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The display creaks annoyingly as Jisung spins it. Cards circle along with it, and overhead lights reflect white against their bright colors. All of them are a blinding neon, with cheesy lines and childish pictures on them. It's out of place, and he feels almost uneasy looking at them. Maybe he would've gotten one of those as a joke a year ago, but now, it wouldn't be right.
Even one of the simpler ones —Smile! It's your birthday— seems oddly cruel.
He shouldn't have come here; he can still turn around and leave. Maybe if he flees to his car and scrambles back home, he wouldn’t have to think about this and his head would stop spinning. But then he’d arrive at the house empty handed, and it shouldn’t be so hard to buy a fucking card. Hyunjin deserves that much.
He gnaws at his lip the longer he stares at the cheerful colors filling every row; they all blend together against the dull greys of the corner store. For a second he just stands there, paralyzed in making a choice. It hits him all at once— it feels too mundane, standing here agonizing over a birthday card like everything is normal.
He swallows, tapping his foot against the tiled floor. He's trying to steady his breaths against the feeling of his chest collapsing, when his eyes catch on something. Hyunjin likes flowers. Jisung is a terrible friend for not remembering which ones are his favorite, despite how often he must've mentioned them. But anytime Jisung sees flowers out in the wild, no matter what kind, he's reminded of Hyunjin. There's a simple card amongst the obnoxious ones. 'Happy Birthday!' is written in a swirly font, elegant flowers curling around the words like a painting. Jisung takes it off the shelf without thinking twice.
In his car, he folds the card open with a pen cap between his teeth. The pitter patter of rain hits his windshield, and the blank, empty white of the card stares back at him. His eyes flicker to the little sticker on the front, displaying the price in black and white. He should probably peel that off, but it feels futile. Writing anything at all seems like a useless gesture, but it would feel more wrong not to. He writes the first words he can think of, balancing the card on his thigh, and tries to ignore his own scratchy handwriting.
Leaning back against the headrest with a sigh, he eyes the cake box in the passenger seat, and sets the card on top of it. He called the bakery for it in advance, making sure they had a mango cake in store for today. Maybe he should have ordered a personalized birthday card too, but it felt like too much. Or maybe any amount of celebration feels too much, now. But not having one would feel like a betrayal.
Back in September, for Jisung's own birthday, they all got together to have a drink at their favorite hotpot place. It was more of a joint celebration, with Felix and Seungmin's birthdays that same month, but it was still special. Hyunjin deserves something special too. This isn't even close.
The drive to the house feels empty. Jisung fiddles with the volume on the radio, a CD-sized slit below it. He doesn't own any CDs, and his car is too old for him to hook up his phone, but having the radio's latest hits playing in the background is better than letting silence creep up on him. The engine whirs low when he pulls into the parking lot. It stops with the twist of his keys, and the music cuts out along with it. The sun is already setting— his dashboard blinks the time, 18:30. Beside it, it says the date. Jisung doesn't look at it.
The doorbell to Hyunjin's home is always shrill and annoying, but Jisung rings it anyway once he's on their doorstep. The cake box sits in his hands while he waits, the card in his coat's pocket. A winter breeze —now spring— puts a chill in his limbs. With each second he stands there, the urge to crawl back into his car grows stronger. Suddenly, everything he agonized over —the card, the cake— feels like way too little.
But then, the door opens, and a woman appears from behind it. Her hair is put up neatly in a bun, and her eyes turn to crescents when she sees Jisung. She looks a lot like Hyunjin when she smiles. The cake box is heavy in his hands, but Jisung smiles back at her, awkward and unsure. She lets him in, and the hallway is familiar. Lived in, but decorated in that modern way he knows Hyunjin's mom likes— monochromatic with dashes of color. It's clear where Hyunjin gets his knack for design from. She thanks him as he sets down the cake box on an empty table, the sweet mango scent making him nauseous.
There's an empty space in the shoe rack, where Jisung places his worn down sneakers. The ones next to it are clean converses, the same position they were in the last time he was here. And the time before that.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and every combination of words sounds wrong in his head. There’s no handbook that can tell him what to say.
"How have you been doing?" is what comes out, clumsy and wrong and the only thing he can think of.
The polite smile on her face doesn’t change, but her eyes give it away. "As well as I can."
Jisung nods; it's the only response he can manage.
From the hallway, he can peek past the corner into the living room. On one end of the wall, a door is ajar, and Jisung's heart pulses.
"How is he?"
Her expression wavers, before falling back into place. "He's... the same."
It's what Jisung expected to hear, but today it carries a different weight.
She puts a hand on his shoulder then, but Jisung doesn't look at her, doesn't try to force a smile. His body is angled toward the doorway, even if everything inside him is begging him to turn back around.
"Go," she says softly, and Jisung nods despite the tension in his neck.
His footsteps are quiet without his shoes, and he makes it across the living room quicker than he's ready for. Light peeks out through the crack of the door, yellow and warm. A part of Jisung wants to announce his presence— a knock, a greeting. But he doesn't. Instead, he stands frozen before the threshold, until his limbs grow restless. He takes a breath that's supposed to be grounding, but it only makes his heart beat faster. He opens the door anyway.
The sun has set, so the mood lamps are the only thing lighting up the room. It's probably impractical, but he knows Hyunjin would like it. The room feels a lot smaller than it once did— the wall on the far end is still that same muted blue it always was, and the sliding closet beside the door hasn't moved. But the bed isn't tucked away in the corner like it used to be. Instead, its headboard sits against the blue wall, leaving enough space on either side to walk around it. There's an arm chair close to it, with worn leather, and an imprint in its seat.
Jisung steps inside, the card still weighing heavy in his pocket. He dodges the foot of the bed, keeping his steps light and quiet, until he reaches the chair. From here, the bed is all he can see, and now that he's sitting beside it, Jisung can't avoid looking any longer.
The bed is a bundle of pillows and blankets, but Hyunjin's face peeks out from underneath. He's lying on his side, a pillow against his back propping him up, and another one between his arms. Almost like he's hugging it— even if Jisung knows it was just placed there.
He looks peaceful like this— cozy, even.
Jisung's heart clenches.
"Hey, Hyunnie."
The crack in his voice is too loud in the silent room, and Jisung blinks hard to keep himself from falling apart.
“Um,” he starts, but his voice carries too loud like it’s disturbing the quiet of the room. It doesn’t belong. Nothing belongs in this situation, least of all the boy in the bed.
It’s all wrong. The fluffy blankets, the pastel pillows— they look stark against the white plastic of the adjustable bed. In spite of it, Hyunjin’s chest keeps moving. Slowly, up and down. But the rest of him doesn’t follow, not even a twitch. Hyunjin just lies there, and somehow, it looks painfully normal.
Jisung’s voice is supposed to be light and airy, but his throat is too tight. “I bought you a card.”
He doesn't allow himself to think about the silence that follows, about the second voice missing from the conversation. Instead, he stares at a spot on the bed— below the pillows, and above the remote to adjust its height. Far away from Hyunjin's unmoving face.
"It's not much," he continues. "The store had a shitty selection, but this one has a nice font and the colors are pretty.”
His palm is sweaty, and he almost worries it'll melt off the contents of the card, or something. Or maybe he just wants to stop holding it. He doesn’t fold it open, only watching the words on the front, the way the flowers curl around it. He has no idea what kind they are, Hyunjin would probably know.
”It has flowers,” he adds, like it makes up for something. “I think you’d like it.”
His eyes drift upward before he can stop himself. Hyunjin's lashes curl onto his skin elegantly.
Pretty, even while in a coma.
He almost reaches forward, instinctively, like his body can’t recognize what his mind has already had to face. But instead of handing the card to Hyunjin, Jisung sets it down on the side table beside an empty syringe.
"Happy birthday," he whispers.
Only silence answers him.
He can’t look. He doesn’t have to— Hyunjin’s slack features are ingrained into his brain, threatening to replace the memory of his smile.
Jisung’s mind goes back to his own birthday: the constant noise, his friends’ laughter. Even if the absence was still loud, for one day, they could almost forget. Today, the silence makes it impossible to forget. All Jisung can hear is his own breathing— there’s no whirring of machines like back in the hospital, or footsteps of busy nurses in the corridor. There’s nothing. It’s almost worse.
Back then, fear and hope co-existed. Now, they’ve dulled into something Jisung can’t name. He refuses to call it acceptance.
His eyes sting, and the bedside starts to blur. There’s nothing but his own voice to fill the air.
“Busy day, huh?”
He looks at the calendar above Hyunjin’s bed, the month March sits at the top in bold letters. The twentieth is circled in red, with little balloons drawn around it. It’s in plain sight from where Jisung is sitting, pinned to the blue wall right above the headboard. Completely out of Hyunjin’s view.
“I heard the others already came by earlier,” Jisung starts again. “And Channie-hyung said he’d come over later.”
He pictures them crowding his bedside. He wonders what they’d say— if they’re holding themselves together better than Jisung, or if they felt the weight of the absence like him. And he wonders if Hyunjin listened to what they’d said, storing the bits of love somewhere his body will remember.
“You’d be tired of us by now, right? So many people. Tomorrow, you’ll be free, I promise.”
There’s something familiar about the words. He’s sure he must’ve told Hyunjin this before. And for a second, Jisung expects Hyunjin to smile, to tease him back. Instead, the blanket continues to rise with Hyunjin’s chest. Calm, steady. No inclination that he heard him.
The moment is broken when the crack in the door opens further. The sound of tiny nails scratching the floor is hard to miss in the still room. The chihuahua struts along, unbothered by Jisung’s presence as he jumps onto the bed in one go. The little dog curls up on top of the covers, against the curve of Hyunjin’s legs.
Jisung laughs. “Kkami’s glued to your side, now.”
He remembers when Hyunjin had to lure Kkami with treats to convince the dog to cuddle. Now, he almost looks protective curled up against him. Jisung wonders if he can sense the fragility of Hyunjin’s body.
Jisung smiles despite the sting of his eyes. “He’s just keeping you warm.”
His voice is quiet, on the edge of something vulnerable. And his hand moves forward on its own, reaching for the blanket that leaves a few inches of skin exposed to the cold.
A knock startles him then, freezing the motion mid-air. Jisung almost forgot anyone else was in the house. Anyone except the still boy on the bed.
“Hey,” a voice says. Hyunjin’s mom stands beneath the doorframe, her eyes softening when they fall on Jisung. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “But it’s dinner time.”
Jisung almost stands up on instinct, expecting them to move to the kitchen or the living room. But then he sees what she’s carrying, and he understands.
Hyunjin’s mom walks like she’s afraid to wake Hyunjin, movements quiet and gentle. She pulls a folded chair from behind where Jisung’s sitting, and sets it down beside him. The chair creaks when she sits, but she doesn’t look up from her supplies. Instantly, the side table is filled— birthday card put to the side to make way for syringes and cups.
Jisung watches for a second, waiting for his brain to adjust to the presence of another person. Then, he clears his throat, “Have you eaten yet?“
She shakes her head. “I’m waiting for my husband. He should be home soon. You can join us if you want.”
For a second, Jisung’s eyes flicker to the figure on the bed. He doesn’t let them linger.
“Yeah, that sounds nice.”
She smiles in that maternal way mothers do. Even if Jisung isn’t one of her kids— she only has one. The room stays quiet as she gets the equipment ready. Jisung wants to say something —anything— but the words catch in his throat as he watches the process unfold. He’s seen it before, many times. But he never gets used to it.
She starts with water, the color muddied from the pills mixed into it. It fills the syringe quickly— one of those big ones, with a wide tip and no needle. The pill packets still lie opened beside the cup of water; Jisung once asked what they were for. The small, brown-ish one is an anti-seizure medication, his mom explained gently. He couldn’t hide his expression at that. Hyunjin, whose new normal has become stillness, wracked with convulsions, like his body trying to prove it’s still capable. The other one, she told him, oval and white, is to prevent the infections he’s become prone to. Ever since the one infection he never recovered from.
Jisung almost has to brace himself when she lifts Hyunjin’s shirt. It’s not gruesome— not at all. It’s the opposite. The small little triangle that sits on Hyunjin’s skin is so inconspicuous Jisung can almost pretend it’s not the only thing keeping him fed and hydrated. It’s not attached to anything, only a short tube that the mom twists the syringe onto.
It looks awfully simple for something so horrifying.
Hyunjin’s mom pushes the syringe’s plunger slowly, and the water moves down the tube toward his stomach. Hyunjin doesn’t react, outside of a faint crease in his brows. And Jisung just sits there, like watching his friend be fed through a tube is normal.
Eventually, the tube clears, and she starts filling the syringe with a beige liquid. It still doesn’t sit right with Jisung. He can’t wrap his head around the fact that this is what ‘dinner‘ means now. All the memories of eating out at restaurants, or having takeout at the dorms— all of it is now reduced to this. A liquid pumped into Hyunjin’s stomach.
Jisung looks away from the routine and instead watches Hyunjin’s face. When the syringe slowly empties and the liquid starts filling the tube, the crease in Hyunjin’s eyebrows deepens. His eyes roll behind his eyelids, and Jisung can hear him take a deep breath through his nose.
Soon, brown eyes blink open— it catches him off guard, even if he should’ve expected it.
“Sorry, baby. Did I wake you?”
She says it like she woke her toddler, not like her unresponsive son is opening his eyes without a flicker of recognition.
With his eyes closed, Jisung could pretend he was just sleeping. He was— technically, he's awake now. Except his version of 'awake', is practically no different from sleeping. Not for the first time, Jisung wonders if Hyunjin dreams, if behind the slowly blinking eyes, that vivid imagination is still intact. Does he dream when he's sleeping? Does he dream when he's awake? It's a somewhat calming thought, that Hyunjin is still experiencing things, even if no one else is privy to it.
Her fingers brush through Hyunjin's hair, pulling it back slightly to reveal more of his forehead. It's such a loving gesture it makes Jisung's heart ache.
“Oh Jinnie, look at you. Twenty-two, can you believe it?”
Hyunjin continues to blink dully. His mom doesn’t seem to mind.
“You grew up so beautifully,” she murmurs.
And despite her composure, Jisung can hear the heartbreak bleeding through her words.
Saying them to a boy whose life kept moving without him. Who eats and sleeps without awareness. Whose hair grows and gets cut without his say. His age keeps ticking on, while everything that makes him him, is put on pause.
Hyunjin should still be here. And cruelly, he is.
It hits him again, not for the first time. How quickly it all happened, their entire world changing shape from something that should have been simple. With no one to blame, except the universe, and their naive trust in it. Believing that these things don’t happen, and that health and youth protects them from harm.
The memory is still vivid in his head, clawing back up uninvited.
It wasn’t obvious. At first, the fever was mild— easy to brush off, easy to downplay. Jisung didn’t take it seriously, expecting him to bounce back a few days later. He’d talked to him on the phone, hearing his nasally voice firsthand. It was normal, Jisung didn’t think twice when Hyunjin mentioned the headache. Take some painkillers, he’d said. When he complained, Jisung had called him dramatic. Like all the other times Hyunjin was snot-nosed and miserable. It looked like the flu, nothing worse.
Two days later, Jisung got a call, and his entire world narrowed.
When he reached the hospital, Hyunjin’s parents were frantic. Jisung could barely follow the story— a dangerous fever, Hyunjin not waking like he should. A seizure. The doctors said his immune system attacked his brain. Something rare, with no clear cause other than pure misfortune.
Unlucky. Unfair.
What followed were the worst weeks of Jisung’s life. Waiting for any reflex, any sign that their worst fears hadn’t become reality. They still had hope, then. When Hyunjin first opened his eyes again, it felt like a miracle. But it was meaningless— he didn’t look at them, he didn’t hear them.
On Hyunjin’s last birthday, his twenty-first, he’d been in the hospital for two months. No sign of waking up, but no evidence that he wouldn’t, either. The nurses drew balloons beside his name on the whiteboard, just like the ones on the calendar, now. The day had been one tiny flicker of joy amidst all the anguish. Not a marker of time passed without him, but a sign of perseverance. He’d made it to his birthday. And now he’s made it again. Somehow, it feels less joyful the second time around.
A year later, and Hyunjin is thinner, paler, but his eyes still look the same. Not the way they always did, but the way they do now.
And a part of Jisung is tired of pretending like seeing his best friend waste away isn’t slowly killing him, too. Being here on his birthday like it’s a celebration instead of a marker of his decline, and trying to keep his eyes dry while his mother pretends all of this is normal.
“All done, sweetheart.”
The voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
She pulls the syringe off, twisting the cap on the tube and tucking it back underneath her son’s shirt. It all disappears beneath the blanket again, all the medical equipment hidden. Leaving Hyunjin’s still frame as the only indicator something is wrong.
Somehow, it makes it worse.
“You can sleep now,” she whispers, fingers lacing through Hyunjin’s hair.
Hyunjin doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t acknowledge her words. She turns to Jisung instead.
“He had a rough night,” she tells him with a low voice, almost like a confession. “Barely slept a wink. Poor thing.”
The words make Jisung pause, he doesn't really know how to interpret them. Hyunjin isn't aware of how much sleep he got. What does a meaningful 'sleep' even mean for him? Is his brain not essentially asleep, right now too?
He can't stop himself from asking— "How do you know?"
"He was whimpering like he was in pain, all throughout the night. I only saw him close his eyes in the morning. I have no idea what was hurting him so much."
The words sink to the bottom of his stomach, something ice-cold settling there. She's never told him anything like this before; he didn't know that Hyunjin's body still carried pain. He hopes he's not aware of it— logically, he can't be. But it must be difficult, hearing him vocalize his discomfort, when hearing his voice is so rare in the first place.
Jisung has only heard it a handful of times, since everything started. Of course, he never spoke, despite how much Jisung had clung to hope that he would, if they waited long enough. But there were noises, involuntary ones. Hyunjin was always sensitive to small things— light, noise. It's an aching thought to realize that part of him is still here, too. Even if it's just his body's instincts.
"I wish I had a way of knowing. I wish he could tell me what’s hurting him. I don't know how to help him."
Jisung blinks, voice turning to a whisper. “I didn’t know he could still feel pain.”
Hyunjin’s mom nods, "The doctors say it's just neurons firing. That it's not... him. But he feels more than you think. I know he does."
Jisung's chest tightens— is that a good thing?
"If he can still feel pain, then..." Jisung trails off.
Is he suffering? Are they preserving him, just to play dress up, while he's unable to communicate his pain?
It makes Jisung's stomach twist and nausea climb up his throat. He’d always thought that the unresponsiveness meant he was numb. All those times he’d prayed there was still some awareness in Hyunjin— he’d never considered what that would mean. That awareness means pain. Is this proof he’s still here? Or is it only a reflex? Like the many others Jisung has witnessed.
She breaks the silence, unaware of the way she’s just overthrown his reality.
"Last month, they reminded me there's 'options'. A permanent care home for him, or..."
She lets the silence hang.
"But... he's not on life support— we don't even use a feeding pump. I do this by hand everyday, three times a day." He listens carefully, a part of him already anticipating what it means. “There's no 'plug',” she says, and Jisung almost flinches at the word. "I would have to stop feeding him, and it would take weeks. I can't watch my son suffer like that; I can't do that to him."
It puts a visceral image in his head, one he can’t match to the warmth of the room or the figure below the covers. He thinks of the whimpering she mentioned, and his stomach goes cold. Even if it’s true that Hyunjin isn’t aware, his body would feel it. How much of that body is still Hyunjin? The thought of putting him through that, even this version of him, is unbearable.
Her voice reduces to a whisper, eyes cast down at her son who doesn’t look back.
"Even if I'm ninety years old, I’ll still take care of him."
The words are spoken with a finality that’s almost heartbreaking in its resolve.
Jisung has been clinging to the thought that this is temporary. He’s imagined, countless times, the day Hyunjin wakes up. Properly. The day those eyes blink back at him with recognition, and his voice sounds scratchy from disuse, but he tries to talk and mumbles Jisung’s name. And in his nightmares, he gets a phone call or holds Hyunjin’s hand as his chest stops rising. He always wakes up crying, but somehow, the image of Hyunjin still like this decades later, is worse than anything his brain can conjure up.
He doesn’t understand how she can accept it so easily.
His eyes drift back to Hyunjin’s face, hair falling in front of his slow blinking eyes. And Jisung hopes that he can't hear any of this, can't hear the cruel reality of what this condition has put the people he loves through. He imagines, if Hyunjin had a choice, he wouldn't want his mom to throw away her life for him.
He wonders if Hyunjin was able to tell her, if she would listen.
“You’re still my boy, Hyunjin,” she whispers. “Always.”
The moment seems too private, and everything about Jisung sitting here feels wrong. Listening to her devotion, her unwavering care, it presses on Jisung’s chest in a way that makes him feel discardable. For a second, he pictures being here, by the same bedside, in five years. In ten. Twenty.
The image is dull and bleak and it makes every part of his skin crawl.
Jisung isn’t sure if he’ll still be here, then. Hyunjin’s mom has a role in his life, but Jisung is just decoration. Hyunjin doesn’t know if he’s there, wouldn’t miss him if he was gone. If this is who Hyunjin has become, Jisung isn’t sure how long he can sit here mourning who he used to be.
The thought makes him physically ill.
“I’ll give you a moment.” Maybe she senses Jisung’s inner turmoil, because he can feel her eyes study him. “Join us for dinner whenever you’re ready.”
The chair squeaks when she stands— Hyunjin doesn’t react; neither does Jisung. For a second, she stills, and her hand finds Jisung’s shoulder.
“You’re a good friend.”
That breaks him.
He waits until she’s out of the room before falling apart. The tears start to fall before he can even process them.
He doesn't deserve that title. A real friend would sit by his bedside everyday. Would talk for the both of them and fill the silence with something meaningful. A real friend wouldn't be afraid of stillness; they'd love Hyunjin in spite of it. They wouldn't wait for things to get better; they'd be grateful Hyunjin is here at all. Hyunjin's mom seems to love him as he is, without conditions. But Jisung, he can't be grateful for this.
This is destroying him. And he can't help but think it's destroying Hyunjin too.
His breath hitches as he sobs. It’s like his chest caves in on itself, and the world feels too big and too small all at once. His arms curl around his ribs as he hunches forward, trying to breathe, trying to anchor himself. He shouldn’t cry, not with Hyunjin right beside him.
But everything he’s been trying to hold inside has reached a tipping point.
Good people don't think like this. They don't think that things might be better if their best friend was dead. And Jisung can't tell if it's because he doesn't want Hyunjin to suffer, or if it's selfishness cloaked as kindness. That he just can't bear this any longer, and this seems like the only way out.
Jisung is a bad person, and a horrible friend.
He’s never been a good friend to him. He’s not the kind of person to easily express himself in sincere words. He makes up for it with presence and laughter and an occasional moment where he lays his thoughts bare. But not enough. Never enough. When did he ever tell Hyunjin? In all their years of knowing each other, when did he truly ever say how much he meant to him? Now all he can do is say it to the pieces that are left of him. But even then, all that comes out is the selfish alternative:
"I miss you.”
He says it while clutching Hyunjin's hand, barely aware enough to mind the fragility of its structure.
The words are the truth in its simplest form. There's no beauty to them; he can't think of anything poetic to say. He can’t describe all of his feelings neatly in one sentence, something to make Hyunjin understand what he could never express. There's no space for it, here. There's only the hollow absence that grows more prominent each day.
"I miss you so much," he sobs.
The words don't do it justice. Nothing ever could.
He still sees Hyunjin's smile in his dreams, hears his laugh. He remembers fights, he remembers making up and only growing closer because of it. No one understands him like Hyunjin does. There's no one else he can truly be himself around— without shame, without fear. Hyunjin has seen all parts of him, even the ugly ones. And Jisung thinks he's seen all of Hyunjin too. But he aches for each part that might still be hidden behind empty eyes, locked away where Jisung will never reach.
They weren't done. There was so much they still wanted to do, and so much Hyunjin still needs to experience. Soon, Jisung will reach milestones that they were supposed to celebrate together— milestones Hyunjin should reach, too. It’s unfair. Why should Hyunjin be the one whose future was stolen? And why should Jisung be left behind to pick up the pieces?
Distantly, Jisung wonders how long it will last. He knows Hyunjin will always stay with him, but at what point will his memory be replaced by the haunting image of that vacant stare? Even now, the group picture on his phone, with Hyunjin's smiling face next to seven others, is the only thing that tethers him to the memory of who Hyunjin once was.
He's not sure which would be more painful— letting this version of him go, and keeping the memory of the once bright, lively Hyunjin alive. Or letting it die, consumed instead by a shell, bed-ridden and empty. But here, and tangibly within his reach. Even if he's nothing like the person Jisung once knew.
He doesn't want to lose him, but the memory is already fading.
"Please come back,” Jisung whispers.
He thinks of the closed card on the side table, contents hidden from the one they were meant to reach. Even now, Jisung is too cowardly to say it. He wrote the card with sincerity in mind, but the words feel too fragile to be spoken out loud.
He can picture them clearly.
We're waiting for you.