before you leave, you pause by the foot of her bed.
“hey, if you want to teach him that dance properly—” you thumb toward felix, who’s fanning himself like he just finished a full stage set—“i’ll happily supervise and judge from the sidelines.”
“i’ll think about it,” she says, rolling her eyes again. but her voice is lighter. more teasing, less stone-cold. the wall she’d thrown up earlier now has a sizeable crack in it.
felix blows her a kiss as she flips him off half-heartedly.
you smile.
this is what healing sometimes looks like. not just oxygen saturations and medications and fearful, breathless codes on patients whose bodies can’t always handle it— but light. breath. laughter.
this is why you chose pediatrics: to breathe some life into scary hospital corners and make the kids feel safer while they’re here, remind them they don’t have to grow up too fast in the face of illness or procedures. you love the job, even on days where it doesn’t love you back.
on your way out, felix murmurs, “told you to trust me.”
“you’re ridiculous.” you shoot back.
“and effective.”
a sigh from you. “unfortunately.”
you head back to the station side by side, and you both glance back once—just to see natalie still grinning to herself.
you’re still smiling when you break off from felix’s path to round the corner toward tyler’s room—room 26— the sound of that godawful dance routine still echoing somewhere in the back of your head.
natalie laughed.
you’ll carry that little miracle with you for the rest of the shift—tuck it somewhere deep in your chest, where all the hardest moments tend to burrow. not to weigh you down, but to remind you why you keep walking into rooms like these.
because now, as you reach tyler’s door and glance through the glass, that bubble of lightness deflates all at once.
tyler is only six years old; here for a brain injury that got him rushed to the ER a few nights ago. he’s a few days post-op from neurosurgery… and his prognosis isn’t good. he’s only got half a shot at waking up, and despite the little guy being a fighter, you don’t know if his young body can take it. the odds of him waking up are bleak.
you wipe all knowledge of this off your face as you step in, seeing his mom is seated in the chair closest to the bed, a trembling paper cup of hospital coffee clutched in one hand as the other whiteknuckles the bed rails. she hasn’t taken a sip. her eyes are fixed on her son like if she blinks, he might disappear. or maybe—just maybe—if she stares hard enough, he’ll wake up.
the dad stands behind her, one hand on the back of the chair. he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just watches the monitor with a flat, unreadable expression, eyes vacant. you’ve seen it before: how some parents distance themself when they know their kid might not make it.
when you knock gently and fully enter the room, your smile vanishes without a sound.
“good morning,” you say, voice quiet but even. you nod at both parents, give them the soft kind of smile you reserve for ICU rooms—one that says i see you. i’m here. i’m sorry.
“i’m just here to check on tyler and make sure he’s still getting everything he needs.”
they nod, or something like it. tyler’s mom forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. the dad doesn’t move at all.
you step past them and to the bedside, already scanning the ventilator numbers, the IV drips, the lines feeding into ports and pumps. everything looks as it should, mechanically speaking. but the room is still too still. it’s the kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl. the kind where a six-year-old doesn’t so much as twitch— the kind of silence that keeps you up at night.
you adjust his sedation, flush his lines. his vitals are stable, but that doesn’t mean much—not when his brain is the part in question. because without his brain up and running, the vitals are only a reflection of the machines that keep his lungs moving and his heart beating. not a true reflection of him. of his healing, or lack thereof.
you glance back at the mom. “he’s tolerating the vent well,” you offer like it means something. “his oxygenation’s holding steady.”
she nods again, lips trembling. she easily reads between the lines.
“and his scan’s still scheduled for this evening,” you add, gentler this time. “it’ll give the team a better sense of how he’s healing. sometimes it takes a few days for all the swelling to start going down.”
or sometimes it doesn’t go down at all.
she hears what you don’t say. you can see it in the way her eyes flick toward the bed and back again, fresh tears brimming. “do you think he’ll wake up?” she asks, and her voice is barely above a whisper. it snaps your heart clean in two, but you shove the break down, pack it away to only be examined in the quiet of your bedroom when your shift is over.
you hesitate to answer her. just for a second. but it’s long enough to feel it in your gut.
“i think… the brain is complicated,” you say, and it’s not quite an answer. “but kids are resilient. and we’ve seen some amazing things happen here. we’ll know a lot more after the scan.”
you lie with your tone, not your words.
you give a little hope, even if it proves to be false, because she needs something to hold onto. just until tonight. just until the next shift walks through the door and tells her whatever truth the images will show from tyler’s brain scan.
you finish charting at the foot of the bed, writing things you could do in your sleep: vent settings, sedation level, pupil response. (unreactive to light. no change.) you linger a second too long.
then, quietly, “i’ll be back later, but if you need anything before then, just press your call light, okay? i’ll come. even if you just want a fresh coffee.”
the mom thanks you softly. the dad doesn’t say a word.
you leave room 26 with your heart slipping down your scrubs.
the door clicks shut behind you, and the hallway feels colder than it did a few minutes ago. the fluorescent lights overhead now feel overbearing. the beep of machines just out of view feels incessant. it’s all so loud now, so bright and hollow.
you turn toward the nurse’s station. your feet feel heavy. there’s no bounce left in your step, no trace of the small joy you left natalie’s room with.
the moment you round the corner, you see your friends chatting idly at the desk: jeongin, curled into the swivel chair like he’s trying to disappear, and chan beside him, one hand gently resting on his arm. their voices are too low to catch from here, but the shape of the interaction is familiar. it’s comfort, given freely. the way chan always gives it– the way chan always gives everything.
they look up when they hear your footsteps.
chan’s eyes meet yours—and instantly, his brow pulls inward.
whatever he sees on your face, it sobers him immediately.
you don’t say anything.
you just sink into the nearest chair, hands clasped tightly in your lap, and exhale like maybe that’ll make the ache go away.
it doesn’t. and like it or not, you know that you’ll still feel hollow after you go on your lunch break.
it’s been a hell of a morning.
–
you swipe your badge on the screen and punch out to start your lunch break, that hollowness still rock-solid in the center of your chest. chan follows you wordlessly; it’s tradition that you take breaks together wherever possible. helps both of you to shoulder the burden a little better.
the break room hums with half-hearted energy– dim lights, an overworked microwave, a vending machine buzzing somewhere behind you with a dull, mechanical whine. the air smells like burnt coffee and old leftovers and antiseptic. someone left the fridge cracked open just enough for it to rattle softly, like it’s shivering.
you think, absurdly, that you know how it feels.
you drop your worn lunch bag on the counter. unzip it. dump out the contents on the break room table: peach yogurt, a sad banana, nutty granola bar. you stare at the contents like you don’t know what you’re looking at. your hands move on autopilot, pulling things out, setting them down, grabbing a plastic spoon. but your chest feels packed full—like you won’t be able to force a single bite past the weight of what’s settled inside it.
chan doesn't ask what’s wrong; he never does. he doesn’t need to. because he knows.
he opens the fridge, pulls out a takeout box from the night shift shelf, and peels the lid off with the practiced ease of someone who’s eaten a thousand hospital meals before. he pops it into the microwave. presses the same three buttons. he leans back against the counter as it spins, arms crossed loosely.
he watches you without really watching. like he’s clocking your breathing, not your face. like he knows what you’re thinking before you even have to put it into words.
the microwave beeps too loud in the stillness. you wince.
he slides into the chair beside you without a second thought, placing his container down without letting the lid clatter. no one else would notice how quiet he’s being— how deliberate. but you do.
he’s giving you the floor to talk. or to keep quiet— but the choice belongs to you either way, his silence says. and you can’t begin to describe the well of gratitude that pools for him beneath your grief.
you toss the banana in the trash after only three bites. your yogurt cup follows. you don’t bother trying to finish them when you can hardly eat past the crushing weight between your ribs.
you keep the granola bar, but only because you need something to clasp in your hands. you tear one corner of the wrapper open and then don’t move again.
for a long while, you both sit in silence. not comfortable, exactly, but not dangerous either. it’s the kind of silence that’s heavy without threatening to break. the kind you’ve shared a million times before. the kind you let yourselves fall into on days where the air is too full of what you can’t say out loud without cracking wide open.
chan eats quietly beside you. calm, methodical; not rushed. not pausing for performance. like he’s just—there. he always is.
when he finally speaks, his voice is soft.
“twenty-six?”
you don’t look at him; you can’t without crying just yet. so you just nod once, barely perceptible. your eyes stay on the table, on the granola bar you’ve been turning over in your hands.
“yeah.”
you whisper it. like if you say it too loud, it’ll undo you, break your carefully constructed composure.
he doesn’t follow up. doesn’t ask for details; just lets it hang there, suspended in the thick air.
you hate how your throat burns. how your eyes sting. how easily your body wants to betray you. this has always been part of the job, always been an occupational hazard. but some days it hits harder than others, how closely you work with life and death. how heavy it is to keep a child breathing in between the two.
you tighten your grip on the granola bar and force yourself to say, “i lied to her.”
chan doesn’t move. he knows exactly what you’re talking about, but lets you lay it on him at your own pace.
“tyler’s mom,” you go on, your voice scraped rough like gravel. “when she asked if i thought he’d wake up. i lied.”
you expect something in response– pity, maybe. or reassurance. something too-warm and falsely bright. but all chan does is nod; one slow, steady motion. not permission. not agreement.
just a small motion, to let you know he’s listening.
“i didn’t lie with the words,” you go on, “but with how i said them. i let her think… i don’t know. that it meant something. that there’s still reason to hope when the truth is that her child isn’t even breathing on his own anymore.”
“there is a reason,” chan says, but not as correction. not as hope. just… as a fact.
you shake your head once, too fast, too sharp. “not really. not when his pupils haven’t changed since yesterday. not when he hasn’t twitched once. he’s six, and his brain just—” your voice cracks, so you stop. you don’t finish the sentence: his brain just gave up on his body. we won’t be getting him back.
your chest feels thick, like you’re filled to the brim with something sharp and hot and stuffy that you can’t spit out. like you’re choking on all the grief you can’t name, because it doesn’t belong to you. it’s not your child in the bed. it’s not your life dangling at the edge of the machines.
but it feels like your heartbreak. and that’s what makes it worse.
“his mom looked at me like i had answers,” you say, almost to yourself. “like i could tell her he was going to be okay. and i—i let her. because if i didn’t, what else would she have? how could i take that away from her?”
chan shifts slightly beside you, not speaking yet.
you run your palms down your thighs in a soothing motion, trying to rub comfort into your body, then scrub your hands over your face like that might reset something in you. your hair falls into your eyes. you leave it there.
you don’t cry. but god, you want to.
“i hate how still he is,” you whisper. “i keep thinking about how he must’ve looked before. running around a pool deck, yelling something about goggles or snacks. he came in with those ducky print swim trunks. i bet he had one of those little cartoon-themed towels. i bet he had—” your voice hitches. “i don’t know... a favorite swim lane. blue ribbons. someone he was trying to beat.”
you pause; force yourself to breathe. it’s shaky.
“and now he’s just... a little body in a too-big bed. and i let his mom believe he was going to wake up. i let her hope—” you clamp your mouth shut before you snap clean in two, forcing the wave of tears down before it rises and spills out through your eyes and rolls down your cheeks.
chan’s hand drifts toward you, slow and hesitant, before settling just beside yours on the table. he doesn’t touch you. just leaves it there, palm up. not demanding. not expecting.
just offering. offering to help carry your sadness, in his own gentle way.
“you didn’t lie,” he says finally, voice like cool water. “you gave her something to hold for a little while.”
you blink hard.
“but what if all i did was make things worse in the long run?”
chan doesn’t answer right away.
when he does, his voice is even softer. you let it wrap around you, hold your seams together.
“then she’ll still remember that someone was kind to her while she waited.”
you look down at his hand. still open. still steady. you don’t take it.
but you don’t move away, either.
a lone tear slides down your cheek, and you don’t bother wiping it.
he notices but doesn’t comment. just leans forward a little, elbows on his knees now, voice pitched so low it almost disappears into the static of the breakroom.
“you don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”
your jaw tightens. you swallow hard.
“i know.”
and you do know that— that chan is always here to help you shoulder the load.
but knowing doesn’t make it easier to part with it. to stop it from swallowing you whole.
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
titsay
