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Discovering Us

Chapter 24 - I Can Wait for You at the Bottom

Choi San x Jung Wooyoung

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Summary: Wooyoung and San have been best friends and bandmates for years, but the line between friendship and something more is starting to blur. As emotions boil over and walls come crashing down, they must face what they've been avoiding—before it's too late. Genre: friends to lovers, angst, slow-burn Trigger Warnings: suicide themes, self-harm, psychiatric hospitalisation, mental health crisis, restraint, sedation, eating disorder, guilt WC: 21.2k Taglist: @dalsuwaha @seventeenthingsblr @atinystay-xxx @kittykat-25 @jooholicx @mustardmilkshake @hannah-97 @jjgsunflower @jonghosbrainrot @purple-bell Author's Note: This is probably the hardest chapter I’ve ever written. It touches on some very heavy topics, and I want you to know what you’re walking into before you start. If you’re in a vulnerable place right now, please take a moment to think about whether this is the right time to read it. Your wellbeing will always matter more than any story I could tell. Everything is handled as realistically as I could manage, which means some parts may feel intense, raw, and uncomfortable. I wrote this chapter with a lot of care, and it stayed with me long after I finished it, so please be gentle with yourself while reading. Take breaks if you need to. Come back to it later if that feels safer. And as always, thank you for being here with me and trusting me with this story. 🖤

I Can Wait for You at the Bottom

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The first thing he registered was the texture of the sheets. They weren’t the crinkling, plastic-coated vinyl of the emergency room. They were cotton. High thread count. Soft enough to catch on the dry skin of his elbows.

San kept his eyes closed. If he opened them, the white room would be there. The buzzing light. The stain on the ceiling tile that looked like a hand. So he lied still, cataloging the damage. His head throbbed—a dull, rhythmic pressure behind his sinuses. His mouth tasted like old pennies and chalk. The sedation hangover. It felt like his blood had been replaced with wet sand.

He tried to move his arms.

Resistance.

Not metal cuffs, but stiffness. Layers.

San peeled his eyes open. The light wasn’t the aggressive, vibrating fluorescent of the hospital. It was natural. Grey-white, filtered through heavy clouds, but real daylight. He wasn’t in the box anymore.

He sat up too fast. The room smeared, grey and beige tilting on an axis. He gagged, dry and hard, clutching the edge of the mattress until the vertigo settled.

He looked around. Pale wood floors. Cream-coloured walls. A chair in the corner that looked like it belonged in a hotel lounge, upholstered in slate grey. A window that spanned nearly the entire far wall.

San stared at the window. Pine trees, dark and wet, swaying in a wind he couldn't hear. Mist clinging to the branches. No skyscrapers. No Han River. No city lights.

“Where...” His voice was a rusted hinge. He coughed, the sound scraping his raw throat. He looked down at his arms. Thick gauze wrapped from his wrists to his elbows. Clean, white, fastened with medical tape. They looked like bracers. Like armour. Beneath the bandages, the skin throbbed—a hot, stinging reminder of the scratching. Of the desperate need to unzip his own skin.

Code Blue, the voice in his memory shouted.

San swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wasn’t wearing the paper scrubs anymore. He was in grey sweatpants and a matching t-shirt. Soft. expensive. No drawstrings.

He stood up but his knees buckled immediately. He caught himself on the nightstand—bolted to the floor, he noted, his fingers tracing the lack of a seam—and breathed through the dizziness.

“Hello?”

The door opened. It didn't click like the hospital door. It swished, heavy and well-oiled. A man stepped in. He wasn’t wearing scrubs. He was wearing a polo shirt and khakis, looking more like a golf instructor than a nurse, but the lanyard around his neck said STAFF. He was big—shoulders broad enough to block the exit.

“You’re up,” the man said. His voice was pleasant, neutral. “You slept for fourteen hours.”

“Where am I?” San asked. He leaned heavily against the nightstand. “This isn’t the hospital.”

“This is the Cedar Clinic,” the man said. He walked over to the bed and set a tray down. Water. A banana. Two pills in a paper cup. “You were transferred early this morning.”

“My sister,” San rasped. “Haneul. Where is she?”

“Ms. Choi arranged the transfer,” the man said. He gestured to the water. “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

San ignored the water. He took a step toward the man. “I need my phone.”

The man didn’t move. He didn’t look intimidated. He stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, a stance that screamed security training. “No phones,” the man said. “Policy.” the man replied. He picked up the water cup and held it out, a clear command. "Drink."

San slapped the cup away. Water splashed across the expensive wood floor. The cup bounced soundlessly.

“I said I need my phone!” San shouted. The volume hurt his own head.

The man didn’t flinch at the water. He didn’t even look at the mess. He just watched San with calm, brown eyes. “No phone for the first seventy-two hours,” the man said. “Isolation protocol.”

“Isolation?”

“Your sister signed the order,” the man said. “Complete privacy. No visitors. No contact with the outside.”

San froze. Haneul had signed it. She had put him here. She had looked at the mess he made—the bridge, the scratching, the breakdown—and she had decided to bury him in the woods.

“Drink the water, San-ssi. Or I’ll have to put an IV in, and you won’t like that.”

San stared at him. Then he stared at the window. The trees were thick. Impenetrable. He walked to the glass. He pressed his hand against it. It was cold. He looked down. He was on the ground floor, but there was a fence. High, black metal, hidden tastefully behind a row of hedges.

He had wanted to disappear, hadn't he? He had stood on the bridge and prayed for the silence.

Now he had it. The silence of the woods. The silence of a room with no phone. The silence of Wooyoung not knowing where he was.

San rested his forehead against the glass. The condensation cooled his feverish skin. “Does he know?” San asked quietly. “Does Wooyoung know I’m here?”

The man paused. For the first time, the professional mask slipped just a fraction.

“I don’t know who that is,” the man said. “I just know the instruction on your file.”

San turned his head slightly to look at him. “What instruction?”

“Do not acknowledge inquiries from anyone other than the guardian.”

She had cut the line. Haneul had actually done it. She had severed the limb to save the body.

San slid down the glass until he was sitting on the floor, the expensive wood hard against his tailbone. He looked at his bandaged arms. He wasn’t dead. But to the rest of the world, to ATEEZ, to Wooyoung... he might as well be. The fight drained out of him, replaced by the heavy, leaden weight of the sedatives still circulating in his blood.

The man set a new cup of water on the nightstand. “Dr. Park will see you in an hour,” he said walked out.

The door swished shut. The lock engaged. Not a click this time. A magnetic thud. San sat on the floor of his beige cage and watched the mist move through the trees, waiting for the grief to kill him.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The hotel apartment smelled wrong. Like industrial carpet cleaner and someone else’s lavender detergent, like the ghost of a hundred other temporary lives. The air conditioning hummed too loud, a mechanical wheeze that filled the silence where the dorm’s familiar creaks and sighs used to live.

Wooyoung sat on the edge of the bed—a bed, not his bed—with San’s duffel bag at his feet. He hadn’t unpacked it. He couldn’t. If he unpacked it, it meant accepting that this sterile box was where they lived now. That the dorm was gone. That San’s room was empty. That San was still in that hospital, alone.

His phone sat in his palm, screen dark. He’d been holding it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over San’s contact.

Call him. The thought was a drumbeat in his skull, relentless and maddening.

You can't call him. He doesn’t have his phone. He’s in a psych ward.

But Haneul might answer. She might tell you something. She might—

“Woo.” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the static. “You should eat.”

Wooyoung didn’t look up. His eyes stayed fixed on the black mirror of his phone screen, watching his own reflection warp in the curved glass. “I’m not hungry. ”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” The words came out flat, mechanical. Wooyoung’s voice didn’t sound like his own. It sounded like someone doing a bad impression of him.

Seonghwa sat down on the bed beside him. The mattress dipped. It was too soft, too new. The springs didn’t creak the way San’s bed used to when Wooyoung climbed in at three in the morning because the nightmares were too loud and San’s heartbeat was the only thing that made them quiet.

“The seventy-two hours started last night,” Seonghwa said gently. “That means… maybe by tomorrow night, they’ll let us see him.”

Wooyoung’s thumb moved. He opened San's contact. The profile picture loaded. It was San mid-laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkled into crescents. Wooyoung had taken it two years ago at the beach. San had been happy. He had been whole.

“It’s off,” Seonghwa whispered. “His phone is off. They took it,” Seonghwa said while hand found Wooyoung’s shoulder, warm and grounding. “It’s protocol. They don’t let patients have phones in the psych unit.”

“But what if—” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. He tried again. “What if he wakes up and he doesn’t know where we are? What if he thinks we left him?”

“He knows we wouldn't leave him.”

“Does he?” Wooyoung turned to look at Seonghwa. His eyes were too bright, wet and glassy. “Does he, Hyung? Because we left the dorm. We packed his stuff and we left. We let the company throw us out like trash while he’s locked in a room and we didn’t even fight.”

“Wooyoung—”

“I should’ve stayed.” Wooyoung’s hands were shaking now, the phone trembling in his grip. “I should’ve told the CEO to go fuck himself. I should’ve refused to leave. What’s he gonna do, sue me? Let him. At least then San would know I—”

The door to the adjoining room opened. Hongjoong stood in the doorway. His hair was unwashed, sticking up in odd angles. His eyes were red-rimmed and sunken, bruised shadows sitting in the hollows beneath them.

“I called Haneul,” Hongjoong said. Wooyoung’s head snapped up.

Hongjoong stepped into the room. His movements were slow, careful, like a man walking on a frozen lake, testing each step for the crack that would send him plunging into the dark water below.

“She didn’t answer,” Hongjoong said. “I left a voicemail. I asked if we could visit today. I told her we’d follow whatever rules they have. We just… we need to see him”

“Call again.” Wooyoung demanded.

“Woo—”

“Call her again, Hyung.” Wooyoung stood up. The duffel bag tipped over, spilling one of San’s hoodies onto the carpet. It lay there, grey and soft, like a body. “Maybe she was in a meeting. Maybe her phone was on silent. Call her again.”

Hongjoong looked at Seonghwa. Something passed between them—a silent conversation that Wooyoung wasn’t part of.

“Okay,” Hongjoong said quietly. “I’ll call again.” He lifted his phone. His thumb hovered over Haneul's contact for a second and then he pressed call. The room went silent. Even the air conditioning seemed to hold its breath.

Then: “Hi, you’ve reached Choi Haneul. I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Beep.

Hongjoong opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He stood there, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the carpet like it held the answer to a question he was too afraid to ask.

“Try the hospital,” Wooyoung said. His voice was rising now, thin and desperate. “Call the hospital directly. Ask to be transferred to the psych ward. They have to tell us something. He’s our—” His voice broke. “He’s our brother. They have to let us know if he’s okay.”

“They won’t tell us anything,” Seonghwa cut in. His voice was soft, but it had an edge now. A blade wrapped in silk.

“Then we go,” Wooyoung said. He was already moving, grabbing his jacket off the chair. “We go to the hospital. We walk in. We ask to see him in person. They can’t turn us away if we’re standing right there.”

“Wooyoung, stop.” Hongjoong’s hand shot out, catching Wooyoung’s wrist. “You can’t just storm into a hospital demanding to see a psych patient. They’ll call security. They’ll—”

“I don’t care!” Wooyoung wrenched his arm free. His breathing was coming faster now, shallow and ragged. “I don’t care if they call security! I don’t care if they throw me out! At least I’ll be doing something instead of sitting in this fucking hotel room waiting for a phone call that isn’t coming!”

“We have to wait for Haneul,” Hongjoong said. “She’s the guardian. She’s the only one who can authorize visits. If we show up without her permission, we’ll just make it worse.”

“Worse?” Wooyoung’s laugh came out sharp, jagged. “Worse than what, Hyung? He’s already in a locked room. He already tried to kill himself. How the fuck does it get worse?”

“If we violate the hospital’s policies, they could extend the hold,” Hongjoong said. His voice was quiet now, deadly serious. “They could keep him longer. They could move him to a different facility. They could make it so we never—”

He stopped. The sentence hung there, unfinished.

They could make it so we never see him again.

Wooyoung’s knees gave out. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the air punched out of his lungs. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“I can’t do this,” Wooyoung whispered. “Hyung, I can’t. I can’t just sit here and wait. I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay. I need—”

His phone buzzed.

All three of them froze.

Wooyoung grabbed his phone so fast he nearly dropped it. His hands were shaking as he looked at the screen.

Yunho

Wooyoung answered. “Yun?”

“Did Haneul call you?” Yunho’s voice was tight, strained.

“No. Why?”

“She’s not answering. I’ve called six times. Yeosang tried too. Nothing.”

Wooyoung’s stomach dropped. “Maybe she’s with San. Maybe she’s—”

“I called the main hospital line,” Yunho interrupted. “I told them I was family and I needed to know the status of a patient admitted two days ago. I didn’t give a name. I just described the situation—suicide attempt, seventy-two-hour hold, family member trying to get visitation clearance.”

“And?” Wooyoung’s voice was barely a whisper.

“They transferred me to three different departments. Every single one of them said they couldn’t help me without the patient’s name and date of birth. So I gave them San’s name.”

Wooyoung’s heart was hammering now, a frantic bird beating against his ribs. “What did they say?”

Yunho was quiet for a beat too long. “They said they have no patient by that name.”

“What?” Wooyoung breathed.

“They said Choi San is not currently admitted to their facility. I asked if he’d been discharged. They said they couldn’t confirm or deny that he was ever there.”

“Then it’s the wrong hospital,” Seonghwa said, leaning in. “There are multiple hospitals with psychiatric units. Yunho must’ve called the wrong one.”

“I called three,” Yunho said. His voice was strained now, fraying at the edges. “All three said the same thing. No patient by that name.”

Hongjoong’s face had gone white.

“Maybe they moved him,” Hongjoong said. His voice was too fast, the words tumbling over each other. “Maybe the first hospital didn’t have space or—or maybe they transferred him for privacy reasons. High-profile patient. They might’ve moved him to a private facility.”

“Without telling us?” Wooyoung whispered.

No one answered. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Wooyoung’s phone was still pressed to his ear. He could hear Yunho breathing on the other end—short, shallow breaths like he’d just finished running.

“Yunho,” Wooyoung said. His voice sounded far away, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Yunho said.

“Where the fuck is San?”

“I don’t know, Wooyoung. I don’t—” Yunho’s voice cracked. “Haneul moved him. She has to have moved him. And she’s not telling us where.”

The phone slipped from Wooyoung’s hand. It hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Wooyoung stared at the wall. The cream-coloured paint. The thermostat blinking 22°C in sterile blue digits.

“She cut us off,” Wooyoung said. His voice didn’t sound like his anymore. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. Someone hollowed out. Someone who had just realised that the person they loved most in the world had been erased.

“She cut the line.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The fluorescent light in the medication room had a flicker. It wasn’t constant—just a micro-stutter every seven or eight seconds, like a heart with an arrhythmia. San had counted. He’d been counting a lot of things lately, because counting was something his brain could do that didn’t require him to feel anything.

Seven ceiling tiles from the door to the nurses’ station. Nineteen steps from his room to the common area. Three pills in the morning. Four at night. The yellow one tasted like chalk dust and old batteries.

“San-ssi,” Nurse Kim said. She was the morning shift nurse, the one who wore her hair in a tight bun that pulled her eyebrows up slightly, giving her a look of perpetual mild surprise. “Medication time.”

San stood by the counter. The paper cup sat between them like a tiny white coffin. The pills sat in it and he looked at them.

White. Blue. Small yellow oval.

He’d asked, once, on Day 2, what they were. The answer had been a wall of syllables that sounded like Latin translated through a broken radio: selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, mood stabiliser, anxiolytic. The words had meant nothing. They were just the medical names for the chemicals that were supposed to turn him back into a person.

“Open,” Nurse Kim said.

San opened his mouth. The gesture was automatic now. He didn’t fight anymore. Fighting required energy, and energy required caring, and caring required being alive in a way that went beyond the mechanical operation of lungs and blood.

She tipped the cup. The pills hit his tongue, bitter and pharmaceutical. He’d learned not to let them sit there too long—the coating started to dissolve, and the taste underneath was worse.

He swallowed. Dry.

Nurse Kim leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharp. “Tongue up.” San obeyed. She checked both sides, then had him open wide so she could check his cheeks. It was humiliating, this ritual. Like he was a dog that had learned to spit out its worm pills when no one was looking. But San didn’t spit out the pills. He didn’t have the energy for rebellion. He didn’t have the energy for anything except the basic biological functions that his body performed without asking his permission.

“Good,” Nurse Kim said. She made a note on her tablet—a quick swipe of her finger, the digital sound of completion. “Dr. Park wants to see you at ten. That’s in forty minutes. You should eat something first.” San nodded. It was a lie, the nod. He had no intention of eating. But nodding made people stop talking to you, and stopping the talking was the closest thing to peace he could get. He turned and walked out of the medication room. His slippers—hospital-issued, grey, with rubber treads—made a soft shushing sound on the linoleum.

The hallway was wide and bright, designed to feel open and calming. It didn’t work. It just felt like a very expensive cage. He passed the common area. Two other patients sat at the table by the window, playing cards with the slow, underwater movements of people on heavy medication. One of them looked up as San passed. Their eyes met for half a second. San looked away first.

He walked back to his room. Nineteen steps. The door was open—they kept it open during the day, unless you were on isolation protocol—and inside, everything was exactly as he’d left it. The bed, made with hospital corners. The chair by the window. The tray on the desk with a protein bar and a juice box that had been sitting there since breakfast.

San sat on the edge of the bed. Not lying down—if he lay down before ten a.m., someone would come check on him, make a note about “low motivation” or “depressive behaviour”.

He looked at his hands. The bandages were gone now. The scratches on his forearms had healed into thin pink lines, like the tracks of very small animals. They itched sometimes, when the skin was knitting itself back together, and he’d learned to ignore it. Scratching would just start the whole cycle again—concern, intervention, more medication, more watching. So he didn’t scratch. He just looked.

The pills were starting to work. He could feel them, like a slow tide rising in his blood. The edges of things got softer. The panic that used to live in his chest like a trapped bird went quiet, sedated, wrapped in chemical cotton. But underneath the softness, there was nothing. No relief. No comfort. No peace. Just… absence.

San closed his eyes and waited for ten o’clock.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Dr. Park’s office was on the second floor. It had a window that looked out onto the pine forest, and a desk made of pale wood that matched the floors. There were two chairs—one behind the desk, one in front of it—and a small table in the corner with a box of tissues and a ceramic bowl full of smooth stones. San had stared at those stones for thirty-seven minutes during his first session. He’d counted them. Eighteen stones. Grey and white and one that was almost black.

He was staring at them again now.

Dr. Park sat across from him, her hands folded on top of a leather portfolio that held his file. She was in her mid-forties, maybe, with short hair cut in a precise bob and glasses that sat low on her nose. She dressed like someone who shopped at expensive stores but didn’t care about fashion—neutral colours, clean lines, a watch that cost more than most people’s rent.

She’d been talking for three minutes. San had been counting that too. “San,” she said. Her voice was patient, but there was a thread of something else underneath it. Frustration, maybe. Or worry. “I need you to engage with me. Even a little. Can you do that?”

San looked at the stones. Eighteen. Grey, white, almost-black.

“I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions,” Dr. Park continued. She uncapped her pen—a fountain pen, expensive, the kind that made a specific sound when it moved across paper. “You don’t have to speak. You can nod or shake your head. Does that sound manageable?”

Manageable. The word sat in the air like a stone in water, sinking slowly.

San didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head. He just kept looking at the bowl.

Dr. Park wrote something. The scratch of pen on paper was very loud in the quiet room. “Are you experiencing suicidal ideation right now?”

The question was clinical. Detached. Like asking if he had a headache or if his stomach hurt.

San’s throat moved. A swallow. Automatic. But he didn’t answer.

“Do you feel safe in this facility?”

The pine trees outside the window swayed. There was wind today. He couldn’t hear it through the glass, but he could see it in the way the branches moved, bending and releasing, bending and releasing.

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

San’s jaw tightened. Just for a second. A microscopic shift in the muscle under his skin, tension gathering and then releasing like a wave that didn’t break.

Dr. Park saw it. He knew she saw it because her pen stopped moving.

They sat in silence.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

The clock on the wall ticked. It was the old-fashioned kind, with actual hands that moved in discrete clicks rather than a smooth sweep. Tick. Tick. Tick.

San counted the ticks. Sixty per minute. Three hundred in five minutes.

“Okay,” Dr. Park said finally. She set the pen down with a soft click. “That’s okay. We can try again tomorrow.”

She stood up. San stood up too, because that was the cue. When she stood, the session was over.

“San,” she said as he reached the door. He stopped. He didn’t turn around, but he stopped. “I want you to know that I’m not going to give up on you,” Dr. Park said. Her voice was softer now, less clinical. Almost kind. “You’re in here somewhere. I know you are. And when you’re ready to come out, I’ll be here.”

San’s hand tightened on the door handle.

Then he walked out. He walked down the hallway—thirty-two steps to the stairwell—and back to his room, and he lay down on the bed even though it wasn’t rest time yet, and he stared at the ceiling until someone came to tell him it was time for lunch.

He didn’t eat lunch.

He didn’t eat dinner either.

By the time the evening nurse brought his nighttime pills, the yellow oval had gotten bigger.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ San heard her heels first. It was raining outside, and the sound of the rain on the roof was a constant white noise, but underneath it he could hear the sharp, precise click of Haneul’s heels on the linoleum. She walked fast, always had. Like she was late for something important.

The footsteps stopped outside his door. San was sitting in the chair by the window, watching the rain run down the glass in chaotic rivers. Each drop followed its own path, merging with others or breaking away, creating temporary streams that dissolved as quickly as they formed.

The door opened.

“Sannie,” Haneul said. Her voice cracked on his name. Just slightly. Like she’d been holding it together in the car, holding it together in the elevator, holding it together through the security check and the sign-in process, and now that she was actually here, actually seeing him, the structural integrity was failing.

San didn’t turn around. He heard her come in. Heard the rustle of her coat as she took it off, the scrape of the other chair as she pulled it closer to his. Not too close—she left space between them, like she was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

The rain kept falling. The drops kept merging and breaking, merging and breaking.

“The doctors say you’re not talking,” Haneul continued. She was trying to keep her voice steady, professional. Like this was a business meeting. Like if she just used the right words, she could fix this. “They said you haven’t said a single word since you got here. Not to them. Not to the nurses. Not to anyone.”

A particularly large drop hit the window and split into three smaller ones, each racing down a different path.

“I know you’re angry with me,” Haneul whispered. The professionalism was gone now. Her voice was raw, scraped clean. “I know you think I—I know this feels like a punishment. Moving you here without telling you. Cutting you off from…” She stopped herself. Swallowed hard. “But you’re safe here, Sannie. You’re safe and you’re alive and that’s all that matters right now. That’s all that’s ever mattered.”

San’s breathing didn’t change. In. Out. In. Out. The same rhythm he’d maintained for ten days, mechanical and precise. Haneul shifted in her chair. He could hear the leather creak, the rustle of her hands smoothing over her skirt—a nervous gesture she’d had since they were kids.

“Do you remember,” she said, her voice softening, “when you were seven and you fell off your bike? You scraped your knee so badly, and you were so embarrassed that you cried. Not because it hurt, but because the other kids saw you fall.”

The rain drummed against the window.

“Mom had to carry you home. You were so small then. You kept saying ‘I’m okay, I’m okay’ even though you were bleeding everywhere.” Haneul’s voice wavered. “You’ve been doing that your whole life, haven’t you? Saying you’re okay when you’re not.”

San stared at the rain. A drop near the top corner of the window was moving slower than the others, picking up smaller droplets as it descended. “I brought you some things,” Haneul said. The sound of a bag unzipping.

“Your favourite candy. And I… I printed some photos. From before. Just you and me.” She set something on the desk. San didn’t look.

“You don’t have to talk,” Haneul continued. Her voice was gentler now, like she was reading him a bedtime story. “The doctors said that’s normal. That you need time. That pushing you will just make it worse. So I’m not going to push. I’m just going to… be here.”

Silence. Just the rain. San’s hands rested on his thighs, palms down. The bandages were gone now, replaced by thin pink scars. Evidence of the night he’d tried to claw his way out of his own skin.

Haneul saw them. He knew she did because her breath caught, a small, wounded sound.

“Sannie,” she whispered. “Please look at me. Just once. I need to know you’re still in there.”

The rain kept falling. San kept staring at the window.

One minute passed.

Then two.

Then five.

Haneul didn’t leave. She just sat there, breathing in rhythm with the rain, waiting for a sign that would never come.

Finally, she stood up. San heard the chair scrape back, heard her footsteps as she moved toward him. She didn’t touch him. She just stood there, close enough that he could feel her presence like a change in air pressure.

“I’m going to fix this,” she said. “I’m going to fix what they broke. I’m going to bring you back. I don’t care how long it takes.” Then she walked to the door. She paused at the threshold. “I love you, Sannie. More than anything in this world. Don’t forget that.”

The door closed. San sat alone in the rain-grey light, watching the water run down the glass. Outside in the hallway, he could hear Haneul’s voice—low, urgent, talking to Dr. Park.

“…still no verbal response…”

“…any change at all…”

“…how long until…”

“…weeks, potentially months…”

The voices faded. The rain kept falling.

San went back to counting the drops.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The apartment smelled like nothing. That was the first thing Seonghwa noticed when he unlocked the door with the passcode Wooyoung had texted him—reluctantly, after Hongjoong had threatened to call a wellness check if he didn’t.

No cooking. No coffee. No body spray or laundry detergent or the faint citrus of the cleaner Wooyoung used to use obsessively on the counters.

Just air. Stale and recycled, like a space that had been sealed and forgotten.

“Youngie?” Seonghwa called out. His voice echoed in the empty hallway. “I brought food.” No answer. Seonghwa stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The apartment was beautiful—a two-bedroom, modern and pristine, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in streams of grey afternoon light. Wooyoung had bought it six days ago. Paid in cash. The kitchen furniture still had protective foil on the surfaces, untouched and gleaming.

Wooyoung didn’t tell anyone until Yunho had shown up at the hotel and found the room empty, Wooyoung’s stuff gone, just a note on the bed that said I can’t do this anymore. I’m fine. Don’t come looking for me. Of course they’d come looking for him. It had taken Hongjoong four hours and three phone calls to track down the address.

Seonghwa walked through the living room. It was furnished—barely. A couch. A coffee table. A TV that didn’t look like it had ever been turned on. But it was the other things that made Seonghwa’s stomach turn.

San’s grey hoodie, draped over the back of the couch like someone had just taken it off. San’s sneakers by the door. The ones Mingi had grabbed from the dorm. San’s duffel bag in the corner, still packed, still bulging. And on the coffee table—Shiber. The plushie sat upright, facing the couch, like it was waiting for someone to come home.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said again. Softer this time. Not a question. A plea. He walked toward the bedroom. The door was open.

Wooyoung was sitting on the floor. Not on the bed. Not in a chair. On the floor, his back against the side of the mattress, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing three days ago when Seonghwa had last managed to get inside—grey sweatpants, a black hoodie that was too big, the sleeves pulled down over his hands. He looked small. He looked like he was disappearing.

“Hey,” Seonghwa said. He crouched down a few feet away, not getting too close. Wooyoung startled easily lately. “I brought soup.”

Wooyoung didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on something across the room. Seonghwa followed his gaze. San’s jacket. Hanging on the back of the door.

“Did you eat today?” Seonghwa asked. Silence. “Woo. Did you eat?”

“I tried,” Wooyoung said. His voice was a ruin. Hoarse and cracked, like he’d been screaming. Or crying. Or both.

“When?”

“This morning. I think.” Wooyoung’s eyes didn’t move from the jacket. “There was bread. I ate half a slice.”

“And?”

Wooyoung’s throat worked. A swallow that looked like it hurt. “It didn’t stay.”

Seonghwa’s chest tightened. “Okay. That’s okay. We’ll try again. Soup is easier. Your stomach can handle soup.”

“I don’t want soup.”

“I know. But you need to eat something. You’re—” Seonghwa stopped himself. He’d been about to say you’re wasting away, but the words felt too close to the truth, too sharp.

In eight days, Wooyoung’d lost weight he didn’t have to lose. His face was gaunt, shadows sitting in the hollows under his eyes and cheekbones. His wrists looked fragile where they poked out from the sleeves, the bones too prominent.

“How long has it been?” Seonghwa asked. “Since you kept something down?”

Wooyoung’s brow furrowed, like he was trying to do math that was too complicated. “I don’t know. Wednesday, maybe?”

Today was Monday. Five days. Wooyoung hadn’t eaten a full meal in five days.

“Okay,” Seonghwa said. He kept his voice calm, steady. “Okay. We’re going to try the soup. Just a few sips. And if it doesn’t stay, that’s fine. We’ll try again later.”

“It won’t stay,” Wooyoung whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because every time I eat, I think about him. I think about how he’s in that place and he doesn’t have his favourite food and he doesn’t have anyone and I’m here eating soup like—like he’s not—” Wooyoung’s voice broke. He pressed his palms against his eyes, hard. “And then my stomach—it just—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Seonghwa moved closer. Slowly. He sat down next to Wooyoung, their shoulders almost touching. “He’s not dead, Woo.”

“Isn’t he?” Wooyoung dropped his hands. His eyes were dry. Red-rimmed and raw, but dry. “She moved him somewhere and won’t tell us where. She won’t answer our calls. It’s been eight days and I don’t know if he’s okay. I don’t know if he’s eating. I don’t know if he’s still—” He stopped. Took a breath. It rattled in his chest. “I don’t know if he’s still alive,” Wooyoung finished. “And if I don’t know that, then what’s the difference?”

“The difference is that he is alive,” Seonghwa said. “Haneul’s protecting him. She’s keeping him away from us because she thinks we’ll make it worse.”

“We wouldn’t make it worse.”

“Wouldn’t we?” Seonghwa’s voice was gentle, but the question landed hard. “Woo, I love you. But if you walked into his room right now, looking like this—” He gestured at Wooyoung’s frame, at the visible weight loss, at the bruised exhaustion in his eyes. “What do you think that would do to him?” Wooyoung flinched. “He’d think it was his fault,” Seonghwa continued. “He’d look at you and think I did this to him. And whatever progress he’s making—if he’s making any—it would shatter.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Wooyoung’s voice rose, thin and desperate. “Just sit here? Just wait? Just pretend I’m fine when I don’t even know where he is?”

“No. You’re supposed to take care of yourself. So that when he comes back—”

“If he comes back.”

“When,” Seonghwa corrected, firm. “When he comes back, you can actually be there for him. You can’t help him if you’re dead.”

The word hung in the air.

Dead.

Wooyoung laughed. It was a broken, bitter sound. “I’m not going to die.”

“You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re sitting in an apartment full of his things like you’re building a shrine.” Seonghwa’s voice cracked. “Woo, I’m scared for you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I can’t help it.”

Wooyoung turned his head, finally looking at Seonghwa. His eyes were hollow. Empty. Like someone had scooped out everything that used to make him Wooyoung and left only the mechanical function of a body that didn’t know how to stop.

“I cried for three days,” Wooyoung said. “After we found out she moved him. I cried so hard I thought I was going to throw up my organs. And then on day four, I woke up and I tried to cry and... nothing. My eyes were dry. Like I’d used up all the tears I had.” He looked back at the jacket. “I can’t cry anymore, Hyung. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep without seeing him on that bridge. I bought this apartment because I thought—I thought if I had my own space, if I wasn’t in that hotel with everyone’s grief pressing down on me, I could breathe. But I can’t. Because I brought all his stuff here and now it’s worse. Now I’m living with his ghost.”

Seonghwa followed Wooyoung’s gaze around the room. He saw it now. The hoodie. The shoes. The jacket. The duffel bag. This wasn’t an apartment. It was a mausoleum.

“The company hasn’t called,” Wooyoung said. His voice was flat now. Mechanical. “Not once. Eight days and they haven’t asked how we’re doing. Haven’t asked about San. Haven’t sent a single message. It’s like we don’t exist anymore. Like we’re just... inventory they wrote off.”

“They’re probably figuring out—”

“They’re figuring out how to erase us,” Wooyoung interrupted. “How to spin this so it doesn’t hurt their bottom line. Like he didn’t stand on a bridge and almost—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I called the company,” Wooyoung continued. “I called and asked to speak to someone. Anyone. I just wanted to know if they’d heard from Haneul. If they knew anything.”

“What did they say?”

“They transferred me to a voicemail box. I left a message. No one called back. It’s a dead end, Hyung. All of it. Haneul won’t talk to us. The company doesn’t care. The hospitals say he was never there. It’s like he vanished. Like he never existed.”

“He existed,” Seonghwa said fiercely. “He exists. And we’re going to find him.”

“How?” Wooyoung turned to look at him again, and this time there was something sharp in his eyes. Desperate. “How, Hyung? We’ve tried everything. Hongjoong called every private psychiatric facility in Seoul. Yunho tried to file a missing persons report but they said he’s not missing, he’s with family. Yeosang tried to hack Haneul’s email—”

“He what?”

“It didn’t work,” Wooyoung said. “My point is—we’ve tried. We’ve tried everything and we have nothing. No leads. No information. No hope.” The word hope broke something in Wooyoung’s voice. He turned away, pressing his forehead against his knees. “I’m so tired,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking tired. And I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to keep going when I don’t know if he’s okay.”

Seonghwa put his arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders. Wooyoung didn’t pull away. He just sat there, a fragile collection of bones and grief, barely holding himself together. They sat like that for a long time. The light outside the window shifted from grey to darker grey. Finally, Seonghwa spoke.

“I’m going to heat up the soup. You’re going to eat three spoons. If you throw up, you throw up. But you’re going to try.”

“Hyung—”

“Three spoons, Woo. Then I’ll leave you alone.” Wooyoung didn’t argue. He just nodded, a tiny movement.

Seonghwa stood up. He walked to the kitchen and found the container of soup. As he poured it into a pot, he looked around. The kitchen was spotless. Unused. The fridge was empty. On the counter, there was a stack of takeout containers. Unopened. The dates on the receipts ranged from three days ago to yesterday. Seonghwa had brought them. He’d brought food every day for the past week, and every day, Wooyoung had accepted it with a quiet “thank you” and then never eaten it.

The soup started to steam. Seonghwa poured it into a bowl and carried it back to the bedroom. Wooyoung was still on the floor. Still staring at the jacket.

“Here,” Seonghwa said, sitting back down next to him. He held out the bowl and spoon.

Wooyoung took them. His hands shook. He lifted the spoon to his mouth. The soup trembled on its surface. He ate one spoonful. Then another. On the third, he stopped. His face went pale. He set the bowl down carefully and pressed his hand to his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa said. “It’s okay, just breathe—”

Wooyoung lurched to his feet and bolted to the bathroom. Seonghwa heard the sound of retching. Violent and wet. The sound of a body rejecting everything it was offered because the grief was too big to make room for anything else.

When Wooyoung came back, he was even paler. He slid down the wall and sat back on the floor, pulling his knees up, making himself small.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t apologise.”

“I can’t do it. I can’t eat. I can’t function. I can’t—” His voice cracked. He looked at Seonghwa with eyes that were dry and desperate and so, so tired. “I can’t do this without him, Hyung. I don’t know how.”

Seonghwa didn’t have an answer. He just sat down next to Wooyoung again, and they stayed there on the floor, surrounded by San’s things, waiting for a phone call that wouldn’t come.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Dr. Park had stopped expecting a response.

Fourteen days. Twenty-eight sessions. Not a single word. Not a nod. Not even a shake of the head. Just San, sitting in the chair across from her, staring at different points in the room like he was cataloging the architecture of his own prison.

Today, he was looking at the window. Again. The pine trees outside were losing their needles, the branches going bare. Winter was coming early this year.

“San,” Dr. Park said. Her voice had lost the careful patience from the first week. Now it was just tired. Professional, but tired. “I want to talk about discharge planning.”

No response. She hadn’t expected one.

“Your seventy-two hour hold expired eleven days ago,” she continued, clicking her pen. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. “You’re here voluntarily now. Legally, you can leave at any time. But I’m recommending against discharge because you haven’t engaged in treatment. You haven’t spoken. You’ve barely eaten. You’re not participating in therapy or group sessions.”

San’s eyes didn’t leave the window.

Dr. Park set down her pen. She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. Less doctor, more human. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me in,” she said. “I know you’re in pain. I know you’re angry. I know you feel like you’ve been abandoned here. But San—” She leaned forward. “Staying silent isn’t protecting you. It’s just... prolonging the suffering. For you and for everyone who loves you.”

Nothing.

Dr. Park sighed. She picked up her pen again and started writing in his file. The scratch of ink on paper was the only sound.

Day 14. Patient remains non-verbal. No engagement with therapeutic interventions. Recommend continued inpatient care. Discharge risk assessment: VERY HIGH. Patient continues to present as—

“When can I go back?”

Dr. Park’s pen stopped mid-word. The voice was so quiet she almost thought she’d imagined it. Hoarse and unused, like a rusted mechanism that hadn’t been oiled in weeks. But it was real.

San had spoken.

Dr. Park set down the pen very carefully. She kept her voice calm, neutral, even though her heart was suddenly hammering in her chest.

“Back where, San?”

A beat of silence. For a moment, Dr. Park thought that was it—that those five words were all she was going to get.

Then San turned his head. He looked at her directly for the first time in two weeks. His eyes were hollow, dark bruises sitting in the sockets. But they were focused. Clear. Terrifyingly clear.

“The bridge,” San said.

The air in the room went very still. Dr. Park’s training kicked in immediately. She kept her expression neutral, her body language non-threatening. She didn’t reach for the phone. She didn’t move. She just held his gaze and spoke very, very carefully.

“You want to go back to Mapo Bridge?”

“Yes.” The word was simple. Final. Like an answered prayer.

“Can you tell me why?”

San’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something colder.

“Because I didn’t finish,” he said.

Dr. Park’s stomach dropped. “Didn’t finish what, San?”

“Jumping.” He said it like he was talking about a grocery list. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like the only logical conclusion to being in this room, in this facility, in this life, was to go back to the bridge and complete what he’d started.

“San,” Dr. Park said. Her voice was still calm, but there was steel underneath now. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me you want to die.”

“I wanted to die two weeks ago,” San corrected. His voice was flat, mechanical. “Now I need to. There’s a difference.”

Dr. Park’s hand moved slowly toward the panic button under her desk. Not fast enough to startle him. Just... close enough.

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

San looked back at the window. The pine trees swayed in the wind. A crow landed on one of the branches, black against the grey sky.

“Two weeks ago, dying felt like relief,” San said. “Like I was choosing peace. But I fucked it up. I let Haneul pull me back. And now—” His voice cracked, just slightly. The first real emotion she’d heard from him. “Now I’m here. And they’re out there. And every day I’m alive is another day they’re suffering because of me. Another day Wooyoung is waiting for me to come back. Another day the company is deciding whether to destroy them because I’m broken.”

“So you think dying will fix that?”

“I think dying will end it,” San said. “They’ll grieve. But grief has a finish line. This—” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the room, at the world. “This doesn’t. This just goes on and on and I keep dragging them down with me. I’m the anchor. You cut the anchor.”

Dr. Park pressed the button. It was silent. No alarm. No flashing lights. Just a small vibration that would alert the nurses’ station that she needed immediate backup.

“San,” she said. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. What you’re feeling right now—the belief that your death would help the people you love—that’s not reality. That’s your depression lying to you.”

“It’s not lying.” San’s voice was getting quieter now. Distant. Like he was already halfway to the bridge in his mind. “I’ve done the math. Seven is better than eight if the eighth one is broken. They can rebrand. They can move on. Wooyoung can—” His voice broke again. “Wooyoung can find someone who doesn’t make him cry.”

“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Park asked. “Do you really think Wooyoung would be okay if you died?”

San’s jaw tightened.

“He’d be more okay than he is now,” San whispered. “Because right now, he’s waiting. And I’m never going to be the person he’s waiting for. I’m never going to be fixed. So the kind thing—the merciful thing—is to stop making him wait.”

The door opened and two nurses stepped in. They didn’t rush. They didn’t make sudden movements. They just positioned themselves near the exits, calm and professional.

San saw them. He looked at Dr. Park.

“You pushed the button,” he said. Not angry. Just observational.

“Yes,” Dr. Park said. “Because you just told me you’re actively planning to kill yourself. I can’t let you leave, San. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” San said. “You’re doing your job. Keeping the suicidal kid from finishing what he started. I get it. It’s fine. I’ll just—” He looked at the window again. “I’ll wait. Eventually, you’ll have to let me out. And when you do, I’ll go back. I’ll finish it. And everyone will finally be free.”

“San—”

“Can I go back to my room now?” San interrupted. His voice was flat again. Mechanical. “I’m tired. The pills make me tired.”

“Yes,” Dr. Park said quietly. “You can go back to your room. But San—we’re going to be keeping a closer eye on you now. You understand that, right?”

“You were already watching me every fifteen minutes,” San said. “What’s closer than that? Every ten? Every five?” He stood up. His movements were slow, careful. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t watch me forever.”

He walked to the door. The nurses flanked him, not touching, just... present.

At the threshold, San stopped. He turned back to look at Dr. Park.

“Thank you,” he said. “For trying. I know you think you’re helping. But some things are just... broken past fixing. And I’m one of them.”

Then he walked out.

Dr. Park sat in the silence for a long moment, staring at the empty chair where San had been sitting.

Then she opened San’s file and wrote one sentence at the bottom of the page, underlining it three times.

Patient is not improving. Isolation protocol has failed.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ San had been told it wasn’t optional anymore.

“Dr. Park’s orders. You don’t have to talk. You just have to be in the room,” the nurse had said that morning, her voice kind but unyielding.

So here he was. In the room. It was on the first floor, past the common area, past the medication room, down a hallway he’d never walked before. Thirty-seven steps from his room. He’d counted.

The space was designed to feel less clinical than the rest of the facility. A circle of chairs—real chairs, upholstered, not bolted to the floor. A small table in the corner with a coffee maker and a stack of paper cups. Soft lighting. A potted plant in the corner that was probably fake but looked real enough.

And a calendar on the wall.

San sat in the chair closest to the door. He didn’t look at anyone. He kept his eyes on his hands, folded in his lap.

There were five other people in the circle. An older woman with short grey hair, knitting something blue. A man in his thirties with a hospital bracelet still on his wrist, bouncing his leg compulsively. A teenager—seventeen, maybe eighteen—with headphones around their neck and a thousand-yard stare. Two more patients San didn’t register. He didn’t have the energy to catalog them.

“Welcome,” Dr. Park said. Her voice was softer here than it was in her office. “We’re going to start today by going around the circle and sharing one thing we’re grateful for. It doesn’t have to be big. It can be as small as the coffee being hot this morning. Just... something.”

San stared at his hands. It went around the circle. Each person offering up a small piece of themselves, a fragment of gratitude pulled from the wreckage of whatever had brought them here.

Then it was San’s turn.

The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Dr. Park didn’t push. She just moved on to the next person.

The session continued. Dr. Park talked about coping strategies. About recognising triggers. About the difference between a thought and an action. Her voice was a low hum, white noise that San’s brain filtered out almost immediately.

He went back to counting.

Twelve ceiling tiles. Fifteen chairs. Eight people in the room.

Seven is better than eight if the eighth one is broken. His own voice echoed in his head. The words he’d said to Dr. Park yesterday. The truth he’d finally spoken out loud.

San’s eyes drifted. He didn’t mean for them to. They just... moved. Across the circle. Past the fake plant. Past the coffee maker.

To the calendar on the wall. It was one of those simple tear-away ones. Big numbers. Each day on its own page.

November 26

San’s breath stopped.

November 26.

Wooyoung’s birthday.

The world tilted.

San’s hands curled into fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. The pink scars on his forearms burned like they were fresh.

How was it November 26?

Wooyoung’s birthday.

The one day San had never, never missed. Not in nine years. Not since they’d become friends. Every year, San woke up early. He made seaweed soup—Wooyoung’s favourite, the way his mom used to make it. He wrapped presents in terrible, lopsided paper because he’d never learned how to fold the corners right. He planned surprises. Small things. Big things. Things that made Wooyoung laugh until he cried.

Last year, San had rented out a karaoke room for just the two of them. They’d sung until their voices were raw, until Wooyoung had collapsed on the couch, flushed and happy, and said This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, Sannie. You make everything better.

San’s vision blurred.

November 26.

Wooyoung’s birthday.

And San was here. In a beige room in the woods, forty minutes outside the city, surrounded by strangers. Sedated. Watched. Erased.

Wooyoung didn’t know where he was.

Wooyoung didn’t know if he was alive.

The air in the room felt too thin. San’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow and fast. He pressed his fists harder into his thighs, trying to ground himself, trying to stop the room from spinning.

But he couldn’t stop looking at the calendar.

November 26.

The number burned into his retinas like a brand.

“San?”

Dr. Park’s voice cut through the static.

San didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat had closed up, his vocal cords locked.

“San, are you okay?”

The teenager was staring at him now. So was the man with the hospital bracelet. Their eyes felt like weights pressing down on him.

San stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. Every head in the circle turned toward him.

“San—” Dr. Park started.

But San was already moving. He walked to the door. Not running. Just walking. Mechanical. One foot in front of the other.

“San, the session isn’t over—”

He didn’t stop. He pushed through the door and into the hallway. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed. Thirty-seven steps back to his room. He counted every single one.

When he reached his door, it was locked. Of course it was locked. They locked it during programming hours. To keep patients from isolating.

San pressed his forehead against the wood. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.

November 26.

Wooyoung’s birthday.

And San had forgotten.

No—worse than forgotten. He’d been erased. Cut off. Buried in the woods like a body they were waiting to decompose.

San didn’t even get to say happy birthday.

He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, his back against the wood, his knees pulled up to his chest.

The hallway was empty. Quiet. Just the hum of the lights and the distant murmur of voices from the common area.

San wrapped his arms around his head and tried to remember what Wooyoung’s voice sounded like.

But it was fading. Two weeks of silence had scrubbed it away, note by note, until all that was left was static.

San opened his mouth.

No sound came out.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the walls apart. He wanted to run the thirty-seven steps back to that room and tear the calendar off the wall and make the date not be November 26.

But he couldn’t move. He just sat there, in the hallway, staring at nothing.

Footsteps approached. Soft. Measured.

Dr. Park.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just sat down on the floor next to him, her back against the opposite wall. Far enough away that he didn’t feel cornered. Close enough that he knew she was there.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Dr. Park spoke.

“What did you see, San?”

San’s throat worked. A dry swallow.

“November 26,” he whispered. His voice was so quiet, so hoarse, it barely sounded human.

“Is November 26 important?” she asked.

San’s breath hitched. Once. Twice.

Then the dam broke.

“It’s his birthday,” San choked out. The words ripped out of him, raw and jagged. “It’s Wooyoung’s birthday and I’m not there. I’m not—I’m not there.” His voice cracked on the last word. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they came anyway. Hot and fast and humiliating. “I’ve never missed it,” San sobbed. “Not once. Not in nine years. I always—I make him soup. I make him seaweed soup and I sing to him even though I can’t sing and I—I’m supposed to be there.”

Dr. Park didn’t say anything. She just let him cry.

“He doesn’t even know where I am,” San continued, his voice breaking. “He doesn’t know if I’m alive. It’s his birthday and he’s probably alone and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I left him. I left him and now he’s—” He couldn’t finish. He just curled tighter into himself, his whole body shaking with sobs he’d been holding in for two weeks.

Dr. Park waited until the crying slowed. Until San’s breaths were just ragged gasps instead of full-body convulsions.

Then she spoke.

“San,” she said quietly. “Do you want to call him?”

San’s head snapped up. His eyes were red, swollen, wet. He stared at her like she’d just offered him oxygen. “What?”

“Do you want to call Wooyoung?” Dr. Park repeated. “To wish him happy birthday?”

San’s breath caught. “I—” His voice broke. “I’m not allowed. Haneul said—”

“I’m your doctor,” Dr. Park interrupted. Her voice was firm now. “And I’m telling you that isolation isn’t working. You just spoke more in the last two minutes than you have in two weeks. That means something, San. That means Wooyoung matters. And maybe—maybe that’s what you need right now. Not less of him. More.”

“She’ll be angry,” he whispered.

“Let her be angry,” Dr. Park said. “You’re my patient. And I’m making a clinical decision. You need this.”

She stood up and held out her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to my office. You can use my phone.”

San looked at her hand like it was a lifeline thrown into dark water.

Then, slowly, he reached out and took it.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ San sat in the chair in front of Dr. Park’s desk. Dr. Park had dialed the number. She’d held the receiver out to him. And now it was ringing.

San’s hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the phone. He pressed it against his ear with both hands, his knuckles white.

He’s not going to answer. He doesn’t have this number. He doesn’t know it’s me. He’s not going to—

Click.

“Hello?”

Wooyoung’s voice.

San’s breath stopped. It had been two weeks. Fourteen days. And he’d started to forget what Wooyoung sounded like. The exact pitch. The exact texture. The way his voice did that thing where it went up at the end of a question even when he wasn’t asking one.

But now it was here. Real. In his ear.

And it sounded wrong. Hoarse. Thin. Scraped raw.

“Hello?” Wooyoung said again. “Who is this?”

“Wooyoung,” San whispered.

The line went silent. Not the silence of a dropped call. The silence of someone who’d just heard a ghost speak their name. San could hear Wooyoung breathing. Short, shallow gasps. Like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“San?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked on the word. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Sannie, is that—is that you?”

“Yeah,” San breathed. His vision was blurring. “Yeah, it’s me.”

A sound came through the phone. Not quite a sob. Not quite a scream. Something in between. Something animal.

“Where are you?” Wooyoung demanded. His voice was rising now, frantic. “Where the fuck are you? I’ve been—I’ve been calling everyone. I’ve been—San, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” San said. The words came out broken. “Somewhere outside the city. A clinic. Haneul moved me and I didn’t—I didn’t know. I just woke up here and you were gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Wooyoung said. He was crying now. San could hear it. “You’re the one who’s gone. You disappeared. Haneul won’t tell us where you are. She won’t answer. The hospitals say you were never there. San, I thought—I thought you were—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m alive,” San whispered. “I’m alive. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Wooyoung choked out. “Don’t—just tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. Right now. Just tell me where—”

“I can’t,” San interrupted. His voice was shaking. “I don’t—I don’t even know the address. And they won’t let you visit. No visitors. Haneul signed—she signed something.”

“Fuck what Haneul signed,” Wooyoung said. “San, I’ll break down the door. I’ll call the police. I’ll—”

“Woo,” San said softly. “Woo, stop. Please.”

Wooyoung went quiet. But San could still hear him breathing. Ragged and wet.

“I just wanted to call,” San continued. His throat was so tight it hurt to speak. “Because I saw the date. And I realised—it’s your birthday. And I’ve never missed it. Not once. Not since we met. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t let the day go by without you hearing my voice. Even if it’s just for a minute. Even if—”

His voice broke.

“I’m so sorry,” San sobbed. “I’m so sorry I’m not there. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I went to that bridge. I’m sorry I ruined your birthday. I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Wooyoung said. His voice was fierce now. Desperate. “You didn’t—listen to me. You’re alive. That’s all that matters. You’re alive and you’re talking to me and I can—I can hear you. That’s the only birthday present I wanted. Just to know you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” San whispered.

The truth fell between them like a stone into deep water.

Wooyoung was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “I’m not okay either.”

San closed his eyes. The tears were hot on his cheeks.

“Have you been eating?” San asked. Because even now, even broken and buried in the woods, he needed to know.

Wooyoung didn’t answer.

“Woo,” San said. His voice was gentle. “Have you eaten today?”

“I tried,” Wooyoung whispered.

“And?”

“It didn’t stay.”

San’s chest seized.

“How long?” he asked.

“I don’t know. A while.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Don’t,” Wooyoung interrupted. “Don’t tell me I need to eat. Don’t tell me I need to take care of myself. I can’t, San. I can’t eat when you’re—when you’re in a locked room somewhere and I don’t know if you’re okay. I can’t—” His voice broke. San could hear him trying to breathe, trying to hold himself together.

“The doctors here keep asking me if I’m eating,” San said quietly. “And I keep lying. I tell them I’m fine. But I’m not. I can’t eat either. Because every time I try, I think about you. I think about how I left you. How I stood on that bridge and I almost—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard.

“I almost made you live in a world where I wasn’t in it anymore,” San finished. “And that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to you. Worse than the lying. Worse than the disappearing. I almost made you bury me.”

“But you didn’t,” Wooyoung said fiercely. “You didn’t jump. Haneul found you. You’re still here.”

“I don’t know if that’s better,” San whispered.

Silence.

“Neither do I.”

The words hung there. Honest. Terrible.

“I bought an apartment,” Wooyoung said. His voice was flat now. Mechanical. “They evicted us from the dorm. I couldn’t stay in the hotel. So I bought a place. And I brought all your stuff. Your hoodie. Your shoes. Shiber. Everything. I packed it all because I thought—I thought when you came back, you’d need it.”

“Woo—”

“But you’re not coming back, are you?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “Haneul’s not going to let you. She’s going to keep you there until—until what? Until you forget about us? Until you forget about me?”

“I could never forget about you,” San said. The words came out raw. “Wooyoung, even if I tried—even if I wanted to—I couldn’t. You’re in every thought I have. Every breath. You’re the reason I’m still—”

He stopped. Because that wasn’t true, was it?

If Wooyoung was the reason he was still alive, he wouldn’t have gone to the bridge in the first place.

“I don’t know how to do this,” San admitted. His voice was breaking. “I don’t know how to be alive when being alive means you’re suffering. I don’t know how to get better when getting better means watching you destroy yourself waiting for me. I don’t—I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix it,” Wooyoung said. “You just have to come back. That’s all. Just come back to me and we’ll figure out the rest.”

San squeezed his eyes shut.

“What if I can’t?” he whispered.

The question sat there. Heavy. Final.

“Then I don’t know what happens to me.”

The truth of it was unbearable.

San looked at Dr. Park. She was watching him with careful eyes. She made a small gesture with her hand. Wrap it up.

“I have to go,” San said. His voice was shaking. “I’m sorry. They’re only letting me—I’m not supposed to have phone calls. Dr. Park is letting me break the rules but I can’t—”

“No,” Wooyoung said. Panic rising. “No, don’t go. Please. Sannie, don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” San said. The words came out fast, desperate. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For being broken. For making you love someone who—who can’t be fixed. I’m so sorry.”

“San—”

“Happy birthday, Wooyoung.”

“San, wait—”

San handed the phone back to Dr. Park.

She took it gently and placed it back in the cradle. The click of disconnection was very loud in the quiet office.

San sat there, staring at his hands.

Then he stood up.

“Thank you,” he said to Dr. Park. His voice was hollow. Empty. “For letting me call him.”

“San,” Dr. Park started. “I think we should talk about—”

“Can I go back to my room?”

Dr. Park looked at him for a long moment. Reading something in his face that made her eyes tighten with concern.

“Yes,” she said finally. “But San—”

He was already walking to the door. He walked the thirty-two steps back to the stairwell. Then the nineteen steps to his room. The door was unlocked now. Programming hours were over.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He walked to the window and looked out at the pine trees.

He’d called Wooyoung.

He’d broken two weeks of silence to say happy birthday.

And now he knew.

Wooyoung was dying. Maybe not literally. Not yet. But he was wasting away in that apartment, surrounded by San’s things, unable to eat, unable to function, unable to live without San there.

And San was here. In this beige room. Taking pills that made the edges soft but didn’t make anything better. Sitting in therapy sessions where he didn’t speak. Counting ceiling tiles and waiting for the urge to go back to the bridge to become unbearable.

They were killing each other.

Not with violence. Not with cruelty.

With love.

The kind of love that was too big to survive. The kind that consumed everything until there was nothing left but ash.

San rested his forehead against the glass.

He had not told Wooyoung he loved him.

But he wanted to.

But maybe love wasn’t enough.

Maybe some people weren’t supposed to be saved.

Maybe the anchor was supposed to be cut.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ The phone slipped from Wooyoung’s hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. Seonghwa, who’d been standing in the doorway the whole time, rushed forward.

“Woo? Woo, what happened? Was that—”

Wooyoung was staring at the wall. His face was pale. Bloodless.

“He’s alive,” Wooyoung whispered.

“San? That was San?”

Wooyoung nodded. Once. Mechanical. “He called to say happy birthday,” Wooyoung said. His voice was flat. Dead. “He doesn’t know where he is. Haneul has him locked up somewhere. He can’t leave. He can’t—” His voice broke. “He sounded so tired, Hyung,” Wooyoung choked out. “He sounded like—like he’s giving up. Like he’s already gone and his body just doesn’t know it yet.”

Seonghwa knelt down in front of Wooyoung. He put his hands on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “But he called you,” Seonghwa said. “That means he’s still fighting. That means—”

“No,” Wooyoung interrupted. His eyes were dry but his whole body was shaking. “He called to say goodbye.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do,” Wooyoung said. “I heard it in his voice. He was saying goodbye.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because he’d heard it too. In the way Wooyoung’s voice had sounded through the apartment. In the desperate, final quality of the words.

Happy birthday, Wooyoung.

Not I’ll see you soon. Not I’m coming back.

Just: Happy birthday. Like it was the last thing he’d ever say.

Wooyoung stood up. His movements were slow. Unsteady. He walked to the bedroom. Seonghwa followed. Wooyoung picked up San’s duffel bag. He unzipped it and pulled out the purple hoodie. He held it against his chest, burying his face in it. And then, finally, he cried. Not the violent, body-shaking sobs from before. This was worse. This was quiet. Broken. The sound of someone who’d just realised that the person they loved most in the world was never coming home.

Seonghwa wrapped his arms around Wooyoung from behind. He didn’t say anything. Because there was nothing to say. They just stood there, in the bedroom of an apartment that smelled like nothing, surrounded by the belongings of a ghost.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ San lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The medication had worn off hours ago. He’d felt it leave his system like water draining from a tub—the soft edges getting sharp again, the chemical cotton dissolving, the trapped bird in his chest waking up and starting to scream.

He hadn’t taken his evening pills.

Nurse Kim had brought them at 8 PM. She’d stood by his bed with the little paper cup, waiting.

“Open,” she’d said.

San had opened his mouth. He’d let her tip the pills onto his tongue. He’d pretended to swallow.

“Tongue up.”

He’d lifted his tongue. But the pills were already tucked into the pocket of his cheek, bitter and dissolving slowly. He’d held them there until she left, then spat them into his hand and flushed them down the toilet.

The phone call played on a loop in his head. Not the words. The sounds.

Wooyoung’s voice. Scraped raw. Hoarse. Wrong.

The way he’d said “It didn’t stay.”

The way he’d admitted “I don’t know what happens to me.”

San had done that. Not the company. Not Haneul. Not the bridge.

Him.

San had stood on that ledge and he’d let Haneul pull him back and now Wooyoung was dying.

Not quickly. Not mercifully.

Slowly. Starvation. Grief. The kind of death that took weeks and left a body that looked like it had been hollowed out from the inside.

And for what? So San could sit in this beige room and count ceiling tiles and take pills that didn’t work and tell Dr. Park that he wanted to go back to the bridge? So he could drag this out? Make it last longer? Make Wooyoung suffer more?

San sat up.

The room was dark except for the sliver of light coming from under the door. The nurses made rounds every fifteen minutes. He’d been counting. The last check had been three minutes ago.

That meant he had twelve minutes. Twelve minutes to do what he should have done two weeks ago.

San stood up. His legs were steady. His hands weren’t shaking.

He felt calm. Clear. The way he’d felt on the bridge before Haneul had ruined it.

He walked to the bathroom. The polished steel mirror warped his reflection into something monstrous. He looked at himself—the hollowed-out eyes, the grey skin, the ghost that hadn’t realised it was dead yet.

Some things are just broken past fixing.

He’d said that to Dr. Park. He’d meant it.

San looked around the bathroom. Everything was designed to be safe. Rounded edges. Sensor faucets. No exposed pipes. No sharp corners.

But they’d forgotten one thing.

The shower.

It wasn’t a traditional shower. It was one of those hospital-grade setups—a handheld sprayer attached to a flexible hose. The kind that could be detached.

San reached up and unscrewed the showerhead. It came off easily in his hands. He set it on the floor.

Then he looked at the hose. It was rubber. Flexible. About four feet long.

Long enough.

San’s heart was beating fast now. Not with panic. With something else. Relief. Purpose. The knowledge that he was finally, finally going to finish what he’d started.

He wouldn’t be found for at least twelve minutes and it was more than enough.

San wrapped one end of the hose around his hands, testing the strength. It held. It would work.

He walked back into the main room. The bed was bolted to the floor, but the frame had a crossbar underneath—metal, sturdy, low to the ground.

Perfect.

San knelt down beside the bed. He threaded one end of the hose through the crossbar, creating a loop. Then he tied it off. His fingers moved with surprising efficiency. The body just knew how to do this when the brain was desperate enough.

He sat down with his back against the bed frame. He took the other end of the hose—the loop—and held it in his hands.

This was it.

This was the moment where he stopped being the anchor.

This was mercy.

For Wooyoung. For ATEEZ. For Haneul. For everyone who had been waiting for him to get better when better was never going to come.

San lifted the loop.

He thought about Wooyoung’s voice on the phone. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

But he had. He’d ruined everything.

He thought about the last thing he should have said. The words he’d swallowed.

I love you.

He should have said it. But maybe it was better that he hadn’t. Maybe it would hurt less if the last words were just happy birthday. Maybe Wooyoung could pretend it was just a phone call. Not a goodbye.

San put the loop around his neck.

The rubber was cold against his skin. It smelled like plastic and chlorine. He tightened it. Not too much. Just enough to feel the pressure. Just enough to know it would work.

He thought about the bridge. About how close he’d come. About how the water had looked soft and quiet and right.

This was the same. This was just finishing the job.

This was—

The door opened.

San’s hands froze.

Light flooded the room. Bright. Blinding.

“San?” It was Nurse Kim. But her voice was wrong. Higher. Panicked.

San didn’t move. He sat there with the hose around his neck, the loop loose in his hands, staring at nothing.

“Oh my god—” Nurse Kim lunged forward. “CODE BLUE! ROOM 7! CODE BLUE!”

Her hands were on him, pulling the hose away, unwrapping it from his neck. San didn’t fight. He didn’t have the energy.

The hose came loose. It fell to the floor with a soft thud.

More footsteps. Running. Shouting.

“Get Dr. Park—”

“Is he breathing—”

“Check for a pulse—”

Hands on his wrists. On his neck. Someone shining a light in his eyes.

San just sat there.

He was back. Back in the noise. Back in the pain. Back in the cage where they could watch him and medicate him and tell him that dying was a cognitive distortion when it was the only thing that made sense anymore.

Someone was crying. He realized dimly that it was Nurse Kim. She was kneeling beside him, tears streaming down her face, saying something he couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears.

Dr. Park appeared. She looked at the hose on the floor. Then at San.

Her face went very still.

“Get a gurney,” she said. Her voice was calm. Professional. But her hands were shaking. “We’re transferring him to the acute unit. And call Ms. Choi. Now.”

San closed his eyes.

He’d failed.

Again.

He’d stood on the bridge and Haneul had pulled him back.

He’d tied the hose and Nurse Kim had found him.

The universe kept dragging him back from the edge, kept forcing him to stay in a world where his existence was killing the person he loved most.

They lifted him onto a gurney. Strapped him down. Not tight enough to hurt. Just tight enough that he couldn’t move.

San opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as they wheeled him down the hallway.

He counted the fluorescent lights as they passed.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

He got to twenty-seven before they pushed through a set of double doors into a room that was whiter and brighter and more sterile than anything he’d seen before.

This was the acute unit. This was where they sent the ones who couldn’t be trusted. This was where you went when you stopped being a patient and became a liability.

They transferred him to a bed. A real bed this time. With rails. With restraints.

Someone was talking to him. Asking him questions. But the words slid off his brain like water off glass.

A needle slid into his arm.

Warmth flooded his veins. Chemical. Numbing.

The edges got soft again.

And San

closed his

eyes

and

drifted

into

the

cotton-wrapped

nothing.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Haneul’s phone rang. The phone screen lit up the dark room. She jerked awake, her heart hammering. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, still in her work clothes, a glass of wine half-finished on the coffee table.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Choi.” Dr. Park’s voice. Calm. Too calm. “I’m calling about your brother.”

“What happened?” Haneul was already standing, already reaching for her keys. “Is he—”

“He’s alive,” Dr. Park said. “But there’s been an incident. We found him approximately twenty minutes ago attempting to—” She paused. Clinical terminology failing her. “We intervened before he could complete the attempt. He’s stable now. Sedated. But Ms. Choi—we need to talk about next steps.”

Haneul’s legs gave out. She sat down hard on the couch, the phone pressed so tight against her ear it hurt. “He tried to—” She couldn’t say it. “In your facility? How did he—you said he was being watched—”

“Every fifteen minutes,” Dr. Park said. “But fifteen minutes is a long time when someone is determined. Ms. Choi, I need you to understand something. Your brother is not improving in isolation. If anything, the lack of contact with his support system is making him worse. The phone call he made today—”

“What phone call?” Haneul’s voice went sharp. “I didn’t authorise any calls.”

“I did,” Dr. Park said. Her voice was firm now. “He saw a calendar. He realised it was someone named Wooyoung birthday. He had a breakthrough—the first time he’d spoken in two weeks. So I let him make the call. And Ms. Choi, whatever he heard on that call? It’s what pushed him to this.”

Haneul pressed her hand against her mouth. She was going to be sick. “You let him call Wooyoung,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“And now he tried to kill himself.”

“Yes.” The word hung there. “Ms. Choi,” Dr. Park continued. “I’m recommending that you reconsider the visitation restrictions. Your brother is not getting better in isolation. He’s getting worse. And tonight—” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Tonight he almost succeeded.”

Haneul closed her eyes. She’d been so sure. So certain that cutting San off from ATEEZ, from Wooyoung, from the life that was crushing him—that it would give him space to heal. But she’d been wrong. She’d locked him in a box and he’d tried to claw his way out the only way he knew how.

“I’ll—I’ll be there in forty minutes,” Haneul said. Her voice was hollow.

“Ms. Choi—”

“And Dr. Park?” Haneul’s voice broke. “Don’t let him be alone. Please. Just—don’t let him wake up alone.”

“We won’t,” Dr. Park said gently. “I promise.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Haneul stood outside San’s room, her hand on the door handle. She hadn’t slept. She’d driven straight from her apartment to the clinic, arriving to find her brother sedated and strapped to a bed, a livid red mark around his neck where the hose had been.

Six hours had passed.

Haneul took a breath. Then she opened the door.

San was finally awake. He was sitting up in the bed, his back against the pillows. His wrists were in soft restraints—not the leather kind that left marks, but the padded fabric ones that looked almost gentle. His eyes were fixed on the window. The view was just sky. Grey. Featureless.

He didn’t look at her when she came in.

“San,” Haneul’s voice came out smaller than she intended.

San didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the window.

Haneul walked closer. She pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. She didn’t touch him. She just sat there, close enough to see the red mark on his neck, the bruised hollows under his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with mechanical precision.

“Dr. Park told me what happened,” Haneul said.

San’s jaw tightened. Barely.

San’s hands curled into fists in his lap. The soft restraints prevented him from moving more than a few inches.

“I thought I was saving you,” she whispered. “I thought if I moved you here, if I cut you off from them, if I gave you space away from all the pressure—I thought you’d get better. I thought—”

Her voice broke.

“I was wrong,” Haneul said. “I was so fucking wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

San’s breathing changed. Just slightly. A hitch. A catch. But he still didn’t look at her.

“I called Hongjoong,” she said.

San’s head snapped toward her.

For the first time since she’d walked in, he was looking at her. His eyes were wide. Terrified.

“What?” His voice was a rasp.

“I called him,” Haneul said. “I told him where you are. I told him what happened. And I told him—” She took a breath. “I told him he could see you. All of them. If they want to.”

San’s face went white.

“No,” he whispered.

“Sannie—”

“No.” San was shaking his head now, frantic. “No, you can’t—Haneul, you can’t let them see me like this. You can’t—”

“They’re coming,” Haneul interrupted. Her voice was firm. “They’re on their way.”

“No!” San lunged forward, the restraints catching him, holding him back. “Haneul, please. Please don’t do this. I don’t want them to see—I can’t—”

“You need to say goodbye,” Haneul said.

The words dropped into the room like stones.

“What?”

Haneul’s hands were shaking. She clasped them together in her lap to hide it.

“You need to say goodbye,” she repeated. Her voice was steadier now. Clinical. Like she was delivering a diagnosis. “To all of them. In person. Today.”

“I don’t understand,” San whispered.

Haneul looked at him. At the brother she’d raised. The little boy who used to grab her finger when he was scared. The young man who’d called her crying from the dorm because he missed home. The ghost sitting in front of her now, held together by restraints and medication and sheer stubbornness.

“Dr. Park and I talked for hours when you were asleep ,” Haneul said. “About next steps. About treatment options. And we both agree—you can’t stay here. This facility isn’t equipped for the level of care you need.”

“So transfer me,” San said. His voice was desperate. “To a hospital. To another clinic. Just—don’t make me see them. Please.”

“I’m not transferring you to another clinic in Seoul,” Haneul said.

San went very still.

“There’s a facility,” Haneul continued. She pulled a folder out of her bag. Set it on the bed. “In upstate New York. It specializes in treatment-resistant depression and complex trauma. It’s residential. Long-term. Minimum six months, potentially longer.”

San stared at the folder like it was a bomb.

“New York,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“That’s—that’s on the other side of the world.”

“I know.”

“Haneul—”

“You tried to kill yourself again last night.” Haneul’s voice was hard now. Sharp. “You’re not getting better here. You’re getting worse. And every day you stay in Seoul—every day you’re in the same city as them—you’re going to keep trying. Because as long as they’re close, you’ll never let yourself heal. You’ll just keep breaking yourself apart trying to protect them.”

San’s breathing was coming faster now. Shallow. Panicked.

“So you’re sending me away,” he said.

“I’m saving your life,” Haneul corrected.

“By taking me away from everything that makes life worth living?”

“If staying kills you,” she whispered, “then yes.”

San looked at her. At the exhaustion in her face. The grey in her skin. The way her hands shook even though she was trying to hide it.

“You’re not asking,” San said. “You’re telling me.”

“The plane leaves tomorrow night,” Haneul said. “I’m flying with you. I’m staying for the first two weeks to help you settle in. And then—”

“And then what?” San’s voice was rising now. “And then I just—what? Stay there? For six months? A year? Forever?”

“As long as it takes,” Haneul said.

“And what about them?” San demanded. “What about ATEEZ? What about—” His voice broke. “What about Wooyoung?”

“That’s why they’re coming today,” Haneul said quietly. “So you can say goodbye.”

San shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“Haneul, I can’t look at him and tell him I’m leaving. I can’t—I heard his voice yesterday. On the phone. He’s not eating. He’s dying. And if I tell him I’m moving to New York—”

“Then he’ll finally be able to let go,” Haneul interrupted.

The words were brutal. Final.

“Right now,” Haneul continued, “he’s waiting. He’s waiting for you to come back. He’s waiting for you to get better. He’s waiting for a future that isn’t going to happen. And that waiting is killing him. But if you say goodbye—if you tell him you’re leaving, that you’re choosing treatment over him—then he can stop waiting. He can start grieving. And grief, San? Grief has an end. Waiting doesn’t.”

“You want me to break his heart,” San whispered.

“I want you both to survive,” Haneul said. “And right now? This is the only way I know how to do that.”

San closed his eyes. The tears leaked out anyway.

“I don’t want to go,” he choked out.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to leave him.”

“I know.”

“I love him,” San sobbed. “I love him so much it’s killing me. And you’re asking me to—you’re asking me to look him in the eye and tell him I’m choosing to go. That I’m choosing to leave. He’ll never forgive me. He’ll—”

“He’ll live,” Haneul said fiercely. “He’ll be devastated. He’ll be broken. But he’ll live. And so will you. And maybe—maybe in a year, or two years, or five—when you’re better, when you’re actually better—maybe you’ll find your way back to each other. But right now? Right now you’re both dying. And I can’t watch that anymore.”

“You’ve already decided,” he said.

“Yes,” Haneul said. “The paperwork is signed. The facility is expecting you tomorrow. This isn’t a negotiation, Sannie. This is me using every legal right I have as your guardian to keep you alive.”

San laughed. It was a broken, bitter sound.

“So I get to say goodbye,” he said. “And then you’re locking me in a facility on the other side of the world where they can’t find me. Where they can’t visit. Where I can’t leave.”

“For six months,” Haneul said. “After that, it’s voluntary. You can stay or you can go. But for the first six months? Yes. You’re locked in.”

San looked at the restraints on his wrists.

“I’m already locked in,” he whispered.

Haneul didn’t have an answer for that.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, San spoke.

“When are they coming?”

“Nine-thirty,” Haneul said.

“And how long do I get?” San asked. His voice was hollow. “How long do I get to say goodbye to the only person who’s ever made me want to stay alive?”

Haneul’s hands tightened in her lap. “As long as you need,” she said quietly.

“That’s the problem,” San whispered. “There will never be enough time.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Wooyoung’s hands were shaking. They’d been shaking since Hongjoong had walked into Wooyoung’s apartment and said Haneul called. We can see him. But Woo—we need to hurry.

Now they were here. In a facility forty minutes outside Seoul that none of them had known existed. Walking down a hallway on the second floor. Following Haneul to a room at the end.

Haneul stopped outside a door marked Acute Care 7.

She turned to face them. Her eyes were red. Swollen. She looked like she’d aged ten years overnight. “Before you go in,” Haneul said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I need to prepare you.”

“Prepare us for what?” Hongjoong asked.

“He’s—” Haneul’s voice broke. She took a breath. Tried again. “He’s in restraints. Soft ones. Just wrist restraints. Because last night he—”

She couldn’t finish.

Wooyoung’s knees went weak. Seonghwa’s hand shot out, catching his elbow.

“He tried again,” Yunho said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Haneul whispered. “We found him in time. But there’s—there’s a mark. On his neck. And I need you to know that before you go in. So you don’t—” Her voice cracked. “So you don’t react in a way that makes him feel worse than he already does.”

Wooyoung pressed his hand against his mouth. He was going to be sick.

“Can he talk?” Mingi asked quietly.

“Yes,” Haneul said. “He’s awake. He knows you’re coming.” She looked directly at Wooyoung. “But I need you to understand—this is goodbye.”

The word hit like a physical blow.

“What?” Wooyoung breathed.

“He’s leaving tomorrow,” Haneul said. “For a facility in New York. Long-term treatment. Minimum six months. And he needs—” She swallowed hard. “He needs to say goodbye. To all of you. So you can all start to move forward.”

“New York?” Wooyoung’s voice was rising. “You’re sending him to fucking New York?”

“I’m saving his life,” Haneul said. Her voice was steel now. “He tried twice in two weeks. If he stays here—if he stays in the same city as you—he’s going to keep trying until he succeeds. So yes. I’m sending him to New York. And you get today to say goodbye.”

Wooyoung lunged forward. Hongjoong and Seonghwa grabbed him, holding him back.

“You can’t—” Wooyoung was shaking. “You can’t just—Haneul, you can’t take him away. He needs—I need—”

“You need him to live,” Haneul interrupted. Her eyes were wet. “Even if that means he has to leave. Even if that means you have to let him go.”

Wooyoung stopped struggling. He stood there, held between Hongjoong and Seonghwa, his whole body trembling.

“How long do we get?” Jongho asked. His voice was hollow.

“As long as you need,” Haneul said. “But his plane leaves at 8 PM tomorrow. So—” She looked at her watch. “You have today.”

She reached for the door handle. “I’m going to give you privacy. But if you need me—if he needs me—I’ll be right outside.”

Then she opened the door.

And Wooyoung saw him.

San.

Sitting in a hospital bed. Wearing a grey hospital gown. His wrists in soft fabric restraints that were clipped to the bed rails. His hair unwashed. His face grey. His eyes hollow.

And around his neck—a livid red mark. Horizontal. Unmistakable.

Wooyoung made a sound. Not quite a word. Not quite a scream. Something between.

San’s head turned. Their eyes met.

And San’s face crumpled.

“No,” San choked out. “No, Haneul, you said—I told you I didn’t want—”

But Wooyoung was already moving. He crossed the room in three steps. He collapsed beside the bed, his knees hitting the linoleum hard. He reached for San’s face with shaking hands.

“Sannie,” Wooyoung sobbed. “Sannie, oh my god, what did you—”

“Don’t,” San whispered. He tried to turn his head away, but Wooyoung’s hands followed. “Woo, don’t look at me. Please don’t—”

“I’m looking,” Wooyoung said fiercely. His hands cupped San’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “I’m looking at you and I’m not letting go. I’m not—”

His voice broke when his thumb brushed against the mark on San’s neck. The skin was raised. Raw. Red turning to purple at the edges.

“I’m sorry,” San sobbed. Tears were streaming down his face now, wetting Wooyoung’s hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want you to know. I just wanted—I just wanted it to stop hurting and I didn’t know how else—”

“Shh,” Wooyoung whispered. He pressed his forehead against San’s. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

Behind them, Wooyoung could hear the others. Yunho’s broken breathing. Mingi’s choked sob. Jongho saying something in a voice too low to hear. But Wooyoung couldn’t look away from San. Couldn’t let go.

“I can’t do this,” San whispered against Wooyoung’s forehead. “I can’t. She wants me to say goodbye and I can’t. I can’t look at you and tell you I’m leaving. I can’t—”

Wooyoung pulled back. Just far enough to look San in the eyes. His face was a ruin. Tears and snot and devastation.

“I’m leaving,” San choked out. “Tomorrow. For New York. There’s a—a facility. Long-term. Six months minimum. And Haneul says I have to go. She says if I stay here I’m going to keep trying to—” He couldn’t finish. “And I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you. But she’s right. As long as I can see you, as long as I know you’re here waiting, I’m never going to—I’m never going to choose to stay alive. Because staying alive means watching you suffer. And I can’t—”

“So you’re leaving,” Wooyoung said.

His voice was flat. Dead.

San squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“For six months.”

“At least.”

“On the other side of the world.”

“Yes.”

Wooyoung’s hands fell away from San’s face.

He sat back on his heels. Staring. Like he was seeing San for the first time. Or the last time.

“So this is it,” Wooyoung said. “This is goodbye.”

“Woo—”

“No.” Wooyoung stood up. His movements were mechanical. “No, I get it. I understand. You’re choosing to leave. You’re choosing treatment over—over us. Over me. And that’s—that’s fine. That’s your choice. I just—”

His voice broke.

“I just wish you’d chosen me,” Wooyoung whispered. “Even once. I wish I’d been enough to make you want to stay.”

“You are enough,” San said desperately. He strained against the restraints, trying to reach for Wooyoung. “Wooyoung, you’re more than enough. You’re everything. That’s the problem. I can’t watch you destroy yourself waiting for me to get better. Leaving is the only merciful thing left.”

“Merciful,” Wooyoung repeated. He laughed. It was a broken, bitter sound. “You think leaving me is merciful?”

“I think letting you move on is merciful,” San said. “Because right now you’re waiting. You’re not eating. You’re wasting away. And as long as I’m here, as long as there’s hope that I might come back—you’re never going to stop waiting. But if I leave—if I tell you I’m choosing to go—then you can stop. You can grieve. You can let me go.”

“I don’t want to let you go,” Wooyoung sobbed.

“I know.”

“I want you to stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Then take me with you,” Wooyoung begged. He dropped back down beside the bed. “If you have to go to New York, take me with you. I’ll get an apartment nearby. I’ll wait. I won’t visit if they don’t let me, but I’ll be close. I’ll be there when you get out. Please don’t make me stay here without you. Please—”

“No,” San said. His voice was firm. “Wooyoung, no. You have to stay here. You have to live your life. You have to—”

“What life?” Wooyoung demanded. “ATEEZ is gone. The dorm is gone. The company doesn’t care if we exist. My life was you, San. It was us. And if you leave—if you go to New York and I’m here—then I don’t have anything. I don’t have a reason to—”

“Don’t,” San interrupted. His voice was sharp now. Terrified. “Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t you dare.”

Wooyoung closed his mouth.

They stared at each other.

“You have to find a reason,” San whispered. “You have to find something that makes you want to stay alive that isn’t me. Because I can’t—Woo, I can’t be that for you. I can barely keep myself alive. I can’t carry you too. And if you’re telling me that me leaving means you don’t have a reason to live, then I can’t leave. And if I can’t leave, I’m going to die here. Do you understand? If you make me choose between your life and mine—I’ll choose yours. And I’ll die. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Wooyoung choked out.

“Then let me go,” San begged. “Please. Let me go so I can try to get better. So maybe—maybe in a year, or two—when I’m actually better—we can try again. But right now? Right now we’re killing each other. And I can’t do it anymore.”

Wooyoung bent forward until his forehead was resting on the edge of San’s bed. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

San looked up at the others. At Hongjoong, whose face was wet with tears. At Yunho, who looked like he’d been gutted. At Mingi, Yeosang, Jongho, Seonghwa—all of them standing there, watching their family fall apart.

“I’m sorry,” San said. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I’m breaking us. I’m sorry I went to that bridge. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to stay. I’m just—I’m so sorry.”

Hongjoong moved first. He walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. He reached out and took San’s restrained hand in both of his.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Hongjoong said. His voice was thick. “You’re sick. And you’re choosing to get help. That’s not something to apologise for.”

“But I’m leaving you,” San said. “I’m leaving all of you. And the group—”

“The group is seven people who love you,” Hongjoong interrupted. “That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been. And if you need to go to New York to get better, then we’ll be here when you get back. Okay? We’ll wait.”

“I don’t want you to wait,” San whispered.

“Too bad,” Yunho said. He’d moved to the other side of the bed. His hand landed on San’s shoulder. “You don’t get to decide that. We’re waiting whether you like it or not.”

One by one, the others moved closer. Jongho took San’s other hand. Mingi stood at the foot of the bed. Yeosang and Seonghwa flanked Wooyoung, who was still bent over, still crying.

They stayed like that for a long time. Just touching. Just breathing. Just being together one last time.

Finally, Wooyoung lifted his head.

His face was blotchy. Wet. Destroyed.

“Can I—” His voice cracked. “Can they take the restraints off? Just for a minute? I just want to—I need to—”

He couldn’t finish.

San looked at the door. At Haneul’s silhouette visible through the frosted glass.

“Haneul!” San called out.

The door opened immediately. Haneul stepped in, her eyes scanning the room.

“Can you—” San’s voice broke. “Can you take these off? Please? Just for a few minutes. I need to—I need to hold him. Just once. Please.”

Haneul looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded. She walked to the bed and unbuckled the restraints. The fabric fell away from San’s wrists. Red marks underneath. Pressure sores.

Wooyoung saw them and made a wounded sound.

San sat up fully. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Haneul steadied him, her hand on his back.

“Five minutes,” she said quietly. “Then I have to put them back on.”

She stepped back. Gave them space.

San looked at Wooyoung. At the boy he’d loved for years. At the person he was choosing to leave.

“Come here,” San whispered.

Wooyoung moved. Not walking. Stumbling. He crashed into San, his arms wrapping around San’s neck, his face burying in San’s shoulder.

San’s arms came up. He held Wooyoung so tight it hurt. Tight enough that he could feel Wooyoung’s heart beating. Tight enough that he could smell him—soap and unwashed skin and grief.

San opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat was too tight.

He’d never said it. Not once. He’d shown it in a thousand ways—in seaweed soup and midnight comfort and the way he’d memorised every expression Wooyoung made. But he’d never said the words.

And now he was leaving. And if he didn’t say it now, Wooyoung would never know.

“Wooyoung,” San whispered. His voice was shaking. “I need to tell you something. I need you to hear this. Okay?”

Wooyoung pulled back just enough to look at him. San cupped Wooyoung’s face in his hands. His thumbs brushed away tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“I love you,” San said.

The words hung in the air.

Wooyoung went completely still. His eyes went wide.

“I love you,” San repeated. His voice was breaking now. “And I never said it because I was scared and stupid. I was too busy running away from myself. But I’m leaving tomorrow and I can’t—I can’t go without you knowing. I love you, Wooyoung. And I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it. I’m so sorry the first time I’m saying it is also goodbye.”

Wooyoung’s face crumpled. “You can’t—” he choked out. “You can’t tell me you love me and then leave. San, you can’t—that’s not fair. That’s not—”

“I know,” San whispered. “I know it’s not fair. But I needed you to know. I needed you to know that every birthday and every late night and every time I held you when you were sad—that was love. All of it. It was always love.”

“Then stay,” Wooyoung begged. His hands fisted in San’s hospital gown. “If you love me, stay. We’ll figure it out. We’ll—”

“I can’t,” San said. His forehead pressed against Wooyoung’s. “I can’t. If I stay, I’ll die. And if I die, you’ll die too. And I love you too much to let that happen.”

“I love you too,” Wooyoung sobbed. “I love you and I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to let you go. I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I,” San admitted. His voice was breaking. “But we have to try. We have to try to let each other go. Just for now. Just until I’m better.”

“What if you don’t come back?” Wooyoung pulled back just enough to look San in the eyes. “What if you go to New York and you—and you realise you’re better off without me? What if you forget—”

“I could never forget you,” San interrupted. His hands came up to cup Wooyoung’s face. “Wooyoung, you’re in every breath I take. Every thought I have. Every reason I’m still here. I could go to the other side of the universe and I’d still be yours. Okay? I’d still be yours.”

Wooyoung’s face crumpled. “Then why does this feel like you’re dying?”

San didn’t have an answer.

Because it did feel like dying.

Like his heart was being pulled out of his chest. Like every cell in his body was screaming to hold on. To not let go. To choose this. To choose him.

But he couldn’t.

“I have to go,” San whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I have to go.”

“I know,” Wooyoung said. Then he leaned forward. Slowly. Giving San time to pull away.

San didn’t pull away.

Wooyoung’s lips touched San’s. Soft. Gentle. Not a kiss of passion. A kiss of goodbye. San kissed him back. His hands tightening in Wooyoung’s hair. Holding on for just a moment longer.

When they pulled apart, they were both crying.

“Time,” Haneul said gently from the door.

Wooyoung’s hands fell away. He took a step back.

San reached out. One last time. His fingers caught Wooyoung’s wrist.

“Live,” San said. “Promise me you’ll live. That you’ll eat. That you’ll find a reason to stay. Promise me, Wooyoung. Please.”

Wooyoung looked down at San’s hand on his wrist. At the red marks from the restraints. At the thin pink scars on his forearms.

“I promise,” Wooyoung whispered.

It was a lie.

They both knew it was a lie.

But San nodded anyway. He let go.

Haneul moved forward. She gently guided San back down onto the bed. She picked up the restraints.

“Do we have to?” San asked quietly.

“Yes,” Haneul said. “I’m sorry.”

She buckled them back on. One wrist. Then the other. San was trapped again.

Wooyoung stood there, watching. His hands hanging at his sides. His face a mask of devastation.

“I think—” Hongjoong’s voice cracked. “I think we should go. Give San some time to rest before—before tomorrow.”

No one moved.

“Guys,” Seonghwa said gently. “We have to go.”

Slowly, one by one, they moved toward the door. Each of them stopping to touch San one last time. A hand on his shoulder. A kiss on his forehead. A whispered “I love you.”

Wooyoung was the last one left.

He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at San. Memorising him. The shape of his face. The exact colour of his eyes. The way his hair fell across his forehead.

“Goodbye, Sannie,” Wooyoung whispered.

“Goodbye, Woo.”

Wooyoung turned. He walked to the door. He didn’t look back. Because if he looked back, he’d never leave.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

And San was alone.

He lay back against the pillows. He stared at the ceiling. He didn’t cry. He was too empty to cry. Tomorrow he would get on a plane. Tomorrow he would fly across the world. Tomorrow he would start the long, brutal work of trying to piece himself back together.

But today? Today he had said goodbye to the only person who’d ever made him want to stay alive.

And it felt like dying.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Wooyoung didn’t remember walking out of the building.

One moment he was in that hallway, staring at the closed door of Acute Care 7. The next he was outside, squinting in the too-bright November sunlight, his lungs pulling in air that tasted like car exhaust and dead leaves.

The others were somewhere behind him. He could hear their voices—Hongjoong saying something about the van, Seonghwa asking if anyone needed water. But the words were muffled, like they were speaking underwater.

Wooyoung kept walking.

He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. Away from that building. Away from the room where San was strapped to a bed. Away from the goodbye that felt like a grave closing.

The parking lot stretched out in front of him—rows of cars glinting in the sun, a few people walking to and from the entrance. Normal people. People whose lives weren’t ending.

Wooyoung’s vision blurred. Not from tears. He didn’t have any left. Just from exhaustion. From the way his body felt like it was collapsing in on itself, ribs pressing toward spine, bones grinding against each other with nothing in between.

He’d promised San he’d eat.

He’d lied.

Wooyoung stumbled. His foot caught on nothing—just the uneven pavement, just his own legs forgetting how to work. He put his hand out to catch himself against a car.

And collided with someone instead.

“Oh—I’m sorry, I—”

The voice was soft. Female. Concerned.

Wooyoung mumbled an apology, trying to step around her. But her hand caught his elbow. Gently. Not restraining. Just steadying.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung said automatically. His voice came out flat. Dead.

“Okay,” the woman said slowly. She didn’t let go. “But you just—you almost fell. Do you need to sit down? There’s a bench over there.”

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung repeated. He tried to pull his arm away, but the movement was weak. Pathetic.

The woman’s grip didn’t tighten, but she didn’t let go either. And then she went very still.

Wooyoung felt her gaze on him. Not the way most people looked—the quick glance, the polite smile, the immediate dismissal. This was different.

This was recognition.

“When was the last time you ate?” the woman asked. Her voice had changed. Sharper now. Direct.

Wooyoung’s eyes snapped to hers. She was maybe thirty. Dressed casually—jeans, a sweater, a jacket. Her face was kind but her eyes were hard. Knowing.

“I—” Wooyoung started. His mouth was too dry. “This morning.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she said. Not unkind. Just firm. “I know what I’m looking at. When was the last time you kept something down?”

Wooyoung stared at her. His heart was suddenly hammering.

“I don’t—” He tried to pull away again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” the woman said. She let go of his elbow, but she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You’re shaking. Your lips have that bluish tint. The way you’re standing—like you’re trying to take up less space, like you’re folding in on yourself. And your wrist—” She nodded at where his sleeve had ridden up. “I can see your pulse from here. That’s not normal. That’s what happens when your body is eating itself.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught. “I’m fine,” he whispered. But the words had no conviction.

“No, you’re not,” the woman said. Her voice softened. “And I know because I’ve been where you are. Seven years ago. I was twenty-three and I weighed seventy-three pounds and I genuinely believed I was fine. That I was in control. That I could stop anytime I wanted.”

Wooyoung just stared at her.

“I’m guessing someone you love is in there,” the woman continued, nodding toward the clinic building. “And I’m guessing you’ve been so focused on them that you haven’t noticed you’re dying too.”

“I’m not dying,” Wooyoung said. But his voice was shaking now.

“You’re not eating,” the woman corrected. “How long? A month? Two?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer.

The woman’s expression shifted. Something flickered behind her eyes—not pity. Recognition. The kind that comes from shared experience.

“Listen to me,” she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a card. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your story. But I know what an eating disorder looks like. And you—” She pressed the card into Wooyoung’s hand. “You need help. Professional help. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today.”

Wooyoung looked down at the card. It was for a clinic. Eating disorder treatment. Seoul address.

“I don’t have an eating disorder,” Wooyoung said. His voice was automatic. Defensive.

“Okay,” the woman said. She didn’t argue. “Then answer this: When you look at food, what do you see?”

Wooyoung opened his mouth. Closed it. Because when he looked at food, he saw San. He saw the empty chair across from him at the dorm table. He saw the meals he couldn’t eat because eating felt like moving forward, and moving forward felt like leaving San behind.

“That’s what I thought,” the woman said quietly. “Look, I’m not going to force you to do anything. I can’t. But I’m going to tell you what someone told me seven years ago, and it’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

She stepped closer. Her voice was gentle but unyielding.

“Grief doesn’t require a sacrifice,” she said. “Whoever you’re losing—or have already lost—they wouldn’t want this. They wouldn’t want you to disappear with them. And if you keep going the way you’re going?” She looked him directly in the eyes. “You won’t have six months. Maybe not even six weeks.”

Wooyoung’s hand tightened around the card. The edges dug into his palm.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t eat when he’s—when he’s in there and he’s—”

“Then you go back to that room,” the woman interrupted, “and you tell him what’s happening to you. You tell him you’re not eating. You tell him you’re disappearing. And you let him decide if that’s what he wants for you.”

Wooyoung’s face crumpled. “He’s leaving. Tomorrow.”

The woman’s expression softened. “Then you have a choice. You can disappear because he’s gone. Or you can fight to stay alive so that when he comes back you’re still here.”

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Wooyoung’s voice broke.

“Then you live anyway,” the woman said. “Not for him. For you. Because you deserve to be alive even if he’s not here to see it.”

Wooyoung stared at her. This stranger. This woman who had looked at him and seen the truth that everyone else had been too afraid to name.

“I don’t know how,” Wooyoung admitted. His voice was so small. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”

“You start with one meal,” the woman said. “One bite. You don’t have to keep it down. You don’t have to enjoy it. You just have to try. And then tomorrow, you try again. And the day after that. And eventually—maybe months from now, maybe years—you’ll realize you’re still here. And that will be enough.”

She squeezed his shoulder once. Gently.

“Call that number,” she said. “Today. Promise me.”

Wooyoung looked down at the card in his hand. The edges were still digging into his palm. He could feel the indent they were leaving. Physical proof that this moment was real.

“I promise,” Wooyoung whispered.

This time, he meant it.

The woman nodded. She gave him one last look—sad, knowing, hopeful—and then she walked away, disappearing into the parking lot.

Wooyoung stood there, alone, holding a card for a clinic he didn’t want to call and a promise he didn’t know how to keep.

Behind him, he heard Hongjoong calling his name.

Wooyoung looked down at the card one more time. Then he slipped it into his pocket.

He turned around. Hongjoong was standing a few feet away, concern written all over his face. Seonghwa was beside him. Yunho. Mingi. Yeosang. Jongho.

His family. What was left of it.

“Wooyoung?” Hongjoong said carefully. “You okay?”

Wooyoung opened his mouth. He was about to say I’m fine. The automatic response. The lie he’d been telling for weeks.

But then he felt the weight of the card in his pocket. The woman’s words echoing in his head.

Grief doesn’t require a sacrifice.

“No,” Wooyoung said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “No, I’m not okay. And I need help.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened. Seonghwa stepped forward.

“Okay,” Hongjoong said. His voice was careful. Steady. “Okay. We can do that. What do you need?”

Wooyoung pulled the card out of his pocket. He held it out with a shaking hand.

“This,” he said. “I need to call this. Today. And I need—” His voice broke. “I need someone to make sure I do it. Because if you don’t, I won’t. And she said—the woman who gave me this—she said I might not have six months. Maybe not even six weeks.”

“I don’t know anymore. I just—I can’t keep doing this. I can’t—” He looked at all of them. At the faces of the people who’d stayed. Who hadn’t left even when everything fell apart. “San told me to find a reason to stay alive that isn’t him. And I don’t know if I can. But I have to try. Don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Yunho said. His voice was thick with tears. “Yeah, Woo. You do.”

Wooyoung nodded. He felt empty. Hollowed out. But somewhere, buried deep beneath the grief and the exhaustion and the desire to disappear, there was something else.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe the willingness to try.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

#san angst

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