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The alarm on Minho’s phone buzzed bright and early at 5:47 a.m., but he didn’t need it at all.
He’d been awake for twenty minutes already, staring lazily at the ceiling of their tiny one-bedroom apartment, the one they’d painted sage green together last summer because Jisung simply felt like it.
Minho’s arm was still stretched across the empty side of the bed, fingers curled around the cold space where Jisung usually was. Hastily cast aside on the pillow was Jisung’s favorite red, oversized hoodie. It smelled faintly of the vanilla body wash that he always used, and the Dior Sauvage cologne that he swore was his signature scent.
Minho yawned, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress as his eyes fell upon the calendar hung on the wall.
October 25th. His birthday.
He smiled. Maybe he might’ve forgotten about today, but of course Jisung wouldn’t have.
He was turning twenty-six. That meant six full years of knowing a certain bubbly, ridiculous, music-obsessed individual. Six full years of knowing and loving Han Jisung.
Jisung himself was twenty-four, a music major at the prestigious K-Arts University. He had hopes and dreams of becoming a well-known music producer and Minho knew that those dreams weren’t just possible. They were inevitable.
Jisung was brilliant. He was talented. And above all, he was relentless. He carried a ferocious, almost stubborn kind of ambition, the type that wouldn’t let him rest until every distant vision was a hard-won reality. Whether that meant convincing Minho to paint the walls spontaneously on a Wednesday night, reorganizing the silverware drawer because he absolutely refused to have the big spoons with the small ones, or spending twelve straight hours perfecting a single verse.
Minho usually just watched him with a look that sat somewhere between exasperation and awe, because when Jisung focused enough, he was utterly immovable.
Lately, however, that same single-minded intensity had been redirected toward a new objective. Jisung had been planning something just for today. Minho could tell by the way that Jisung had kissed him last night, the way he’d grinned mischievously and said, “Min, tomorrow you’re not allowed to lift a finger, okay? You just stay in bed and I’ll handle everything else.”
Minho chuckled lightly to himself, remembering the moment, before rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He padded barefoot into the kitchen, where the usually cluttered countertop was suspiciously clean.
No half-empty ramen bowls. No scattered sheet music. No random pencils.
A single sticky note was stuck to the coffee maker, scribbled on with Jisung’s messy handwriting.
Minho picked it up and scoffed. There were hearts doodled all around the edges.
‘Early errand for the best boyfriend in the universe. Back by 9.
Don’t you dare do anything until I come home or I’ll be mad.
Love you,
Ji.’
Minho laughed. “Love you more, Sungie.” He pressed the note to his chest for a second, then tucked it into the pocket of his sweatpants. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his notifications. A text had come in from Jisung at 5:12 a.m.
Jisungie🐿️: On the road!! Traffic’s dead so I’ll be back before you even miss me. Save room for caaaaakee~
Jisungie🐿️: It’s a special one, with strawberry icing and everything!! Not too sweet, just the way you like it ❤️
Minho typed back quickly, his thumbs flying across his screen.
Cat-Butler Min🐱: I already miss you Ji. Drive safe, love you.
He hit send, and opened his camera roll to find the video from two weeks ago. Jisung in their living room at 2 a.m., his oversized black headphones clamped over his ears, his pencil stabbing the air like a conductor’s baton while he mumbled half-formed verses. His perfectly heart-shaped grin flashed every time the lyrics fit.
Minho had filmed this secretly from the hallway, his heart so full it physically hurt. That was his Jisung. The one who couldn’t ever cook rice without setting off the smoke detector, but who could make an entire symphony out of nothing but late-night inspiration and maybe far too many Pink Slush Alani energy drinks.
By 8:30 a.m. Minho was restless. He’d cleaned their apartment from top to bottom, folded Jisung’s clean laundry just to have something to do, and arranged the birthday cards mailed from his friends. Christopher, his old high school buddy, had sent a heartfelt, two-page letter with a doodle of a worm-dino in the corner. Alongside it sat a bouquet and a glittery card from Felix, the coworker whom he’d grown close to at the cat cafe.
Minho read each handwritten message five times before picking up his phone. No new texts from Jisung.
The drive was two hours each way to that little bakery in the next province, the one that made the exact strawberry cream cake that Minho had only mentioned once months ago.
Jisung had remembered it, tucked it somewhere away into his memory, and saved it for this day specifically.
Of course he had.
Minho migrated to the couch and sat down on the sectional. He tried to relax but he couldn’t stop staring at the clock.
At 9:22 a.m., the phone rang.
It wasn’t Jisung.
Regardless, Minho answered on the second ring, already half-smiling because some stupid part of him expected Jisung to have borrowed a stranger’s phone just to sing him some weird off-key birthday song.
“Hello?”
“Lee Minho-ssi?” The woman’s voice was too calm. Too professional. “This is Nurse Park from Seoul National University Hospital. Are you the emergency contact for Han Jisung-ssi?”
His smile died instantly. The coffee mug slipped from his fingers and shattered into pieces in the sink. Scalding liquid splashed across his wrist. He didn't even feel the burn.
“Yes—yes, that’s me. What happened? Is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay.”
A long, terrible, heart-dropping pause. “There’s been an accident. Mr. Han was involved in a multi-vehicle collision on the highway. He’s being transported now in critical condition. We need you to come immediately.”
Critical condition.
The floor tilted. Minho’s knees buckled hard, slamming against the tile beneath him. The phone stayed glued to his ear but his vision tunneled.
“He was…he was just getting my cake,” Minho rasped, his voice cracking on a sob. “For my birthday. He’s careful, he’s always careful, he always checks twice before changing lanes! Please, it can’t be—”
“Sir, I’m so sorry. But we need you to drive safely and to come as quickly as you can. We’re preparing for emergency surgery.”
The line went dead.
Minho stared at the cracked phone screen, the little heart emoji from Jisung’s last text still glowing mockingly. His breath came in short, ugly gasps.
Can you,
Can you find me?
The lyrics slammed into him out of nowhere. Jisung’s soft voice humming it in the passenger seat last month as they drove out to get ice cream. Now it sounded like it was fading.
Like a plea from somewhere far away, from crumpled metal and shattered glass and flashing red and blue lights.
Can you find me?
Minho staggered upright, grabbing his keys and Jisung’s hoodie. His hands shook so violently that the keys clattered to the floor twice before he could grip them. He bolted for the door.
I dug my heels into the gravel,
As evidence for you to unravel…
The car roared to life. Minho tore out of the apartment complex, his tires screeching. The GPS was already barking out directions, but all he could hear was those lyrics growing louder, more frantic inside his skull as if Jisung himself were begging for help.
A drag path, etched in the surface
Can you find me?
A memory crashed over him like a tidal wave.
Jisung at the kitchen table two nights ago, his pink glitter pen waving around in the air, one hand raking through his already-tousled curls. He was wearing that red comfort hoodie again. It swallowed his small frame and made him look like a literal burrito with legs. Minho had leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, watching with that fond smile he only ever wore for Jisung.
“Baby, it’s 3 a.m. Come to bed.”
Jisung had pulled one earcup back, flashing that stupid but endearing smile of his. “Minho, just one more verse! Please?” When Minho had given him a look, Jisung had laughed. “Okay, okay, maybe two more. I lied.”
Minho had groaned but ended up making his way over to the table anyway, stealing the glitter pen and drawing a tiny cat next to Jisung’s scrawled lyrics. “Fine. You’d better be finished before 3:30, though, or else I’m personally dragging you to bed myself.”
The memory shattered as Minho took another turn, the cars blurring beside him. His knuckles were bone-white on the steering wheel.
Can you find me?
Another flash, brighter and louder. Their living room last weekend. Jisung had blasted TWICE’s ‘FANCY’ at full volume, the bass rattling their speakers. He’d been in full dance mode, his body moving with that slightly uncoordinated but enthusiastic energy.
“Hey, Mr. Min! Come on, dance with me!” Jisung had grabbed Minho’s hands, spinning him around the tiny space until they were both breathless and laughing. “You’re a dancer, show me how this is supposed to look!”
Minho had let himself be pulled along, giggling despite himself. “You look like one of those inflatable tube men outside a car dealership, Sung.”
“Hey, at least I’ve got range!” Jisung didn’t miss a beat. He spun Minho around again with that relentless, cheeky grin. “Most people pay to see this kind of talent. You get it for free because I like your face.”
Can you find me?
Minho’s vision swam with tears. He swiped at them angrily, but they kept on coming, hot and relentless.
“Hold on, Ji,” he choked out loud. “I’m coming. I’m gonna find you. Just keep breathing. Just keep fighting, like you always do.”
He remembered Jisung at the kitchen table last week, his forehead creased in concentration while his pencil scratched furiously across the paper. He had brought him his favorite spicy ramyeon and hugged him from behind.
“You’re gonna be huge one day, you know that?” Minho had murmured into his hair. “The best producer. Everyone’s gonna fight to work with Han Jisung.”
Jisung had looked up, his cheeks flushed. “Only if you’re there with me, Min. I’ll make the beats, you choreograph the dances. How’s that sound? We’ll take over the whole world together. Deal?”
“Deal,” Minho had whispered back. “You and me, Han Jisung and Lee Minho, against the universe.”
Can you find me?
The highway stretched endlessly ahead, but Minho’s mind cruelly kept dragging him back. Back to Jisung’s laugh ringing through the apartment, back to the way he’d tackle-hug Minho after every studio session, back to the quiet nights when Jisung would crawl into his lap, exhausted and stressed, and whisper, “Tell me enough, Min.”
He never even had to ask.
Minho's answer was always an immediate, unshakeable ‘yes.’
Tears streamed down his face unchecked now. The hospital signs finally loomed ahead, offering a tiny sliver of hope that felt just as sharp and painful as the terror.
“I found you,” Minho whispered. “I’m right here. Just hold on a little longer, Ji.”
He burst through the ER doors, his hair wild and eyes red. A nurse met him at the desk.
“Lee Minho-ssi?”
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
“He’s in surgery now. Multiple fractures—both his legs, his left arm, several ribs. Concussion and the paramedics said he hit the steering wheel hard. He’s sustained a laryngeal fracture. But we’re doing everything we can, I can promise you.”
Minho’s knees buckled. “Laryngeal?”
“Voice box. Vocal cords.” The nurse elaborated. “We won’t know the full extent of the damage until the swelling goes down, but stabilizing him is our priority right now.”
“But he sings,” Minho stammered. “He’s a singer. He writes music. He can’t—he can’t lose his voice. Please.”
The nurse’s face softened, but she didn’t lie. “We’ll know more after his surgeries, Minho-ssi. For now, all you can do is wait.”
Waiting was hell.
Minho sat in the sterile family lounge for four hours, his knee bouncing anxiously as he stared at the linoleum until it blurred.
Christopher showed up first, his face pale. He hugged Minho wordlessly. Thirty minutes later, Felix arrived, bringing coffee that went cold in Minho’s hands.
The two of them hovered like they didn’t know what to say. No one truly did.
When the surgeon finally came out, still wearing his scrubs, Minho stood up so fast that the chair scraped gratingly against the floor.
“Mr. Lee. Jisung made it through surgery. He’s stable for now, but…the injuries are extensive. We’ve stabilized the fractures. The brain swelling is our biggest concern. And his laryngeal fracture is unfortunately severe. Even if he does wake up, the damage to his vocal cords is significant. He may not be able to sing again.”
Minho’s world narrowed. Jisung, his Jisung, never being able to sing again?
Jisung, who hummed under his breath while brushing his teeth. Who belted out ‘WANNABE’ in the shower until Minho threatened to turn the lights off on him. Who dreamed of producing tracks that would make the whole world feel something.
“Can I…” Minho swallowed hard. “Can I see him?”
The ICU room was dimly lit, the beeping machines the only sound inside. Jisung looked so broken in that bed. He looked so small. Bandages were wrapped around his head, tubes snaked down his throat and into his arms, purple bruises bloomed angrily across his jaw and collarbones where the seatbelt had dug in. Both his legs were in heavy casts. The heart monitor beeped steadily; just a soulless rhythm, a noise really, and yet it was the only thing keeping Minho from breaking down completely. It was proof that Jisung, his stubborn Jisung, was still in there somewhere.
Minho sank into the chair beside the bed and took Jisung’s cold hand, careful of his IV. He pressed his lips to the knuckles, the ones that always had pen smudges on them, but which were now covered in blood.
“Hey, Sungie,” he whispered, his voice raw from crying. “I’m here. I’m right here. You did so good, baby. You fought so hard. The cake…you were getting my cake, weren’t you? You stupid, perfect idiot. I don’t need it anymore. I just need you to wake up so I can hear your voice again. I need to see your smile. Please.”
But only the beeping of the machines and the hiss of the ventilator answered his plea.
The first night bled into the second. Minho didn’t leave the hospital. The nurses tried their best to make him go home to sleep; he refused. At some point, though, Christopher brought Minho clothes and forced him to eat a protein bar.
On the third night, past 2 a.m., Minho talked to Jisung. Really talked.
“You know what I was thinking about today?” he murmured, his thumb stroking slow circles over Jisung’s wrist. “That time last winter when your parents called again. The ones who said that music was just a hobby. You cried in the shower for an hour, and I sat on the bathroom floor outside the curtain and told you every single reason why you’re going to be the best producer this industry has ever seen. How your laugh is my favorite sound in the whole world. You eventually came out from the bathroom wrapped in your towel and then you said, ‘You’re the only one who’s ever believed in me like this.’ And I said, ‘I’ll keep believing enough for both of us.’”
Minho’s voice broke. He pressed his forehead to Jisung’s hand.
“I still believe, Sungie. I still do. You’re my everything. You chase away every shitty thing my own parents ever said about me not being good enough to dance. You make me want to get up every morning and try again. So you have to wake up. You have to. I can’t do this without you.”
Day five.
The doctors started using words like ‘plateauing’ and ‘decreasing responsiveness.’ Jisung’s eyes stayed closed. The nurses changed his bandages and adjusted his ventilator and offered Minho sympathetic smiles that could do nothing to fix the deep ache in his chest.
Day eight.
Minho was reading aloud from Jisung’s favorite lyric notebook, the one with the matcha stain on the front and the pink scribbled stars on page ten, when a doctor came in. She checked the charts, listened to Jisung’s chest, and then looked at Minho with gentle eyes.
“Mr Lee…we’ve run another EEG. There’s no brain activity. None. I’m so sorry.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Minho couldn’t breathe.
“No,” he gasped. “No, that’s not—that can’t be right. He’s still in there. He’s fighting. He always fights.”
The doctor touched his shoulder. “We can keep the machines running for as long as you need. But…he’s gone. I’m very sorry.”
Minho stayed anyway. For three more days he sat by Jisung’s bed and held a hand that felt too still, too cold. He waited for a twitch of a finger, flutter of eyelashes, or the faintest squeeze of a hand.
Nothing.
Day eleven.
Jisung’s parents arrived. They were kind, quiet people who had never quite understood their son’s dreams but loved him anyway. They hugged Minho like he was their own and cried with him. The hospital chaplain came. Christopher and Felix did too. They filled the waiting room in shifts, bringing flowers and silence and comfort that didn’t need words.
Day twelve.
Minho sat by Jisung’s bed one final time, the room silent except for the mechanical whoosh of the ventilator. Jisung’s hand was in his. His bruises had faded to yellow. The casts were still on.
Minho leaned down and pressed his lips to Jisung’s forehead, right where the bandage stopped.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
He didn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. For Jisung, he had to be strong.
Jisung was always strong.
“I loved every single thing about you,” he pressed on. “Your laugh, your smile. The way you couldn’t cook but you tried anyway.” He paused, laughing faintly as the tears finally welled. “The way you stayed up all night making your songs. You made me brave, Han Jisung. You made my life worth living. And I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you from this. I’m so, so sorry.”
The tears finally fell, forming small dark spots on the white sterile sheets. Minho continued.
“You can rest now, baby. It’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore. Every song you never got to finish, I’ll make sure that the world hears them somehow. I promise. Just…go somewhere beautiful. Somewhere you can sing and do everything you’ve ever wanted. I’ll find you again one day.”
Minho nodded to the doctor waiting nearby. The machines were turned off one by one. The beeping slowed.
Then the ventilator sighed its last breath.
And somewhere, the final lyric drifted through the silence, a melody so hauntingly beautiful it felt like one last stubborn transmission from a soul that had refused to be silenced. It was as if Jisung, ever the born fighter, had poured his remaining strength into a single, distant message.
You found me.
Minho had found him. And just like Jisung’s own relentless heart, he would never stop searching.
In this life and the next, he’d find him again, and again, and again.