Archive of Our Own

It’s the third time this week that Minho wasn’t able to go to work because he had to take care of Jisung. Ever since the younger had been diagnosed with kidney failure due to not taking action with his diabetes, their lives turned upside down.

A lot had actually happened three years after Jisung had been recommended for hemodialysis, his body became extremely malnourished and he suffers a lot even in the smallest cuts and burns because the wounds never truly heal. It has taken a huge toll on him and Minho as well. Jisung spent every night overthinking if he’d still wake up the next day, self-pity mixing with his anxiety, it was never easy for him. Luckily, he still has Minho by his side who’s always been looking out for him. Accompanying him in every doctor’s appointment and dialysis session there is but the thing is…

He’s tired

Minho’s tired

Don’t get him wrong, he loves Jisung but taking care of him was exhausting and dealing with inconveniences because of his condition is infuriating. Minho just couldn’t help but be angry at the situation. He couldn’t help but envy his workmates who don’t have to worry about anything and could just go on with their lives while he’s here, taking care of his disabled boyfriend who had just recently got the sole of his left foot burned because of a heating pad accident. The wounds were huge and instead of healing, it started getting bigger each day to the point where Jisung had to use a wheelchair. His lower body had gone paralyzed while he experiences pain in his whole body. It was excruciatingly painful that he felt like he could die at any moment.

The hospital became Jisung’s second home by how often he was getting confined there to the extent where most of the nurses and other hospital staffs already knew him and Minho. Today was nothing new, Minho was gently pushing his wheelchair into the cold room for his 5th time of being confined this year. 

“When will this end?” Jisung asked Minho, tears welling up in his eyes. To be honest, he was also getting really tired of this kind of set up, being confined then getting out for a few weeks then getting confined again. He’s always experiencing all sorts of pain everyday. His whole body is in pain, his heart is in pain, everything is just painful and Jisung isn’t sure if he can even survive through the year.

Minho gently patted his head and kissed his temple, taking a deep breath and assuring the younger, “You can do this, you’re strong. I know my baby can do this. Let’s just endure it for the meantime, yeah? I’m sure we’ll be able to fight this” Minho whispered to the younger. They both are desperate to get back to their normal life but it seems like fate has other plans.

Even after numerous treatments, Jisung’s condition seems to have gotten a lot more worse. Losing weight and hairs until he’s almost skin and bones, bruises and wounds started randomly appearing in his body, even his body mobility have gotten worse. He could not even sit up unless Minho assists him and it was a very painful sight for the older.

“Hyung, what if I don’t last till the end of this year?” Jisung asked, as if he already knows that he’s not going to live long. Minho just laughed like the younger had just told him a funny joke “Don’t say that baby, hyung might get sad and cry” but the younger was looking at him with sorrow in his eyes. Almost as if he’s not actually scared of death, he’s just scared that he might leave Minho alone and he’s not yet ready for that. He doesn’t want to leave his Minho yet.

Jisung’s lips tremble, letting out a shaky breath. “Hyung, what would you do if I decided to give up? I don’t think there’s still any hope left”, a tear left Minho’s eye as he heard the question. “Let’s not think about that, be optimistic. I’m sure there’s still a way to face this—” “What if there’s no other way?” Jisung cuts the older off. Minho looked at him, “Then I’d make one”. Jisung just lets out a chuckle but there’s a hint of sadness to it.

-h.

Months have already passed but their routine’s still the same, it’s almost as if those treatments have done absolutely nothing to Jisung’s condition and instead have actually made it worse. Their relationship though, have changed a lot. This is now Jisung’s seventh time of confinement this year, he had gotten more easily irritated over the slightest inconveniences and it’s slowly driving Minho crazy.

“Hyung, I told you I don’t like donuts! Why did you buy me this?” Jisung held up the donut to the older’s face then angrily placed it on the table, “You told me to just buy anything! I didn’t know what you want, you didn’t specify it to me” Minho answered, already getting impatient. “So now it’s my fault that you weren’t paying enough attention to me?” Jisung shot back, “How much more attention do you want from me? You’re always so needy, you always want to be the center of attention. You expect me to provide and cater to you all the time when I also have other priorities” Jisung couldn’t believe what the older had said to him. This man in front of him, whom he had loved for eight years, the same man who said that he’d make a way to fight with him from his condition have said such hurtful words to him.

Tears immediately welled up in Jisung’s eyes, looking away from the man in front of him. “Do you even love me anymore?” Jisung’s voice was shaking as he questioned the older. Minho was out of words, he’s already getting tired of answering the same questions all over again.

“Maybe it’s better to give up instead of fighting for something that’s already beyond saving” the younger added, finally looking up at the older again “Go ahead, leave me to die alone here. I don’t care, I’m already sick of this, just let me die alone” Jisung sobbed. Minho lets out a heavy sigh, turning his back on the younger as he headed out of the room.

Minho had walked away before.

After arguments. After breakdowns. After nights where neither of them knew what to say anymore.

But he always came back.

This time was no different.

The moment the hospital room door shut behind him, the anger that had fueled his words disappeared almost instantly. The hallway outside was cold and quiet, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that made everything feel sterile and lifeless. Nurses passed by with clipboards in hand, doctors exchanged quick conversations, and somewhere in the distance a heart monitor beeped steadily.

Life continued.

Meanwhile, Minho felt like he was falling apart.

He leaned against the wall and pressed his palms against his eyes.

The image of Jisung’s tear-filled gaze replayed over and over in his mind.

Do you even love me anymore?

The question stabbed deeper than any accusation ever could.

Minho slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

He was exhausted.

Not exhausted of Jisung.

Never Jisung.

He was exhausted of hospitals. Of medications. Of emergency phone calls in the middle of the night. Of watching the person he loved suffer every single day while being unable to do anything about it.

Most of all, he was exhausted of pretending he was strong enough to carry it all.

A shaky breath escaped him before the tears followed.

For months, Minho had held himself together for Jisung’s sake. He had smiled through doctor appointments, reassured him through dialysis sessions, and convinced himself that things would eventually get better.

But sitting alone in that hallway, he finally allowed himself to cry.

Not quietly.

Not gracefully.

The kind of crying that left his chest aching and his eyes burning.

“I’m trying,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m really trying.”

Inside the room, Jisung stared blankly at the donut sitting untouched on the table.

The silence felt unbearable.

The moment Minho left, all of his anger disappeared as well, replaced by a familiar feeling of regret.

He hated fighting with Minho.

No matter how upset he became, a part of him always feared the same thing.

That one day Minho would get tired enough to leave and never come back.

Jisung looked down at his trembling hands.

They were so thin now.

Everything about him was.

His arms.

His legs.

His face.

Even his hair had become sparse over the years.

Sometimes he barely recognized the person staring back at him in the mirror.

Three years ago, he had still been able to walk freely.

Three years ago, he could stay awake all night making music, laughing until his stomach hurt, and dragging Minho around wherever he wanted.

Back then, the future seemed endless.

Now every morning felt like a privilege he wasn’t sure he deserved.

His eyes burned.

Maybe Minho deserved someone healthier.

Someone who didn’t spend half their life in a hospital bed.

Someone who wouldn’t force him to sacrifice everything.

The thought alone made tears gather in his eyes.

The door suddenly opened.

Jisung quickly wiped at his face and looked away.

Minho stepped inside.

Neither of them spoke.

The older quietly pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down.

Silence settled between them.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

Neither seemed willing to break first.

Finally, Minho let out a long breath.

“I hate this.”

Jisung glanced at him.

Minho was staring at the floor.

“I hate the hospitals.”

His voice sounded tired.

“I hate dialysis.”

Jisung felt his throat tighten.

“I hate watching you get hurt.”

Minho swallowed hard.

“I hate seeing you in pain and knowing there’s nothing I can do about it.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I hate that every time my phone rings, I’m scared something happened to you.”

Jisung lowered his head.

Each word felt heavier than the last.

“And I hate that I got angry at you.”

The room fell silent once more.

Slowly, Minho looked up.

His eyes were red.

Tired.

Broken.

Yet still filled with the same love Jisung had known for years.

“I don’t hate you, Jisung.”

The younger immediately burst into tears.

Because that was the fear he had been carrying all along.

Not death.

Not sickness.

Not even pain.

It was the possibility that one day Minho would stop loving him.

Jisung covered his face with trembling hands.

“I know I’m difficult.”

“Yeah.”

A weak laugh escaped Minho.

“You are.”

Jisung let out a watery laugh despite himself.

Minho reached forward and gently pulled his hands away from his face.

“But you’re still my favorite person.”

That only made Jisung cry harder.

A small smile tugged at Minho’s lips.

“You’re supposed to be making me feel better.”

“I’m trying.”

“You suck at it.”

“I know.”

For the first time in weeks, they both laughed.

It wasn’t much.

Just a brief moment.

But it felt precious.

Jisung carefully leaned his head against Minho’s shoulder.

Immediately, Minho wrapped an arm around him.

The familiar warmth made Jisung’s chest ache.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

They simply sat together as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the hospital window, painting the room in soft shades of gold.

Eventually, Jisung broke the silence.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“If I die first—”

Minho’s arm tightened around him instantly.

“Don’t.”

“But if I do.”

The older squeezed his eyes shut.

Jisung stared out the window.

“Promise me you’ll keep living.”

“No.”

“Hyung.”

“No.”

A faint smile appeared on Jisung’s lips.

“You’ll fall in love again someday.”

Minho snorted.

“Impossible.”

“You said that before dating me.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

A soft chuckle escaped Minho.

“Because then you showed up and ruined my life.”

Jisung laughed so hard that he immediately started coughing.

Minho hurriedly grabbed a cup of water and helped him drink.

When the coughing finally subsided, Minho shook his head.

“See? This is exactly why I can’t leave you alone.”

Jisung smiled weakly.

Then his expression softened.

“Thank you.”

Minho frowned.

“For what?”

“For staying.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Minho leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against Jisung’s forehead.

“Thank me when we’re eighty.”

Jisung smiled sadly.

“What if we don’t make it to eighty?”

The question lingered between them.

This time, Minho didn’t offer false hope.

He didn’t promise miracles.

He didn’t promise a cure.

Instead, he rested his forehead against Jisung’s and whispered the only truth he knew.

“Then let’s just make it to tomorrow.”

Jisung closed his eyes.

Tomorrow.

Just one more day.

One more sunrise.

One more laugh.

One more moment beside Minho.

For now, that was enough.

-h.

The first day of 2026 arrived with clear skies and the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

It was supposed to be a happy day.

A celebration.

A fresh start.

Yet as Minho carefully pushed Jisung’s wheelchair across the wooden pathway leading toward the beach resort, Jisung couldn’t stop thinking about how strange it felt to still be alive.

A year ago, he genuinely hadn’t believed he would make it this far.

Even now, he wasn’t sure how he had.

His body felt heavier than ever.

Every movement hurt.

His joints ached constantly, as though tiny needles had been buried beneath his skin. His back throbbed from sitting too long. His chest felt tight whenever he breathed too deeply. The wound on his burned foot remained stubbornly open despite months of treatment, forcing him to rely on his wheelchair almost completely.

The ocean breeze brushed against his face.

It felt nice.

But even something as simple as enjoying the wind had become complicated.

The cold made his body ache.

The warmth made him dizzy.

Everything hurt.

Still, Jisung smiled.

Because he was at the beach.

Because Minho was beside him.

Because for once, the smell surrounding him wasn’t disinfectant and hospital sheets.

It was saltwater.

The sea stretched endlessly before him, glittering beneath the afternoon sun. Families played in the water. Children ran along the shoreline. Somewhere nearby, music was playing.

For a moment, Jisung closed his eyes.

The sound of the waves transported him back years ago.

Before the dialysis.

Before the hospital admissions.

Before the diabetes destroyed his kidneys.

Before his body became a prison.

Back when he could run.

Back when he could swim.

Back when the future didn’t terrify him.

A lump formed in his throat.

He opened his eyes before the tears could fall.

“You’re thinking too much again.”

Minho’s voice was gentle.

Jisung looked up and found Minho staring at him with familiar concern.

The older always knew.

No matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Jisung forced a smile.

“I’m okay.”

Minho clearly didn’t believe him, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he simply squeezed Jisung’s shoulder before continuing toward their friends.

The moment they arrived, chaos greeted them.

Felix was trying to take group photos while Hyunjin complained about the angles.

“Why are you standing like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look possessed.”

“I’M JUST STANDING.”

Chan nearly choked on his drink from laughing.

Changbin was already carrying enough food to feed an entire village while Jeongin sat beside him looking embarrassed to be associated with him.

Seungmin, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content watching everyone make fools of themselves.

The sight made Jisung laugh.

A real laugh.

Not one forced to reassure people.

Not one meant to hide his pain.

Just laughter.

And for a brief moment, everything felt normal.

But only for a moment.

Because when the laughter faded, the pain remained.

It always remained.

Hours passed.

The others eventually wandered toward the shoreline, leaving Seungmin sitting beside Jisung beneath the shade of a large umbrella.

The younger watched the ocean quietly.

The sunlight reflected across the waves like scattered diamonds.

Beautiful.

Painfully beautiful.

The kind of beauty that made his chest ache because he knew he wouldn’t get to see it forever.

Beside him, Seungmin noticed the unusual silence.

“You look like you’re writing your will.”

Jisung let out a weak laugh.

“Maybe I am.”

Seungmin frowned.

The joke wasn’t funny.

Not anymore.

Not after everything.

Jisung continued staring at the ocean.

His smile slowly faded.

“You know…”

His voice came out softer than expected.

“I don’t think I’ll make it through this year.”

Seungmin immediately looked at him.

“Don’t say that.”

Jisung shrugged.

The movement hurt.

Everything hurt.

“It’s true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

The confidence in his voice frightened Seungmin.

Because it wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t emotional.

It sounded like someone accepting a fact.

Jisung looked down at his frail hands resting on his lap.

The hands that once spent hours writing songs and playing around with his friends.

Now they trembled from simply holding a spoon.

“My body’s giving up.”

The words were spoken so casually that they felt even heavier.

“I can feel it.”

Seungmin remained silent.

He hated conversations like these.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because he cared too much.

And there was nothing he could say.

Nothing he could fix.

Jisung swallowed hard.

His eyes remained fixed on the sea.

“This might be my last New Year.”

The words barely escaped above a whisper.

“This might be my last time seeing the beach.”

A small smile appeared on his lips.

“I wanted to come here before…” He paused.

Before what?

Before he died?

Neither of them wanted to say it.

“…before things get worse.”

Seungmin looked away.

His eyes suddenly burned.

The ocean blurred.

“You know what your problem is?”

Jisung chuckled.

“I have several.”

“You always talk like you’ve already lost.”

The older one remained quiet.

Because maybe he had.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough to recognize what was happening to his own body.

Enough to notice the way doctors carefully avoided certain conversations.

Enough to see the fear hidden behind Minho’s reassuring smiles.

Enough to understand that sometimes love couldn’t save someone.

The waves continued rolling onto the shore.

Steady.

Unchanging.

Jisung watched them quietly.

“If I don’t make it…”

Seungmin immediately shook his head.

“Stop.”

“I’m serious.”

“No.”

“Seungmin.”

“No.”

His voice cracked.

Jisung froze.

For the first time, he realized Seungmin looked angry.

Not annoyed.

Not irritated.

Heartbroken.

“You keep talking about dying like you’re the only one who has to deal with it.”

Silence.

Seungmin laughed bitterly.

“You think you’re the only person scared?”

Jisung felt his chest tighten.

“You think Minho isn’t terrified every day?”

The younger looked toward the shoreline.

Minho was standing near the water with the others.

Laughing.

Smiling.

Looking normal.

But Jisung knew better.

He knew how many nights Minho cried in the bathroom thinking he couldn’t hear.

He knew how many meals the older skipped.

How many hours of sleep he lost.

How many pieces of himself he’d sacrificed.

The guilt nearly crushed him.

Seungmin sighed.

His voice softened.

“So stop talking like you’re already gone.”

Jisung blinked rapidly.

Tears threatened to spill.

The sea became blurry.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Jisung quietly smiled.

A sad smile.

A grateful one.

“I’ll try.”

Seungmin nodded.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was enough.

As the sun slowly began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold, Jisung leaned back in his wheelchair and watched his friends laugh together.

Chan chasing Hyunjin.

Felix recording everything.

Changbin carrying enough snacks to survive an apocalypse.

Jeongin pretending he wasn’t having fun.

Seungmin sitting beside him.

And Minho.

Always Minho.

Jisung felt tears sting his eyes.

Not because he was sad.

But because he loved them so much.

And because somewhere deep inside, beneath all the fear and pain and exhaustion, he already knew.

This was a memory he would carry for whatever time he had left.

A beach.

A new year.

The people he loved most.

And the quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d get one more tomorrow.

-h.

Eventually, Jisung’s condition continued to deteriorate.

What started as occasional fevers soon became a constant concern.

At first, Minho thought it was just another one of Jisung’s bad days. The younger often experienced fatigue and body aches, so a slight fever didn’t seem unusual anymore. But when the fever refused to go away for several days and Jisung began shivering uncontrollably despite being wrapped in blankets, Minho knew something was wrong.

And before he knew it, Jisung was brought again to the hospital, getting confined for the nth time.

The doctors grew concerned as well.

Blood tests were ordered immediately.

Cultures were taken.

More scans followed.

The atmosphere around Jisung’s room suddenly changed. Nurses started checking on him more frequently, and doctors spent longer periods reviewing his charts outside the door.

Minho hated it.

He knew that look.

The look medical staff wore when they were worried but trying not to show it.

One afternoon, while Jisung was asleep, a nephrologist asked Minho to step outside.

The older followed without a word.

The doctor folded his arms and sighed heavily before speaking.

“We suspect there’s an infection in his permanent catheter.”

Minho felt his stomach drop.

The catheter had been Jisung’s lifeline for years. It allowed him to undergo dialysis treatments, but it was also a potential entry point for bacteria.

“How serious is it?” Minho asked quietly.

“We won’t know the full extent until the culture results come back.”

The doctor’s expression alone was enough to tell him the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“If the infection has spread to his bloodstream, we’ll need to act immediately.”

Minho lowered his head.

Of course.

Another complication.

Another battle.

Another obstacle.

It felt endless.

“What happens if it spreads?” he asked after a long silence.

The doctor hesitated.

“It could lead to sepsis.”

The word hit harder than Minho expected.

Sepsis.

A life-threatening infection.

The doctor continued speaking, explaining treatment plans and possible interventions, but Minho barely heard anything after that.

His ears were ringing.

All he could think about was Jisung lying inside that room.

Jisung, who was already struggling to survive each day.

Jisung, whose body had become too weak to heal even the smallest wounds.

Jisung, who was slowly running out of strength.

When Minho returned to the room, he found the younger awake and staring out the window.

Jisung immediately noticed the look on his face.

“What did the doctor say?”

Minho forced a smile.

“Nothing.”

Jisung rolled his eyes.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

The older sat beside him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Jisung sighed.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Minho’s silence was answer enough.

The younger stared down at his blanket.

His hands looked even thinner than before.

The skin around his fingers was pale and fragile, decorated with bruises from countless needles.

“They think the catheter is infected?” he guessed.

Minho looked at him in surprise.

Jisung gave a weak smile.

“I’ve been in hospitals long enough to know.”

The smile didn’t last long.

His gaze drifted toward the dialysis catheter protruding from his chest.

For years, it had kept him alive.

Now it might be killing him.

The irony almost made him laugh.

Instead, his eyes filled with tears.

“I’m so tired, hyung.”

The confession came out barely above a whisper.

Minho reached for his hand immediately.

“I know.”

“No.”

Jisung shook his head.

“You don’t understand.”

His voice trembled.

“I’m tired of being sick.”

A tear slid down his cheek.

“I’m tired of needles.”

Another followed.

“I’m tired of hospitals.”

Minho squeezed his hand tighter.

“I’m tired of hurting all the time.”

By then, Jisung was crying openly.

“And I’m tired of watching you suffer because of me.”

Minho’s heart shattered.

Without thinking, he stood and carefully wrapped his arms around the younger.

Jisung immediately buried his face against his chest.

Neither cared about the IV lines or the monitors.

Neither cared about who might walk into the room.

They simply held each other.

For a long time.

Because both of them knew something neither was brave enough to say aloud.

Every new complication felt harder than the last.

And for the first time since Jisung became ill, they were beginning to wonder not whether he would recover but whether his body had enough strength left to survive the fight ahead.

The possibility of an infection spreading through Jisung’s bloodstream had terrified both of them.

For the first time in weeks, however, the doctors had finally given them a piece of good news.

After reviewing the test results and examining the catheter site, the medical team explained that there was still a way to prevent the infection from becoming more serious.

“We can either repair the catheter or replace it entirely,” the doctor said while pointing at the scans. “If we act early, we can remove the source of the infection and significantly lower the risk of further complications.”

Minho felt his shoulders sag with relief.

It wasn’t a cure.

It wouldn’t fix Jisung’s kidney failure.

It wouldn’t magically erase years of suffering.

But it was something.

For once, it wasn’t another terrible update.

Beside him, Jisung looked equally relieved.

“So… I’m not dying yet?” he asked weakly.

The doctor couldn’t help but smile.

“Not from this, no.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

The doctor chuckled before continuing to explain the procedure, the risks, and the recovery process. Compared to everything Jisung had already endured over the years, the operation was relatively straightforward.

When the doctor finally left the room, silence settled between the couple.

A different kind of silence this time.

Not one filled with fear.

Not one weighed down by grief.

Just relief.

Minho leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands.

Jisung stared at him.

“Hyung?”

No response.

“Are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I’m definitely not crying.”

Jisung squinted suspiciously.

Then Minho lowered his hands, revealing watery eyes.

The younger immediately burst into laughter.

“You are crying!”

Minho pointed a finger at him.

“You almost gave me a heart attack this week.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You got infected.”

“I didn’t ask the bacteria to move in.”

Despite himself, Minho laughed.

The sound felt foreign after months of stress.

Jisung couldn’t remember the last time he had heard it.

For a moment, they both forgot about the hospital room surrounding them.

Forgot about the machines.

Forgot about the endless treatments.

Forgot about the uncertainty waiting outside those walls.

For a brief moment, it almost felt normal again.

Minho reached over and gently brushed Jisung’s hair away from his forehead.

“You scared me.”

The younger’s smile softened.

“I know.”

“No, seriously. I thought…” Minho’s voice trailed off.

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Jisung knew exactly what he meant.

Slowly, he reached for Minho’s hand.

“I’m still here.”

The older intertwined their fingers immediately, holding on tighter than usual.

As if he was reassuring himself.

As if he needed proof.

The procedure was scheduled for the following day.

For the first time in a long while, both of them found themselves looking forward to tomorrow.

It wasn’t a miracle.

It wasn’t the ending they wanted.

But it was a small victory.

And after years of losing battle after battle, a small victory felt almost priceless.

-h.

The procedure was scheduled early the next morning.

Although the doctors had explained that repairing Jisung’s permanent catheter was a relatively simple procedure compared to everything he had already gone through, Minho still found himself pacing around the waiting area while it was being done.

Years of hospital visits had taught him that no procedure was ever completely risk-free when it came to Jisung.

His body was simply too fragile now.

Even the smallest complications could turn into something serious.

When a nurse finally approached him with a reassuring smile, Minho immediately stood up.

“The procedure went well.”

The words instantly lifted a weight off his chest.

“He’s awake?” Minho asked.

The nurse nodded.

“You can see him now.”

Minho practically rushed to the room.

Inside, Jisung was lying in bed, looking exhausted but conscious. The fresh dressing covering his repaired catheter was visible beneath his hospital gown.

The younger turned his head when he heard the door open.

“There you are.”

Minho walked over immediately and took his hand.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like someone stabbed my chest.”

The older frowned.

“Jisung.”

“I’m kidding.”

“You better be.”

Jisung smiled weakly.

The smile alone was enough to make Minho feel like crying again.

The repair had gone successfully. The doctors were able to address the problem with the catheter and clean the affected area thoroughly. They remained cautious because of the infection risk, but they were optimistic that the intervention had been done early enough to prevent more serious complications.

For the first time in days, the medical staff seemed less tense during their rounds.

The fevers that had plagued Jisung began to decrease.

His blood pressure stabilized.

Even his appetite showed slight improvement.

They were small changes.

Tiny changes.

But after years of watching his condition worsen, every improvement felt significant.

A few days later, one of the doctors entered the room carrying a chart and an expression that neither Minho nor Jisung had seen in a long time.

A smile.

“The repair looks good,” the doctor said. “The catheter is functioning properly, and your infection markers are improving.”

Minho immediately let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Jisung blinked.

“That’s… good, right?”

“It’s very good.”

The younger looked genuinely surprised.

As though he had forgotten what good news sounded like.

After the doctor left, silence settled in the room.

Jisung stared out the window at the afternoon sky.

The sunlight reflected softly against the glass.

For months, every conversation with a doctor had seemed to end with another problem.

Another complication.

Another setback.

This was different.

For once, things had actually gone their way.

“You know,” Jisung said quietly, “I forgot what it feels like to catch a break.”

Minho looked at him.

The younger’s eyes were fixed on the clouds drifting across the sky.

“I was starting to think my body hated me.”

Minho squeezed his hand.

“Your body is definitely annoying.”

Jisung laughed.

“Wow. Such emotional support.”

“I’m being honest.”

A genuine smile spread across Jisung’s face.

It was small.

Weak.

But real.

And Minho realized he hadn’t seen that smile in a very long time.

At that moment, neither of them knew what the future held.

Jisung was still sick.

He still needed dialysis.

His body was still frail from years of fighting.

But for the first time in a long while, they weren’t focused on surviving the next disaster.

Instead, they allowed themselves something they had almost forgotten how to feel.

Hope.

For a while, life settled back into a routine.

Not a normal routine—not by most people’s standards—but normal for them.

Three dialysis sessions a week.

Monthly consultations.

Countless medications lined up on the kitchen counter.

Minho helping Jisung get dressed in the morning.

Jisung complaining about hospital food.

Minho pretending to be annoyed while secretly being relieved whenever the younger had enough energy to complain.

The repaired catheter continued functioning well, and the infection never returned. For the first time in months, they even managed to spend more days at home than in a hospital room.

The small victories accumulated slowly.

Jisung gained a little weight.

His appetite improved slightly.

The constant fevers disappeared.

Some days, he was even strong enough to sit on the couch for hours and watch movies with Minho.

Those moments felt precious.

Because they almost resembled the life they used to have.

Almost.

One evening, Minho returned home carrying takeout and found Jisung asleep on the sofa.

The younger was curled beneath a blanket, his head tilted awkwardly against the armrest.

For a moment, Minho simply stood there watching him.

Peaceful.

Comfortable.

Alive.

A sight he never took for granted anymore.

Carefully, he approached and adjusted the blanket around his shoulders.

Jisung stirred.

“You’re home.”

“Unfortunately.”

A sleepy smile appeared on Jisung’s face.

“I missed you.”

Minho rolled his eyes.

“I was gone for four hours.”

“Still missed you.”

The older couldn’t help smiling.

It was moments like these that made everything worth it.

The hospital visits.

The sleepless nights.

The sacrifices.

All of it.

As long as Jisung was still here.

But good periods never seemed to last long.

It started subtly.

Jisung became more tired than usual.

Then came the nausea.

The loss of appetite.

The weakness.

At first, they convinced themselves it was temporary.

Maybe he was overexerting himself.

Maybe he wasn’t getting enough sleep.

Maybe his dialysis schedule needed adjustment.

But deep down, both of them knew better.

They had gone through this too many times before.

One morning, Minho found Jisung unable to sit up on his own.

His breathing was labored.

Sweat covered his forehead despite the cool temperature of the room.

“Jisung.”

The younger slowly opened his eyes.

Something immediately felt wrong.

Very wrong.

His skin looked paler than usual.

His lips had a faint bluish tint.

And his eyes—

They looked exhausted.

Not tired.

Exhausted.

Like every ounce of strength had been drained from his body.

“Hyung…” Jisung whispered.

Minho’s stomach dropped.

The younger’s voice sounded weak.

Far weaker than it had been in months.

“What hurts?”

A bitter laugh escaped Jisung.

“Everything.”

The answer wasn’t unusual.

But the way he said it was.

There was no frustration.

No sarcasm.

No irritation.

Only defeat.

And that terrified Minho more than anything.

Within hours, they were back in the emergency room.

The same nurses recognized them immediately.

The same doctors reviewed his chart.

The same hospital room welcomed them once again.

Only this time, the atmosphere felt heavier.

More serious.

Blood tests were ordered immediately.

Additional scans followed.

Specialists were called.

Minho sat beside the bed while Jisung underwent examination after examination.

The younger barely spoke.

He simply stared at the ceiling.

As though he already knew what was coming.

Late that night, a team of doctors entered the room.

Their expressions were grim.

Minho immediately stood.

Jisung slowly turned his head toward them.

Nobody liked seeing that look.

The look doctors wore when they had difficult news to deliver.

One of them pulled up a chair.

“We’ve found several concerning changes in your condition.”

The room fell silent.

Minho felt his heart pounding.

Jisung remained still.

The doctor continued carefully.

“Your body is showing signs that multiple systems are becoming increasingly strained.”

Every word felt heavier than the last.

“We need to conduct more tests to determine exactly what’s happening.”

Minho looked at Jisung.

The younger wasn’t crying.

Wasn’t panicking.

Wasn’t even surprised.

He simply lowered his gaze to his blanket.

As if a part of him had already expected this day to come.

After the doctors left, silence filled the room.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Jisung broke it.

A faint smile appeared on his face.

Not because he was happy.

But because he was tired.

“So much for catching a break.”

Minho felt his throat tighten.

Without saying anything, he reached for Jisung’s hand.

The younger immediately squeezed back.

And for the rest of the night, neither of them slept.

Both of them were too afraid of what tomorrow’s answers might bring.

The next few days were filled with tests.

More blood work.

More scans.

More specialists coming in and out of the room.

Minho had long since memorized the routine. Every morning, a new team of doctors would gather outside the room, quietly discussing Jisung’s charts before stepping inside with careful expressions.

Yet despite all the examinations, no one could immediately explain why Jisung’s condition had deteriorated so suddenly.

His fever kept returning.

His inflammatory markers remained elevated.

His body seemed to be fighting something.

The question was what.

One afternoon, the attending physician arrived with several members of the wound care team.

Jisung immediately noticed the serious look on their faces.

Minho did too.

The doctor pulled up a chair beside the bed.

“We’ve reviewed all of your recent test results.”

The room instantly became tense.

Jisung swallowed.

Minho unconsciously tightened his grip on the younger’s hand.

The doctor glanced down at the chart before speaking.

“We don’t think the permanent catheter is the problem.”

Both of them blinked.

“What?” Minho asked.

“The catheter is functioning properly. There are no signs that it’s causing the current infection.”

For a moment, neither knew whether to feel relieved or concerned.

Because if it wasn’t the catheter—

Then what was it?

The doctor looked toward the footrest of Jisung’s bed.

Specifically at his left foot.

The same foot that had been burned months ago by the heating pad.

The same wound that never truly healed.

“We believe the source may be the wound on the sole of your foot.”

The room fell silent.

Jisung stared down at the blanket.

His chest suddenly felt heavy.

The wound.

That wound.

The one that had stolen his ability to walk.

The one that had forced him into a wheelchair.

The one that doctors had spent months trying to manage.

The doctor continued carefully.

“People with long-standing diabetes and kidney disease often have difficulty healing wounds. Unfortunately, wounds that remain open for long periods can become a source of chronic infection.”

Minho felt his stomach twist.

The wound had always looked bad.

But somewhere along the way, they had become so focused on Jisung’s kidneys, dialysis treatments, and catheter complications that it had become almost normal to them.

It was simply there.

A constant part of their lives.

The doctor requested permission to examine it again.

Jisung nodded.

A nurse carefully removed the dressings.

The moment the wound was exposed, Minho looked away.

Even after all these months, he still couldn’t get used to seeing it.

The burn had never healed properly.

The skin surrounding it looked inflamed and fragile.

Areas that should have recovered months ago remained open.

The wound care specialist frowned.

“We need additional imaging.”

Minho’s heart sank.

That expression was never a good sign.

Later that evening, the results came back.

The doctor entered the room carrying a stack of reports.

His expression was serious.

Very serious.

The kind that immediately made Minho stand up.

“What is it?” he asked.

The doctor sat down.

“The infection appears to have spread deeper than we initially thought.”

Jisung’s fingers tightened around the blanket.

“How deep?”

The doctor hesitated.

Then answered honestly.

“We’re concerned that the infection may have reached the bone.”

Silence.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them moved.

The words hung heavily in the air.

Jisung felt the blood drain from his face.

The bone.

Not just the skin.

Not just the wound.

The bone.

The doctor quickly continued.

“We still need further evaluation to confirm the extent of the damage. But this could explain why your condition has continued to worsen despite treatment.”

Suddenly everything made sense.

The fevers.

The weakness.

The recurring hospitalizations.

The endless cycle of improvement followed by decline.

The infection had never truly left.

It had simply been hiding.

Growing quietly beneath the surface.

Minho slowly sat back down.

His mind was racing.

All this time, they had blamed the kidneys.

The catheter.

The dialysis.

Yet the real culprit may have been sitting at the end of Jisung’s leg the entire time.

Jisung stared at his foot.

The foot he could no longer feel properly.

The foot that had changed everything.

A bitter laugh escaped him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Nobody laughed.

Not even Minho.

Because for once, it wasn’t a joke.

It was the terrifying possibility that a single wound—one that began as a seemingly simple burn—had evolved into something far more dangerous.

And depending on what the next tests revealed, the doctors might soon be forced to discuss options that neither Jisung nor Minho were ready to hear.

The MRI results came back two days later.

Neither Minho nor Jisung had slept much while waiting.

The uncertainty was torture.

Every time a doctor walked past the room, both of them would look up, wondering if this would be the conversation that changed everything.

Unfortunately, it was.

Late that afternoon, the attending physician entered with the wound care specialist and a vascular surgeon.

The moment Jisung saw three specialists walk into the room together, his stomach dropped.

Minho immediately sat up straighter in his chair.

The doctors took their seats.

Nobody spoke for a few seconds.

The silence alone was enough to make Jisung nervous.

Finally, the attending physician sighed.

“We have the results.”

Jisung swallowed hard.

The doctor opened the chart.

“The infection has spread extensively through your foot and into the bones of your lower leg.”

Minho’s grip on the armrest tightened.

The doctor continued carefully.

“We’ve reviewed every possible treatment option.”

Antibiotics.

Debridement.

Additional wound care procedures.

More surgeries.

Everything had been discussed.

Everything had been considered.

The problem was that Jisung’s body simply wasn’t healing.

Years of diabetes, kidney failure, and malnutrition had severely limited his ability to recover from severe infections.

The doctor looked directly at Jisung.

“When we weigh the risks and benefits, we believe the safest option is amputation.”

The room became completely still.

Jisung stared at him.

He heard the words.

He understood them.

Yet somehow they didn’t feel real.

Amputation.

The word echoed inside his head.

“No.”

The response slipped out before he could stop it.

The doctor lowered his gaze.

“We understand this is difficult to hear.”

“No.”

Jisung shook his head again.

His voice trembled.

“No.”

Minho turned toward him.

The younger was already crying.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just silent tears rolling down his face.

The doctor waited patiently.

Eventually, he continued.

“If we don’t remove the infected tissue, the infection will likely continue spreading.”

Nobody said anything.

“It could become life-threatening.”

The room felt suffocating.

Minho could barely breathe.

Because he knew what the doctors were saying.

This wasn’t really a choice between keeping the leg and losing the leg.

This was a choice between losing the leg and risking losing Jisung.

The younger looked down at the blanket covering his body.

His body had already taken so much from him.

His kidneys.

His independence.

His strength.

His ability to walk.

Now it wanted another piece.

A broken laugh escaped him.

“Seriously?”

His voice cracked.

“Hasn’t it taken enough already?”

Nobody had an answer for that.

Not the doctors.

Not Minho.

Nobody.

The physician gave them time to process everything before standing.

“We’ll leave you two alone for now.”

The medical team quietly exited the room.

The door closed.

Silence followed.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Jisung simply stared ahead.

His tears continued falling.

Minho remained beside him.

Not knowing what to say.

Not knowing how to make this better.

Because there was nothing he could say.

No reassuring words.

No promises.

No miracle.

Finally, Jisung spoke.

“I don’t want to lose my leg.”

His voice sounded small.

Painfully small.

Minho felt his heart break.

“I know.”

“I know I can barely use it anymore.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

“But it’s still mine.”

Minho moved closer.

“It’s not fair.”

“No.”

“It’s not fair.”

“It isn’t.”

Jisung laughed bitterly.

“Every time I think things can’t get worse, they somehow do.”

The older reached for his hand.

The younger immediately held on.

Tightly.

As if he was afraid of being left alone with the reality of it.

Minutes passed.

Then hours.

The sun slowly disappeared behind the hospital buildings.

Eventually, Jisung turned toward Minho.

His eyes were swollen from crying.

“If I do this…”

His voice shook.

“If I agree to it…”

Minho listened carefully.

“Will I finally stop getting sicker?”

The question shattered something inside him.

Because beneath all the fear, all the grief, all the anger—

Jisung wasn’t asking about his leg.

He was asking if there was still a chance to live.

Minho squeezed his hand.

The answer wasn’t guaranteed.

Nothing about Jisung’s condition ever was.

But for the first time in a long while, there was a treatment that offered a possibility instead of another temporary fix.

A chance to remove the source of the infection that had been slowly poisoning his body.

A chance to fight back.

So Minho leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Jisung’s forehead.

Then, with tears gathering in his own eyes, he whispered:

“If it gives you a better chance of staying with me… then I think it’s worth considering.”

For the first time since the doctors had spoken, Jisung closed his eyes and allowed himself to cry openly.

Not because he had made a decision.

Not yet.

But because he finally understood what decision was waiting for him.

And it was one of the hardest choices he would ever have to make.

The decision took another day.

A long, painful day filled with tears, silence, and difficult conversations.

The doctors gave Jisung time to think. They explained the procedure repeatedly, answered every question he had, and made sure he understood the risks and benefits.

Still, understanding it didn’t make it easier.

Every time he looked down at his leg, he felt a knot form in his chest.

It wasn’t a healthy leg.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

The infection had destroyed much of what remained.

He couldn’t walk on it.

He could barely feel parts of it anymore.

Yet it was still a part of him.

The thought of waking up without it felt impossible to comprehend.

That night, Minho stayed beside him as usual.

The hospital room was dark except for the soft glow coming from the hallway.

Neither of them could sleep.

Jisung stared at the ceiling.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“What if I regret it?”

Minho was quiet for a moment.

“You probably will.”

Jisung turned his head.

“What?”

The older looked back at him.

“I think you’ll regret it sometimes.”

The younger frowned.

“You’re supposed to make me feel better.”

Minho let out a small laugh.

“I’m serious.”

He reached over and took Jisung’s hand.

“I think there will be days when you’re angry.”

Jisung listened.

“I think there will be days when you miss it.”

A pause.

“I think there will be days when you’ll cry about it.”

The younger lowered his gaze.

Then Minho squeezed his hand.

“But I think you’ll still be alive to have those days.”

The room fell silent.

Jisung felt tears gathering in his eyes again.

Alive.

Such a simple word.

A word most people never had to think about.

For him, it had become everything.

The next morning, when the surgical team arrived to discuss the final consent forms, Jisung already knew his answer.

The surgeon sat beside his bed.

“Have you made a decision?”

Jisung looked down at his hands.

They were trembling.

Not because he was uncertain.

Because he was terrified.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

His eyes immediately found Minho.

The older stood beside the bed, looking just as nervous.

Despite everything, Minho gave him a small nod.

Not pressuring him.

Not deciding for him.

Simply reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

Jisung took a deep breath.

Then another.

Finally, he spoke.

“Let’s do it.”

The surgeon nodded gently.

“We’ll take good care of you.”

The words caused something inside Jisung to crack.

Not because he was scared of the surgery.

But because saying yes made it real.

He looked down at his leg one last time.

Memories flooded his mind.

Running through hallways as a child.

Playing sports at school.

Dancing around the apartment just to annoy Minho.

Walking hand-in-hand with him during dates.

Countless ordinary moments he had never thought would become precious memories.

His vision blurred.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I don’t want to lose it,” he admitted quietly.

Minho immediately wrapped his arms around him.

“I know.”

“But I want to stay.”

The words broke both of them.

Because that was what this choice ultimately came down to.

Not a leg.

Not a surgery.

Life.

Jisung buried his face against Minho’s shoulder.

“I want more time.”

Minho closed his eyes.

“So stay.”

The younger began to cry.

Not the hopeless crying from before.

Not the crying of someone who had given up.

This was grief.

The grief of letting go of something he never wanted to lose.

But beneath that grief was something else.

Determination.

Because for months, maybe even years, Jisung had been preparing himself for death.

For the first time in a long while, he was choosing life instead.

Even if that choice hurt.

Even if it cost him a part of himself.

Even if the road ahead would be difficult.

When the surgical team wheeled him toward the operating room later that day, Jisung reached out his hand.

Minho immediately took it.

The younger held on until they reached the operating room doors.

The place where family members could go no further.

The place where they would have to let go.

Jisung looked at him one last time.

Fear was still there.

So was sadness.

But there was something else now.

Hope.

A fragile, trembling hope.

“Wait for me, okay?”

Minho smiled through his tears.

“Always.”

Then their hands separated.

And as Jisung was wheeled through the operating room doors, he carried one thought with him:

He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to lose his leg.

He was doing it because he wanted the chance to keep living.

-h.

The operation was originally supposed to happen the next day.

However, Jisung’s case was far from simple.

His medical team wanted to make absolutely certain that his body could withstand such a major procedure. His blood counts were unstable, his nutritional status was poor, and his kidneys continued to complicate every medical decision. There were consultations with surgeons, nephrologists, anesthesiologists, and infectious disease specialists.

One day became two.

Two became three.

Eventually, the surgery was scheduled for four days later.

The waiting was agonizing.

Every morning, Jisung woke up wondering if it would be his last day with both legs.

Every night, Minho caught him staring at his left foot.

Not with affection.

Not even with anger.

Just sadness.

Like he was already mourning it.

The closer the surgery came, the quieter Jisung became.

Even the nurses noticed.

The usually sarcastic comments disappeared.

The small jokes he made during blood draws vanished.

Instead, he spent most of his time looking out the window.

Thinking.

Remembering.

Grieving.

The night before the operation, neither he nor Minho slept.

The television played quietly in the background, neither of them paying attention to it.

Around two in the morning, Jisung suddenly spoke.

“Hyung.”

Minho looked up from his chair.

“Hm?”

“If something happens tomorrow…”

The older immediately frowned.

“No.”

“Let me finish.”

Minho reluctantly stayed silent.

Jisung stared at the ceiling.

“I just wanted to say thank you.”

The room became quiet.

“For everything.”

His voice trembled slightly.

“For staying all these years.”

Minho lowered his eyes.

“For taking care of me.”

“Jisung—”

“For not leaving when things got hard.”

The younger smiled weakly.

“Even when I gave you plenty of reasons to.”

A lump formed in Minho’s throat.

Without saying anything, he stood and climbed carefully onto the hospital bed beside him.

Jisung immediately shifted closer.

The movement hurt, but he didn’t care.

Minho wrapped his arms around him.

The same way he had done countless times before.

The same way he always would.

“You’re coming back,” Minho whispered.

Jisung closed his eyes.

“I know.”

“You’re coming back.”

This time, it sounded more like Minho reassuring himself.

The younger didn’t argue.

Instead, he simply held on tighter.

The morning of the surgery arrived too quickly.

By six o’clock, nurses were already preparing him.

His vital signs were checked.

Paperwork was reviewed.

IV medications were administered.

The atmosphere around the room felt strangely calm.

Too calm.

As if everyone was trying to act normal despite knowing how significant this day was.

Around eight in the morning, the surgical team arrived.

“It’ll be time soon,” the surgeon informed him gently.

Jisung nodded.

His hands immediately began shaking.

No matter how much he had prepared himself, fear still settled heavily in his chest.

This was real now.

There was no postponing it.

No changing his mind.

The nurses began wheeling his bed toward the operating suite.

Minho walked beside him the entire way.

Neither spoke much.

There was nothing left to say.

Every conversation had already been had.

Every tear had already been shed.

When they reached the operating room doors, the staff stopped.

Family members couldn’t go any further.

Minho took Jisung’s hand.

The younger squeezed back immediately.

Hard.

As though letting go would make everything happen faster.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Jisung laughed weakly.

“You look more scared than I am.”

Minho sniffled.

“That’s because you’re crazy.”

A small smile appeared on Jisung’s face.

Maybe it was the fear.

Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Or maybe it was simply love.

But looking at Minho standing there, he suddenly felt lighter.

Not because he wasn’t afraid.

He was terrified.

But because he wasn’t facing it alone.

“See you later, hyung.”

Minho nodded.

His eyes were already red.

“See you later, baby.”

Then the nurses carefully guided the bed forward.

The doors opened.

Jisung’s hand slowly slipped from Minho’s.

And then he was gone.

The surgery lasted several hours.

For Minho, they felt like years.

He paced the waiting room.

Bought coffee he never drank.

Checked his phone every few minutes despite knowing nobody had called.

The clock seemed frozen.

Every second stretched endlessly.

His mind kept imagining worst-case scenarios.

Complications.

Bleeding.

Cardiac arrest.

Infection.

Loss.

He hated himself for thinking about them.

Yet he couldn’t stop.

Because after years of watching Jisung suffer, fear had become second nature.

Finally, several hours later, the surgeon emerged.

Minho was on his feet before the doctor could even speak.

The surgeon removed his mask.

Then smiled.

“The operation was successful.”

For a moment, Minho couldn’t breathe.

The words didn’t register.

Then they finally did.

Successful.

The infected lower leg was gone.

The source of the infection had been removed.

Jisung was alive.

Alive.

Minho immediately covered his face with his hands as tears spilled down his cheeks.

For the first time in what felt like forever, they had won a battle.

The war wasn’t over.

Jisung still faced kidney failure.

Dialysis.

Rehabilitation.

Countless challenges ahead.

But this time, when Minho looked toward the recovery unit doors, he wasn’t wondering whether Jisung would survive.

He was wondering when he could finally tell him the words he’d been carrying all day.

You made it.

-h.

Jisung remained in the hospital for another week after the surgery.

The doctors wanted to monitor him closely and make sure the surgical wound healed properly. Given his history of diabetes, kidney failure, and poor wound healing, nobody wanted to take unnecessary risks.

Surprisingly, the recovery went better than expected.

The infection markers that had stubbornly remained elevated for months began to decrease.

His fevers disappeared completely.

Even the constant exhaustion that had plagued him seemed slightly less severe.

For the first time in a long while, the doctors sounded cautiously optimistic during their rounds.

Minho noticed it too.

The nurses no longer rushed into the room because of emergency alarms.

The specialists weren’t discussing worst-case scenarios every morning.

There was still concern, of course.

But there wasn’t panic.

And after years of living in survival mode, the absence of panic felt almost foreign.

What surprised both of them the most, however, was that neither of them spent much time grieving the loss of Jisung’s lower leg.

They had expected tears.

Breakdowns.

Regret.

Instead, what they mostly felt was relief.

The infected wound that had dominated their lives for months was finally gone.

No more dressing changes that left Jisung crying from pain.

No more watching the wound grow larger instead of healing.

No more wondering whether the infection was silently spreading through his body.

It was over.

One afternoon, Minho was helping Jisung sit upright in bed when the younger suddenly looked down at the blanket covering his leg.

Or rather, where part of it used to be.

The room fell quiet.

Minho immediately froze.

He knew this moment would come eventually.

The moment Jisung would finally allow himself to think about it.

“Does it bother you?” Minho asked softly.

Jisung stared for a few seconds.

Then shrugged.

“Honestly?”

“Hm?”

“I think the infected foot bothered me more.”

Minho blinked.

The younger let out a small laugh.

“It was basically trying to kill me.”

The older couldn’t argue with that.

Jisung looked back toward the window.

“I already lost the ability to walk on it months ago.”

His voice was calm.

Not bitter.

Not angry.

Just honest.

“The surgery didn’t take away my life.”

A pause.

“It gave me more of it.”

Minho felt his chest tighten.

Jisung smiled faintly.

“I think that’s enough for me.”

For the first time since the operation, Minho allowed himself to fully relax.

Because he realized something.

The thing they had been grieving all those months wasn’t the leg.

It had never been the leg.

It was the fear.

The fear of losing Jisung.

The fear of receiving another phone call from the hospital.

The fear of watching him slowly disappear.

Now, for the first time in years, that fear had loosened its grip slightly.

Not completely.

Never completely.

But enough.

A few days later, a physical therapist visited the room.

She discussed rehabilitation plans, wheelchair adjustments, and eventually the possibility of a prosthetic once the surgical site healed adequately.

The list sounded overwhelming.

Months of work.

Months of recovery.

Months of adapting.

Yet neither Jisung nor Minho seemed discouraged.

Compared to everything they had already survived, this felt manageable.

Difficult, yes.

But manageable.

On the seventh day after surgery, one of the doctors entered with a smile.

“The wound looks good.”

Those four words instantly brightened the room.

“No signs of infection?”

Minho asked.

The doctor shook his head.

“None.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Jisung quietly lowered his head.

Not because he was sad.

Because he was relieved.

After months of pain, months of setbacks, and months of watching his body betray him, there was finally something healing the way it was supposed to.

And that felt like a miracle all on its own.

A few days later, the day they had been waiting for finally arrived.

Jisung was being discharged.

The news almost felt unreal.

After countless admissions, emergency room visits, infections, procedures, and surgeries, he was finally well enough to go home.

The nurses who had cared for him over the years stopped by throughout the morning.

Some brought paperwork.

Others came just to say goodbye.

By now, many of them knew Jisung and Minho by name.

They had watched them endure some of the worst moments of their lives together.

One nurse even jokingly crossed her arms and said, “Try not to come back too soon, okay?”

Jisung laughed.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Please do.”

Minho smiled for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

Seeing Jisung laugh without being interrupted by pain still felt like a gift.

The discharge process took hours.

There were medication adjustments.

Follow-up appointments.

Dialysis schedules.

Instructions for wound care.

Physical therapy referrals.

The stack of paperwork seemed endless.

Eventually, everything was finished.

The nurse handed Minho the final documents.

“You’re free to go.”

Free.

It was a strange word.

Because neither of them was truly free.

Jisung still had kidney failure.

He still needed dialysis.

His life would continue revolving around doctors and treatments.

Yet somehow, walking out of the hospital that day felt like freedom anyway.

Minho carefully helped Jisung transfer into his wheelchair.

The younger glanced around the room.

The room that had been his home for nearly two weeks.

The room where he had entered with a life-threatening infection.

The room where he had left a part of himself behind.

And yet…

He wasn’t sad.

Because he was leaving it alive.

“Ready?” Minho asked.

Jisung looked at him.

Then smiled.

“More than ready.”

The journey through the hallways felt strangely emotional.

Nurses waved.

Doctors nodded as they passed.

A few familiar staff members wished him luck.

Jisung returned every smile he could.

The automatic doors at the hospital entrance finally slid open.

Warm sunlight immediately greeted them.

Jisung closed his eyes.

For a brief moment, he simply sat there.

Feeling the sunlight on his skin.

Feeling the breeze.

Feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Alive.

Minho crouched beside him.

“What are you doing?”

Jisung opened one eye.

“Appreciating not being in a hospital.”

“Fair enough.”

A laugh escaped both of them.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it was genuine.

The kind of laugh that had been missing from their lives for far too long.

Minho pushed the wheelchair toward the car.

As he loaded their bags into the trunk, Jisung looked up at the sky.

The future was still uncertain.

There would be dialysis sessions.

Rehabilitation.

Days when his body would hurt.

Days when he would feel frustrated.

Days when he would miss the leg he had lost.

But there would also be mornings at home.

Movie nights with Minho.

Arguments over what to eat.

Lazy afternoons on the couch.

Small moments that once seemed ordinary and now felt priceless.

When Minho finished securing the wheelchair and helped him into the passenger seat, Jisung reached for his hand.

The older immediately intertwined their fingers.

Neither said anything for a moment.

Then Jisung quietly spoke.

“I didn’t think I’d make it this far.”

Minho’s grip tightened.

The younger stared out the windshield.

Months ago, he had been preparing himself for death.

Now he was going home.

Not cured.

Not completely healthy.

But alive.

And for the first time in years, that felt like enough.

Minho leaned over and kissed his forehead.

“Let’s keep going a little longer.”

A soft smile appeared on Jisung’s face.

“Okay.”

Then they drove away from the hospital together, carrying scars, grief, and uncertainty—

but also something they hadn’t had in a very long time.

A future.

For the first few days after being discharged, things seemed almost normal.

As normal as life could be for them, anyway.

Jisung attended his dialysis sessions, took his medications, and spent most of his time recovering from the amputation. The surgical wound continued healing well, which was something neither of them took for granted.

The apartment felt different now.

Lighter.

There were no hospital monitors beeping through the night.

No nurses entering every few hours.

No doctors delivering updates every morning.

Just the two of them.

Sometimes they would watch movies together in silence.

Sometimes Jisung would sit by the window while Minho cooked.

Sometimes they would simply enjoy the fact that they were home.

For a while, it felt like they could finally breathe.

Then things started changing again.

Subtly at first.

Almost unnoticeably.

Jisung stopped finishing his meals.

Minho noticed it during breakfast one morning.

The younger only took a few bites before pushing the food away.

“You don’t like it?”

Jisung shrugged.

“Not hungry.”

Minho didn’t think much of it.

Loss of appetite wasn’t uncommon for him.

But then it happened again at lunch.

And dinner.

The next day was the same.

And the day after that.

Soon, Minho realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Jisung finish an entire meal.

The younger’s energy slowly began disappearing too.

Instead of sitting in the living room, he spent most of his time lying in bed.

Conversations became shorter.

His responses became slower.

Even laughing seemed to require effort.

By the tenth day, Minho was becoming concerned.

By the twelfth, he was terrified.

That morning, he found Jisung awake but staring blankly at the ceiling.

His face looked puffy.

More swollen than usual.

The swelling around his eyelids was especially noticeable.

Even his hands appeared larger.

Minho’s stomach dropped.

He knew those signs.

He had seen them countless times before.

Fluid overload.

Too much water building up inside the body.

A common but dangerous problem for dialysis patients.

“Jisung.”

The younger slowly turned his head.

“Hm?”

Even that single sound came out weak.

His speech sounded slurred.

Exhausted.

Like talking itself was becoming difficult.

Minho immediately moved closer.

“When was the last time you ate properly?”

Jisung frowned as if trying to remember.

“I don’t know.”

The answer came out barely above a whisper.

The older felt panic creeping into his chest.

Up close, he could see it clearly now.

The swelling.

The fatigue.

The dullness in Jisung’s eyes.

The way his chest rose slightly faster with each breath.

“Baby.”

Jisung blinked.

“Can you sit up for me?”

The younger tried.

His arms trembled.

After several seconds, he gave up and sank back into the mattress.

Even that small effort left him breathing heavily.

Minho’s heart immediately began racing.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Not the kind of wrong that could wait until tomorrow.

Not the kind of wrong that could be ignored.

He grabbed Jisung’s hand.

The skin felt tight from the swelling.

“Are you having trouble breathing?”

A slow nod.

“Little bit.”

The room suddenly felt colder.

Minho was already reaching for his phone.

Jisung watched him weakly.

“Hyung…”

“Don’t.”

The older’s voice cracked.

“Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

Because they both knew he wasn’t.

The signs were all there.

The poor appetite.

The weakness.

The swelling.

The difficulty speaking.

The shortness of breath.

Signs they had seen before.

Signs that often meant his body was struggling to handle fluid properly and that urgent medical evaluation was needed.

Minho swallowed hard.

Just twelve days.

Twelve days after finally coming home.

Twelve days after surviving a major surgery.

And now they were staring down another crisis.

He looked at Jisung, whose eyes were already drifting shut from exhaustion.

Fear twisted painfully in his chest.

Not again.

Please, not again.

But as he watched the younger struggle to stay awake, Minho knew there was no point pretending.

Whatever was happening, it was serious.

And they were about to find themselves back where they had spent far too much of the last few years—

the hospital.

The moment they arrived at the emergency department, the medical staff moved quickly.

Far too quickly.

That alone was enough to make Minho’s anxiety skyrocket.

Jisung was immediately transferred onto a hospital bed while nurses checked his vital signs. Questions were thrown at Minho from every direction.

“When was his last dialysis session?”

“How much has he been eating?”

“When did the swelling start?”

“Has he been having difficulty breathing?”

Minho answered as best as he could while keeping his eyes fixed on Jisung.

The younger looked exhausted.

His face was noticeably swollen, and his breathing seemed heavier than normal.

What worried Minho most, however, was how quiet he had become.

Usually, even on his worst days, Jisung still found energy to complain about something.

The hospital food.

The uncomfortable beds.

The nurses waking him up every few hours.

Anything.

Tonight, he barely spoke at all.

Within an hour, blood tests came back.

The nephrologist reviewed the results immediately.

Then she looked at Minho.

“We need to dialyze him right away.”

The words hit like a freight train.

Minho already knew.

He had seen it coming.

But hearing it confirmed still made his stomach sink.

The doctor continued.

“He’s retaining a significant amount of fluid, and it’s placing strain on his body.”

She glanced toward Jisung.

“We don’t want to wait.”

Minho nodded.

“Do whatever you need to do.”

The dialysis team was contacted immediately.

The familiar machine was prepared.

The same machine that had kept Jisung alive for years.

The same machine they had both grown to resent.

Yet in moments like these, it felt like a lifeline.

Jisung was barely awake when they wheeled him into the dialysis unit.

The swelling around his eyes made it difficult for him to keep them fully open.

Every movement seemed to exhaust him.

Minho walked beside the bed.

As always.

Just like he had during hundreds of hospital visits before.

The younger weakly turned his head.

“Sorry.”

The word came out slurred.

Minho immediately frowned.

“For what?”

Jisung attempted a small smile.

“Back again.”

The older felt his chest ache.

Even now, Jisung was apologizing.

As if any of this was his fault.

Minho gently brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“Stop apologizing.”

The younger didn’t argue.

He simply closed his eyes again.

Too tired to continue.

The dialysis session lasted several hours.

Minho remained beside him the entire time.

Watching.

Waiting.

Praying.

As the machine slowly removed excess fluid from Jisung’s body, subtle changes began appearing.

His breathing eased.

The tightness in his swollen hands lessened slightly.

The puffiness around his face gradually decreased.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it was enough.

Enough to reassure everyone that they had acted in time.

Halfway through the session, Jisung finally opened his eyes properly.

The first thing he saw was Minho.

Still sitting there.

Still refusing to leave.

The younger stared at him for a moment.

Then quietly asked,

“Did you eat?”

Minho blinked.

Of all the things he could have said.

“Seriously?”

Jisung looked confused.

“You look hungry.”

A laugh escaped Minho before he could stop it.

A genuine laugh.

One filled with relief.

The dialysis nurse glanced over curiously.

Minho shook his head.

“You scared everyone half to death and you’re worried about whether I ate lunch.”

Jisung managed a weak grin.

“Important question.”

“You’re impossible.”

The younger’s eyes slowly drifted shut again.

But this time, he looked more comfortable.

Less distressed.

Less exhausted.

For the first time since arriving at the hospital, Minho felt some of the tension leave his body.

The crisis wasn’t over.

There would still be tests.

More monitoring.

More questions about why Jisung had declined so quickly.

But at least now he was responding to treatment.

At least now he was breathing easier.

At least now he was awake enough to annoy Minho again.

And strangely enough, that felt reassuring.

As the dialysis machine continued its steady rhythm beside them, Minho reached over and took Jisung’s hand.

The younger squeezed back weakly.

A simple gesture.

A familiar one.

A reminder that despite everything they had endured—

they were still here.

Still fighting.

Still refusing to let go.

The emergency dialysis had helped, but only temporarily.

Instead of improving after the treatment, Jisung continued to decline.

He barely touched the meals placed in front of him. Breakfast would sit untouched until lunchtime. Lunch would remain untouched until dinner. Even when Minho patiently spoon-fed him, Jisung would only manage a mouthful or two before turning his head away in exhaustion.

His body was beginning to consume itself.

The doctors were concerned.

Years of kidney failure had already left him severely malnourished, and the recent amputation had increased his nutritional needs significantly. His body needed energy to heal the surgical wound, fight infections, and recover from months of physical decline.

Yet he wasn’t eating.

At all.

One afternoon, the medical team gathered inside his room.

Minho sat beside the bed while Jisung lay motionless against the pillows.

The younger’s eyelids felt heavy.

Even keeping them open required effort.

The attending physician glanced between them.

“We need to start nutritional support.”

Minho already knew where the conversation was headed.

The doctor continued.

“His body isn’t getting enough calories to recover. We recommend placing a nasogastric tube.”

The words seemed to hang in the room.

A feeding tube.

Another procedure.

Another reminder of how sick he had become.

Jisung slowly closed his eyes.

A few years ago, he would’ve argued.

He would’ve complained.

He would’ve told the doctors exactly how much he hated the idea.

Now he was simply too tired.

Too weak.

Too exhausted to fight.

The insertion happened later that evening.

A nurse carefully explained the procedure while preparing the equipment.

Minho stood beside the bed, holding Jisung’s hand.

The younger’s fingers were cold.

When the tube entered his nostril, Jisung immediately flinched.

His entire face twisted in discomfort.

The sensation was unbearable.

The tube continued advancing down the back of his throat.

His eyes watered instantly.

Every instinct in his body screamed for him to pull it out.

He gagged.

Coughed.

Tears streamed down his cheeks.

The nurse encouraged him to swallow.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually, the tube was successfully positioned.

Jisung collapsed back against the pillows afterward, trembling from exhaustion.

His throat burned.

His nose hurt.

The foreign object felt wrong.

Every swallow reminded him it was there.

Every breath reminded him it was there.

Every second reminded him it was there.

The nurses reassured him that he would eventually adjust.

Jisung wasn’t convinced.

Hours later, when nobody was looking, his hand slowly drifted toward the tube.

His movements were sluggish.

Weak.

But deliberate.

Before anyone could stop him, he pulled.

The tube slid free.

Immediately afterward, he began retching violently.

Minho jumped from his chair.

“Jisung!”

The younger doubled over as dark fluid spilled from his mouth.

The color immediately alarmed everyone in the room.

It wasn’t bright red.

It wasn’t normal vomit.

It was dark brown.

Almost black.

Like old coffee.

The nurses reacted instantly.

One rushed to call the physician.

Another helped support Jisung as he continued retching.

Minho felt his stomach drop.

The younger’s body shook with each heave.

There wasn’t even much left in his stomach to bring up.

Just dark fluid and stomach acid.

The sight terrified him.

Within minutes, doctors were back in the room.

Orders were given.

Blood samples were taken.

Additional tests were requested.

The atmosphere became tense.

Very tense.

Eventually, after evaluating him, the team determined that nutritional support still couldn’t be delayed.

The tube needed to be replaced.

This time, Jisung didn’t fight.

Not because he accepted it.

But because he lacked the strength.

The second insertion seemed even harder than the first.

He winced constantly.

Tears rolled silently down his face.

His hands trembled against the bedsheets.

The entire process left him visibly exhausted.

Afterward, he simply lay there.

Staring upward.

Breathing heavily.

Not speaking.

Not moving.

Just existing.

The following day frightened Minho more than anything that had happened so far.

Jisung barely spoke.

At first, Minho thought he was simply resting.

Then hours passed.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Questions from nurses were answered with slight nods.

Occasionally a shake of the head.

Nothing more.

Even opening his mouth seemed too exhausting.

His eyes looked distant.

Not confused.

Not unconscious.

Just profoundly tired.

As though every ounce of energy inside him had been drained away.

The oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth only added to the unsettling image.

The clear plastic fogged with every breath.

Despite the oxygen being delivered continuously, Jisung still seemed to struggle.

His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Each breath appeared shallow.

Labored.

Like his body had forgotten how to perform something that should have been effortless.

Minho couldn’t stop watching him.

Every gasp made his heart race.

Every grimace made him tense.

Every time Jisung closed his eyes, a wave of panic washed over him.

One evening, the room was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hum of the feeding pump.

The sun had long disappeared.

Most of the lights were dimmed.

Jisung lay perfectly still in bed.

The oxygen mask concealed much of his face, but Minho could still see the pain in his eyes.

The younger stared blankly at the ceiling.

Not watching anything.

Not focusing on anything.

Just staring.

His face remained swollen.

His hands remained swollen.

Even his eyelids looked puffy.

The recent dialysis treatments hadn’t relieved as much fluid as the doctors had hoped.

Minho sat beside him, unable to look away.

This wasn’t the Jisung he knew.

The Jisung he knew never shut up.

He talked constantly.

Complained constantly.

Laughed constantly.

Even during previous hospitalizations, there had always been some trace of that person.

Now the room felt unbearably silent.

Minho carefully reached for his hand.

The skin felt cool.

Fragile.

He wrapped his fingers around it gently.

“Hey.”

No response.

Only the sound of oxygen flowing through the mask.

Minho swallowed.

“You don’t have to talk.”

Jisung’s eyes slowly shifted toward him.

That alone felt like an accomplishment.

The older forced a smile.

“I know you’re tired.”

The younger blinked slowly.

A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Minho immediately felt his chest tighten.

Because for the first time since this nightmare had begun years ago, he wasn’t sure what Jisung was thinking anymore.

The younger couldn’t tell him.

Couldn’t explain his fears.

Couldn’t complain.

Couldn’t joke.

Couldn’t even reassure him.

All he could do was lie there, trapped inside a body that seemed determined to betray him at every turn.

So Minho stayed.

Like he always had.

Holding his hand.

Watching every breath.

Listening to every monitor.

And praying that the exhausted, silent man lying beneath the oxygen mask would find enough strength to keep fighting for one more day.

-h.

They were now relying entirely on formula feeds to keep Jisung alive.

The feeding pump ran almost continuously beside his bed, delivering liquid nutrition through the nasogastric tube directly into his stomach. What used to be ordinary meals—rice, soup, snacks, the foods Jisung used to complain about or crave in the middle of the night—had been reduced to numbers on a chart and bags of formula hanging from a metal pole.

It was necessary.

But that didn’t make it any less heartbreaking.

Minho couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Jisung eat willingly.

Days had passed.

Then weeks.

Now every calorie entering his body came through a tube.

The doctors reassured him that the formula contained everything Jisung needed: protein, calories, vitamins, minerals.

Logically, Minho understood.

Emotionally, it felt like watching another piece of Jisung disappear.

One morning, a nurse arrived to check the feeding system.

“The formula’s running well,” she said while reviewing the chart.

Minho nodded.

His eyes remained fixed on the bed.

Jisung was asleep.

Or at least pretending to be.

These days, it was difficult to tell.

His cheeks were still swollen.

The oxygen mask covered most of his face.

The feeding tube disappeared into his nostril.

Wires and tubing seemed to surround him from every direction.

Sometimes Minho looked at all the equipment and wondered how much more his body could endure.

The nurse gently adjusted the blanket.

“His nutritional markers are improving a little.”

“A little?” Minho immediately asked.

She offered him a sympathetic smile.

“A little is still improvement.”

After she left, Minho sat back down in his chair.

A little.

The words echoed in his head.

A little improvement.

A little stronger.

A little better.

A little hope.

For most people, it wouldn’t have sounded like much.

For Minho, it sounded like everything.

Because lately, every victory had become small.

Jisung opening his eyes without prompting.

A stable blood pressure reading.

A successful dialysis session.

A slight improvement in laboratory results.

Every tiny step forward felt precious.

He reached over and carefully took Jisung’s hand.

The younger’s fingers twitched slightly.

A response.

Minho smiled despite himself.

“Look at you.”

His voice was soft.

“Being difficult as usual.”

Jisung didn’t answer.

The oxygen mask muffled most sounds anyway, and speaking seemed to exhaust him.

Still, Minho continued talking.

He always did.

The silence scared him too much.

“The nurse said you’re improving.”

A pause.

“So you should probably keep that up.”

Nothing.

Minho glanced toward the ceiling.

“You know, this whole thing is incredibly inconvenient for me.”

A faint movement appeared near the younger’s eyes.

Almost like amusement.

Almost.

The older immediately noticed.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Another tiny movement.

Minho felt his chest tighten.

Because it was the closest thing to a reaction he’d gotten all day.

The closest thing to hearing Jisung laugh.

And somehow, that tiny expression felt like a gift.

Later that night, after the doctors had finished their rounds and the ward had grown quiet, Minho remained in his usual chair beside the bed.

The feeding pump hummed steadily.

The oxygen mask hissed softly with each breath.

Outside the window, the city lights flickered in the darkness.

Jisung was asleep.

At least Minho hoped he was.

The younger looked exhausted even when resting.

Carefully, Minho reached forward and brushed a few strands of hair away from his forehead.

His skin felt warm.

Alive.

Still here.

Minho closed his eyes.

For months, he had watched Jisung lose pieces of himself.

His strength.

His independence.

His appetite.

His leg.

His voice.

And yet somehow, despite everything, he was still fighting.

Still breathing.

Still holding on.

The doctors couldn’t promise what would happen next.

Nobody could.

There were too many complications.

Too many uncertainties.

Too many reasons to be afraid.

But as Minho sat there listening to the rhythmic sound of the feeding pump delivering formula into Jisung’s stomach, he allowed himself to hold onto something he hadn’t trusted in a long time.

Hope.

Not the desperate hope for a miracle.

Not the fantasy that everything would suddenly return to normal.

Just the quiet hope that tomorrow might be a little better than today.

That the formula would make him stronger.

That the dialysis would help.

That the swelling would improve.

That the oxygen mask would eventually come off.

That one day Jisung would complain about hospital food again.

It was a simple hope.

A fragile one.

But after everything they had survived, Minho had learned that sometimes fragile things were the strongest of all.

So he tightened his grip on Jisung’s hand and whispered into the darkness,

“Just keep fighting a little longer, baby.”

And for the first time that day, Jisung’s fingers weakly curled around his.

The morning light had barely touched the curtains when Minho woke up to the sound.

Not a dream.

Not imagination.

Real, broken breathing.

At first, he stayed still—half-lost between sleep and awareness—until the sound sharpened into something unmistakable. A strained inhale. A shaky exhale. Then another inhale that sounded like it didn’t reach far enough.

Minho sat up so fast the chair screeched against the floor.

“Jisung?”

What he saw erased the last trace of sleep from his body.

Jisung was awake.

Barely.

His head was tilted slightly to the side on the pillow, the oxygen mask pressed against his face. But it wasn’t helping the way it should have. His chest was rising too quickly, too shallowly, as if each breath had to be negotiated with his body.

His face looked different again.

Puffier.

Heavier.

The swelling had crept back overnight—around his cheeks, his eyelids, even his neck. His hands, resting weakly on the blanket, looked tight and distended.

Fluid.

Too much fluid again.

Minho felt his stomach drop hard.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he said quickly, moving closer.

Jisung’s eyes shifted toward him slowly, like even that movement cost something. His pupils looked dull with exhaustion. There was no energy left in his expression, only strain and a kind of quiet panic that had nowhere to go.

He tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Just a broken exhale through the mask.

Then another gasping breath.

Minho’s hands were already moving. He pressed the emergency call button once, then again as if urgency could speed time itself.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, voice shaking now. “Come on, please—”

The nurses arrived within minutes, but it still felt too slow.

To Minho, everything felt too slow.

They checked Jisung immediately—oxygen saturation, blood pressure, pulse. One nurse adjusted the mask, increasing the oxygen flow. Another spoke softly into the phone, calling for urgent review.

But even as they worked, Jisung’s breathing didn’t settle.

It stayed shallow.

Rushed.

Unstable.

Minho stood frozen at the bedside, watching every detail with a kind of helpless horror he had learned far too well.

The numbers on the monitor confirmed what his eyes already knew.

Fluid overload.

Again.

His body was drowning from the inside.

“His dialysis is scheduled for noon,” one of the nurses said quietly, not unkindly. “The team is preparing.”

Minho turned sharply.

“Noon?” His voice cracked immediately. “He can’t wait until noon.”

The nurse met his eyes, steady but sympathetic. “We’re monitoring him closely. If anything worsens, we’ll escalate.”

If anything worsens.

As if this wasn’t already worse.

Minho let out a shaky breath and looked back at Jisung.

The younger was still trying to breathe through the mask, but it looked less like breathing and more like survival. His chest rose, stalled, then dropped again like it had forgotten the rhythm it was supposed to follow.

His fingers twitched weakly against the blanket.

Minho grabbed his hand immediately.

“I’m here,” he said, softer now, forcing the words out like they mattered enough to hold the world together. “I’m right here, okay?”

Jisung’s eyes shifted toward him again.

Slow.

Heavy.

He squeezed Minho’s hand once.

Barely there.

But it was there.

And then his strength slipped again, as if even that small gesture had taken too much from him.

The room felt too small suddenly.

Too bright.

Too loud with silence.

The oxygen mask hissed with every forced breath, fogging slightly at the edges. The feeding tube pump continued its steady, indifferent rhythm, like it had no awareness of the crisis unfolding above it. Monitors beeped their mechanical warnings, unchanged by emotion.

Time didn’t move.

It just… pressed.

Minho sat down beside the bed, still holding Jisung’s hand, refusing to let go like it could anchor him to something solid.

Minutes crawled.

Eight-thirty.

Nine.

Nine-fifteen.

Every glance at the clock felt like a punishment.

Jisung’s condition didn’t dramatically crash, but it didn’t improve either. He stayed trapped in that exhausting in-between state—awake enough to suffer it, too weak to escape it.

At one point, his eyes drifted fully open again.

He looked at Minho.

Not really focused.

Not really present.

But aware enough.

Minho tried to smile. It failed halfway.

“You’re doing good,” he said quietly, like he could rewrite reality with tone alone. “Just hold on a little longer. Noon’s not far.”

Jisung didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Another breath hitched.

A small sound slipped through the mask—something between a gasp and a sigh.

Minho felt his throat tighten so hard it hurt.

And then it broke.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly—his shoulders shaking as he leaned forward, tears slipping down without permission.

Because there was nothing to fix in that moment.

No words strong enough.

No action fast enough.

Just waiting.

Just watching someone he loved struggle to breathe while the world insisted on a schedule.

Jisung’s fingers moved again.

Searching.

Minho immediately tightened his grip.

“I’m here,” he repeated, voice cracking completely now. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Another weak squeeze answered him.

Barely.

But enough.

And so they stayed like that.

Hand in hand.

One person fighting to breathe.

One person fighting not to fall apart.

Both of them counting down to noon like it was the only thing left in the world that could save them.

Noon had never felt so far away.

For hours, Minho had sat helplessly beside Jisung’s bed, watching him struggle for every breath while the clock crawled forward at a merciless pace. Every minute felt longer than the last. Every glance at the monitor made his stomach twist.

And through it all, Jisung had remained trapped inside a body that seemed determined to betray him.

The swelling had become worse as the morning progressed.

His face was so puffy now that his features looked distorted. His eyelids were swollen almost shut, forcing him to struggle just to keep his eyes open. Even his neck and hands had become visibly enlarged from the excess fluid his body could no longer remove.

The oxygen mask covered most of his face, but it couldn’t hide the exhaustion.

Or the fear.

Every breath looked painful.

Every inhale seemed shallow and insufficient.

Every exhale sounded strained.

Minho had spent the entire morning praying for noon to arrive.

When the dialysis nurse finally entered the room and announced they were ready to bring Jisung downstairs, Minho nearly burst into tears from relief alone.

Finally.

Finally.

The dialysis team quickly began preparing him for transport.

Several nurses carefully moved around the bed, checking his lines and ensuring everything was secure.

Jisung barely reacted.

His body looked completely drained.

The younger stared blankly toward the ceiling while they worked around him.

He didn’t complain.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even wince much anymore.

That scared Minho more than anything.

Jisung always complained.

Even during his worst hospitalizations.

Even after surgeries.

Even during dialysis sessions.

He always had something to say.

Now there was nothing.

Only silence.

Only exhaustion.

“Okay, Jisung,” one of the nurses said softly. “We’re going to move you now.”

The younger’s eyes shifted slightly toward her voice.

A weak acknowledgment.

Nothing more.

The nurses carefully transferred him onto the transport stretcher.

The simple movement immediately caused him distress.

His chest began rising faster beneath the blanket.

The oxygen mask fogged rapidly.

His fingers curled weakly against the sheets.

Minho’s heart sank.

Even being repositioned was enough to leave him breathless.

The nurses quickly adjusted the mask and reassured him.

“It’s okay.”

“Almost done.”

“You’re doing well.”

Jisung closed his eyes.

Minho wasn’t sure whether it was because he was trying to conserve energy or because he was simply too exhausted to keep them open.

Probably both.

The stretcher began rolling toward the door.

Minho followed immediately.

Just as he always did.

Just as he always would.

The journey through the hospital corridors felt surreal.

The wheels of the stretcher rattled softly against the floor.

Staff members stepped aside to make room.

Patients and visitors passed by.

The world continued moving around them.

Meanwhile, Minho felt like his entire universe had narrowed down to the man lying in front of him.

Nothing else mattered.

Not the conversations happening nearby.

Not the people walking past.

Not even himself.

Only Jisung.

Only his breathing.

Only getting him to dialysis.

Minho walked beside the stretcher, his eyes never leaving him.

The younger looked so small.

So fragile.

The hospital blanket covered most of his body, but it couldn’t hide how thin he had become.

The feeding tube was still secured in place.

The oxygen mask covered half his face.

The swollen skin around his eyes made him look almost unrecognizable.

And yet Minho still saw the same person he’d fallen in love with eight years ago.

The same person who used to stay up all night laughing with him.

The same person who used to dance around the apartment for no reason.

The same person who used to complain endlessly about everything.

The contrast was unbearable.

A fresh wave of tears blurred his vision.

He quickly wiped them away.

Only for more to replace them.

He couldn’t stop.

No matter how hard he tried.

The dialysis unit came into view.

The familiar sight immediately made his chest tighten.

They had spent countless hours here together.

Hundreds of hours.

Maybe thousands.

Yet today felt different.

Today felt terrifying.

The nurses guided Jisung into his assigned station.

Machines hummed quietly around them.

The familiar dialysis equipment stood ready.

Ordinarily, the sight would’ve filled Minho with dread.

Today it felt like salvation.

The staff immediately got to work.

Checking his catheter.

Recording his vital signs.

Preparing the machine.

Everything moved efficiently.

Professionally.

Urgently.

Because everyone could see how overloaded with fluid he had become.

Minho stood in the corner for a moment, watching.

Watching the nurses.

Watching the machine.

Watching Jisung.

Then suddenly it became too much.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The helplessness.

Everything he’d been holding inside for months.

Years.

It all hit him at once.

His knees nearly gave out.

He sank into a nearby chair and covered his face.

A broken sob escaped him.

Then another.

Then another.

He couldn’t stop.

He hated this.

God, he hated this.

He hated watching Jisung suffer.

Hated seeing him gasping for air.

Hated seeing him connected to machines just to stay alive.

Hated knowing there was nothing he could do to take the pain away.

He would’ve traded places with him in a heartbeat if he could.

Without hesitation.

Without question.

Instead, all he could do was watch.

And it was killing him.

“I hate this,” he whispered into his hands.

His voice cracked.

“I hate seeing him like this.”

The words dissolved into another sob.

Nobody interrupted him.

Nobody told him to calm down.

The nurses understood.

They had watched this couple fight through crisis after crisis.

They knew how much Minho loved him.

Eventually, he lowered his hands.

His eyes were red.

His face was wet with tears.

That’s when he noticed Jisung staring at him.

The younger’s eyes were barely open.

Swollen.

Exhausted.

Yet somehow still focused entirely on him.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Jisung slowly lifted his hand.

The movement looked impossibly difficult.

His arm trembled.

His fingers shook.

It seemed to take every ounce of strength he had left.

Minho immediately stood.

Before Jisung’s hand could fall back onto the blanket, he reached forward and grabbed it.

The younger’s fingers weakly curled around his.

A tiny squeeze.

So weak that another person might not have noticed it.

Minho did.

Of course he did.

And somehow that tiny gesture shattered him completely.

Because even now—

Even while gasping for breath.

Even while swollen and exhausted.

Even while barely able to keep his eyes open—

Jisung was still trying to comfort him.

A sob caught in Minho’s throat.

He lowered his forehead against their joined hands.

The dialysis machine finally started.

Blood began moving through the tubing.

The treatment that Jisung had relied on for years was once again taking over the job his kidneys could no longer do.

Minho closed his eyes tightly.

And as the machine hummed steadily beside them, he silently prayed.

Not for miracles.

Not for impossible cures.

Just for relief.

For easier breathing.

For less suffering.

For one peaceful day.

Because watching the person he loved fight so hard simply to stay alive was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. And all he wanted, more than anything else in the world, was for Jisung to finally get a chance to rest.

The dialysis session had barely begun when Minho realized something was wrong.

Not the usual discomfort Jisung experienced during treatment.

Not the occasional cramping or fatigue that had become familiar over the years.

This was different.

Jisung couldn’t seem to get comfortable no matter how hard he tried.

His body remained tense against the hospital bed, every muscle drawn tight with discomfort. Beneath the oxygen mask, his breathing continued to come in short, desperate bursts. His chest rose sharply, then fell just as quickly, as though each breath vanished before it could satisfy him.

A soft whimper escaped him.

Then another.

Minho immediately stood from his chair.

“Jisung?”

The younger’s eyes fluttered open.

They were glossy.

Unfocused.

Filled with exhaustion.

And pain.

So much pain.

His face twisted slightly before another wince crossed his features.

The expression disappeared almost immediately, only to return seconds later.

Again.

And again.

And again.

As though every part of his body hurt.

As though there was nowhere he could escape from it.

The dialysis nurses quickly noticed.

One approached the bedside.

“Jisung, can you tell me where it hurts?”

His lips parted beneath the oxygen mask.

Nothing came out.

Not a word.

Only another shaky breath.

Another gasp.

The nurse tried again.

“Can you point?”

Slowly, weakly, Jisung lifted a trembling hand.

Then let it fall back onto the blanket.

He didn’t have enough strength.

Minho’s chest tightened painfully.

Over the past few days, Jisung had become so weak that even simple communication had become difficult.

The younger looked trapped inside his own body.

Unable to explain.

Unable to express what he was feeling.

Unable to ask for help properly.

All he could do was gasp.

Wince.

Endure.

Another painful breath rattled through the oxygen mask.

Jisung’s eyes squeezed shut.

His eyebrows knitted together.

His fingers curled tightly against the bedsheets.

The movement lasted only a few seconds before exhaustion overtook him again.

Then it happened once more.

Another wince.

Another strained gasp.

Minho felt helpless.

Completely helpless.

The younger looked like someone desperately trying to hold himself together.

Like someone silently pleading for relief.

Not necessarily with words.

But with every expression.

Every movement.

Every breath.

The nurses immediately began assessing him again.

Checking his oxygen saturation.

Monitoring his blood pressure.

Listening to his lungs.

Making sure the dialysis treatment was proceeding safely.

Yet despite their reassurances, Minho couldn’t stop staring at Jisung.

Couldn’t stop noticing every tiny sign of suffering.

The way his shoulders tensed.

The way his breathing accelerated.

The way tears occasionally gathered at the corners of his eyes.

At one point, Jisung opened his eyes and looked around the room.

The movement seemed frantic.

Almost searching.

His gaze shifted from nurse to nurse.

Then toward Minho.

Then toward the ceiling.

Then back again.

His breaths became quicker.

Shorter.

More desperate.

The oxygen mask fogged rapidly with each exhale.

For a brief moment, Minho’s heart shattered.

Because Jisung looked terrified.

Not dramatic.

Not hysterical.

Just scared.

The kind of fear that appears when someone feels trapped inside pain they can’t escape.

Minho immediately moved closer.

“I’m here.”

The words came out shaky.

He took Jisung’s hand carefully.

The younger’s fingers immediately tightened around his.

Weakly.

Desperately.

As though grounding himself.

“It’s okay,” Minho whispered, even though he wasn’t sure either of them believed it.

The younger squeezed harder.

Another wince crossed his face.

Another painful breath followed.

Then another.

The dialysis staff continued working around them, closely monitoring every change and responding to his symptoms, while Minho remained rooted beside the bed.

Hours earlier, he had been crying because he hated watching Jisung struggle to breathe.

Now he hated watching him hurt.

Hated watching him suffer without being able to explain exactly what he felt.

Hated seeing fear in the eyes of someone who had already endured more than most people could imagine.

So he stayed.

Holding his hand.

Rubbing small circles across his knuckles.

Talking softly whenever Jisung seemed frightened.

Reminding him over and over that he wasn’t alone.

Because at that moment, when words were failing him and pain seemed to be consuming all of his energy, that was the only thing Minho could still give him.

His presence.

And the promise that he wouldn’t let him face it by himself.

Halfway through the dialysis session, the room began to feel different.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

But enough for Minho to notice.

For hours, he had been sitting rigidly beside Jisung’s bed, unable to relax for even a second. Every muscle in his body ached from tension. Every sound from the dialysis machine made him look up. Every slight movement from Jisung sent panic through his chest.

The image of that morning still haunted him.

Jisung gasping desperately beneath the oxygen mask.

His swollen face.

The helpless look in his eyes.

The terrifying feeling that no matter how much oxygen was being delivered, it simply wasn’t enough.

Minho had genuinely thought he was watching him drown.

Not in water.

In fluid.

In his own failing body.

Even now, the memory made his stomach twist.

So when he noticed the change, he didn’t allow himself to believe it at first.

He thought he was imagining it.

Until he looked closer.

And realized Jisung’s chest wasn’t moving the same way anymore.

The frantic rise and fall had slowed.

The desperate gasps that had filled the room throughout the morning had disappeared.

His breathing was still labored.

Still heavier than normal.

But it no longer looked like a fight for survival.

The oxygen mask remained secured over his face, the transparent plastic fogging slightly with every exhale, but the violent condensation that had formed earlier was gone.

Minho stared.

His eyes immediately filled with tears.

Because for the first time all day—

Jisung wasn’t gasping.

The realization hit him so suddenly that he had to look away.

His shoulders sagged.

A breath escaped his lips.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it.

A nurse approached to check the machine and smiled gently after assessing Jisung.

“The fluid removal is helping.”

Minho immediately nodded.

His throat was too tight to answer.

Because he could see it.

The swelling was changing.

Slowly.

Almost imperceptibly.

But it was changing.

Earlier that morning, Jisung’s face had been so swollen that his eyes looked nearly shut.

Now his eyelids seemed less tight.

The puffiness around his cheeks had reduced slightly.

His neck looked less swollen.

Even his hands appeared smaller than before.

Not normal.

Not yet.

But better.

Definitely better.

The improvement felt like a miracle.

After everything they had gone through over the last several weeks, Minho had learned not to trust hope too quickly.

But seeing Jisung finally breathing without that desperate struggle made something inside him loosen for the first time in days.

The relief was overwhelming.

Yet even as the fluid overload improved, another problem remained.

Pain.

Jisung couldn’t seem to escape it.

Every few minutes his face would tighten.

His eyebrows would pull together.

A small wince would cross his features before fading away.

Only to return moments later.

Minho noticed every single one.

The younger shifted slightly against the bed.

Immediately his face twisted.

A sharp breath escaped beneath the oxygen mask.

His fingers tightened weakly against the blanket.

Then came another wince.

And another.

And another.

The pain never seemed to fully leave him.

It was as though his body had become one giant wound.

Months of illness.

Repeated hospitalizations.

Surgery.

Infections.

Amputation.

Dialysis.

None of it had been gentle.

His body carried the cost of every battle.

Minho reached forward and gently brushed a hand through his hair.

The younger’s eyes fluttered open.

They looked clearer now.

Still exhausted.

Still distant.

But clearer.

More present.

More aware.

And that alone nearly made Minho cry again.

Earlier that morning, Jisung had looked like he was fading.

Now he was actually looking back at him.

Minho carefully took his hand.

The skin still felt swollen.

Still fragile.

But warmer somehow.

More alive.

“Hey.”

Jisung’s gaze shifted toward him.

The movement was slow.

Painfully slow.

As though even turning his head required effort.

Minho forced a smile.

A real one this time.

Not the fake smiles he’d been using all morning to hide his fear.

“You scared me.”

The younger stared at him for a moment.

Then his eyes softened slightly.

A tiny squeeze answered him.

Weak.

Barely noticeable.

Yet enough.

Enough for Minho’s chest to ache.

Enough for fresh tears to sting his eyes.

Because even after everything, Jisung was still trying to comfort him.

Still trying to reassure him.

Even when he was the one suffering.

The younger attempted to move again.

Immediately another wince crossed his face.

His eyes squeezed shut.

A faint sound escaped him beneath the oxygen mask.

Not a word.

Just pain.

Raw and involuntary.

Minho immediately leaned closer.

“It’s okay.”

The words came automatically.

The same words he’d repeated thousands of times throughout the years.

Words that never seemed sufficient.

Words that couldn’t take away the pain.

But words he spoke anyway.

Because he refused to let Jisung suffer alone.

The younger slowly opened his eyes again.

Tears had gathered in the corners.

Whether from pain or exhaustion, Minho couldn’t tell.

Maybe both.

The sight shattered him.

Because even though the dialysis was helping, even though the swelling was improving, even though the breathing crisis seemed to be passing—

Jisung was still hurting.

And there was nothing Minho could do to stop it.

The dialysis machine continued its steady rhythm beside them.

Blood flowed through the tubing.

The treatment slowly pulled excess fluid from his body.

The nurses moved around quietly, monitoring him closely.

Outside the large windows, the afternoon sun had begun to shine.

Life continued.

People walked through the hospital hallways.

Visitors came and went.

Doctors moved between patients.

Meanwhile, Minho’s entire world remained concentrated inside this small corner of the dialysis unit.

Inside this hospital bed.

Inside the trembling hand he refused to let go of.

Hours earlier, he had been terrified that Jisung wouldn’t make it through the day.

Now he sat beside him watching the swelling slowly disappear from his face.

Watching his breathing gradually settle.

Watching life return to eyes that had looked frighteningly empty that morning.

The pain was still there.

The suffering was still there.

But so was Jisung.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

Still holding on.

And for now, that was enough.

The dialysis session finally came to an end sometime in the late afternoon.

For the first time that day, Minho felt like he could breathe.

Not because everything was okay.

Far from it.

Jisung was still critically ill. He was still dependent on dialysis. He still had a feeding tube running through his nose, an oxygen mask strapped over his face, and a body that seemed to be losing strength with each passing week.

But he was breathing.

That alone felt like a victory.

The terrifying gasping that had haunted the entire morning was gone. The swelling in his face had gone down significantly, allowing his features to become recognizable again. He looked exhausted—more exhausted than Minho had ever seen him—but at least he no longer looked like he was suffocating.

Minho hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding onto fear until it finally loosened its grip.

Only slightly.

But enough.

The nurses moved around the station, preparing to disconnect Jisung from the machine. The younger stirred weakly as they worked.

A faint wince crossed his face.

Then another.

His eyebrows pulled together.

Even with the fluid removed and his breathing improved, the pain remained.

It always remained.

Jisung’s body had become a battlefield long ago.

Every movement seemed to hurt.

Every touch seemed uncomfortable.

Every day brought some new source of suffering.

His eyes fluttered open briefly.

Half-lidded.

Clouded with exhaustion.

They found Minho almost immediately.

The older was still sitting exactly where he’d been for most of the day, holding his hand.

Jisung’s fingers twitched weakly against his palm.

Minho immediately leaned closer.

“I’m here.”

The younger stared at him for a few seconds before his eyes drifted shut again.

The effort of staying awake seemed impossible.

A nurse smiled softly.

“He’s much better than he was this morning.”

Minho nodded.

His throat felt too tight to answer.

Because she was right.

This morning he had genuinely believed he might lose him.

Now they were preparing to return him to his hospital room.

The difference felt unreal.

As the staff carefully disconnected the tubing and secured Jisung’s catheter, another familiar voice entered the unit.

“Minho-hyung.”

Minho looked up.

His tired eyes widened slightly.

“Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin approached slowly, his expression immediately softening when he saw Jisung.

Or rather, when he saw what remained of him.

The younger froze for a moment.

The last time he’d visited, Jisung had still been weak, but not like this.

Not this thin.

Not this frail.

Not this dependent on machines.

The feeding tube.

The oxygen mask.

The prominent bones beneath pale skin.

The exhaustion etched into every feature.

Seeing it in person felt like being punched in the chest.

For a few moments, Hyunjin couldn’t speak.

He simply stood there staring.

Then he carefully approached the bed.

“Hey, Sungie.”

Jisung’s eyes cracked open slightly.

Recognition flickered.

Very faintly.

He didn’t have the energy to smile.

Didn’t have the energy to speak.

But he knew who was standing there.

And somehow that seemed enough.

Hyunjin swallowed hard.

God.

He looked so tired.

Not sleepy.

Not fatigued.

The kind of tired that settled into a person’s soul.

The kind of tired that came from fighting for far too long.

The kind that scared everyone who loved him.

Eventually Hyunjin looked away and turned toward Minho.

And immediately noticed something else.

Minho wasn’t doing much better.

The older looked exhausted.

His eyes were bloodshot.

Dark circles sat heavily beneath them.

His hair was a mess.

His clothes were wrinkled.

His face looked thinner than Hyunjin remembered.

Almost as though he’d been slowly starving himself alongside Jisung.

Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.

“You look awful.”

A tired laugh escaped Minho.

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

The answer came quietly.

Too quietly.

Hyunjin sat down beside him.

For a moment, they simply watched Jisung sleep.

The room felt peaceful compared to the chaos of earlier.

The steady beeping of monitors.

The soft hiss of oxygen.

The distant sounds of hospital staff moving through the hallways.

Then Hyunjin spoke again.

“You should go home tonight.”

Minho immediately shook his head.

“No.”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation.

Not a second of consideration.

Just no.

Hyunjin sighed.

“Hyung.”

“No.”

“You haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

“No.”

“You need rest.”

Minho finally looked at him.

The exhaustion in his eyes was overwhelming.

But beneath it was something stronger.

Something immovable.

“I’m not leaving him.”

The room fell silent.

Hyunjin followed his gaze.

Jisung lay motionless beneath the blanket.

His breathing had finally become calm.

His hand remained loosely intertwined with Minho’s.

Even asleep, he hadn’t let go.

Neither had Minho.

The younger sighed softly.

Because truthfully, he understood.

After everything that had happened today, there was no chance Minho would leave.

Not after watching Jisung fight for air all morning.

Not after crying helplessly beside his bed.

Not after spending hours wondering whether he was witnessing the beginning of the end.

There was simply no way.

So Hyunjin changed his approach.

“Then I’ll stay too.”

Minho blinked.

“What?”

“I’ll stay.”

The older stared at him.

Hyunjin shrugged.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

The words hit harder than expected.

Because for years, Minho had carried this burden almost entirely by himself.

The appointments.

The emergencies.

The surgeries.

The dialysis sessions.

The late-night scares.

The hospital admissions.

The fear.

So much fear.

He had gotten used to carrying it alone.

Maybe too used to it.

His eyes stung unexpectedly.

Hyunjin noticed but pretended not to.

Giving him the dignity of looking away.

“You can at least take a shower.”

Minho laughed weakly.

“I shower.”

“When?”

“…”

“Exactly.”

That earned another laugh.

A real one this time.

Small.

Broken.

But real.

Eventually Jisung was transferred back to his room.

The sun had already begun setting outside, painting the hospital windows in shades of orange and gold.

The nurses settled him comfortably into bed.

Adjusted his oxygen mask.

Checked his feeding tube.

Monitored his vital signs.

Then slowly left the room.

Leaving the three of them alone.

Jisung slept almost immediately.

The dialysis had drained every ounce of energy from him.

His face remained peaceful for once.

Not because he was comfortable.

Not because he wasn’t hurting.

But because he was no longer fighting for breath.

And after today, that felt like enough.

Night eventually settled over the hospital.

The city lights glimmered outside the window.

The room darkened.

Machines continued their steady rhythm.

Minho sat on one side of the bed.

Hyunjin sat on the other.

Neither of them spoke much.

There wasn’t much left to say.

Both simply watched Jisung sleep.

Watched his chest rise and fall.

Watched the oxygen mask move with each breath.

Watched the monitors reassure them that he was still here.

Still alive.

Still fighting.

And for the first time in a long while, Minho didn’t feel completely alone.

He still refused to leave.

Still refused to go home.

Still refused to be separated from Jisung for even a night.

But now, as Hyunjin quietly settled into the chair beside them, he realized something.

Maybe he didn’t have to carry the fear by himself anymore.

Maybe, for tonight at least, there was someone else helping him keep watch.

-h.

The room had fallen into a comfortable silence.

Outside the hospital window, the city glowed beneath the darkness of the evening. Tiny lights flickered in distant buildings while traffic moved like streams of gold and red below. Most of the hospital floor had quieted down for the night, the hurried footsteps and conversations of the day replaced by the occasional murmur from nurses’ stations and the steady beeping of monitors.

Hyunjin had eventually settled onto the small couch near the window.

The younger had insisted he was fine.

That Minho should focus on Jisung while he stayed nearby if either of them needed anything.

Within an hour, exhaustion had won.

Hyunjin was asleep, curled awkwardly beneath a thin hospital blanket.

Minho, however, couldn’t sleep.

Not even a little.

He sat beside Jisung’s bed exactly where he always was.

One hand gently resting on the younger’s arm.

Watching.

Waiting.

Protecting.

The oxygen mask still covered part of Jisung’s face. The feeding tube remained secured against his cheek. The monitors beside the bed displayed reassuring numbers, each soft beep confirming what Minho desperately needed to hear.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

Jisung stirred slightly.

A faint wince crossed his face.

Minho immediately leaned forward.

“Hey, baby.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

The younger’s eyes fluttered open.

Heavy.

Exhausted.

Drugged by fatigue.

For a moment he simply stared.

Confused.

Then his gaze slowly focused on Minho.

Recognition appeared.

A tiny amount.

But enough.

“Can’t sleep?” Minho asked softly.

Jisung blinked once.

The closest thing to a nod he could manage.

Minho smiled gently.

His fingers brushed through the younger’s hair.

What remained of it.

Another thing illness had stolen from him.

The sight still broke his heart.

“Try to sleep for me.”

Jisung continued looking at him.

His eyes looked glassy beneath the dim hospital lighting.

Tired beyond words.

Minho swallowed hard.

The younger had always been beautiful to him.

Always.

Before the illness.

Before the dialysis.

Before the surgeries.

Before the feeding tubes and oxygen masks and endless hospital admissions.

And now.

Especially now.

Because every scar.

Every wound.

Every loss.

Was proof that Jisung was still fighting.

Still refusing to leave.

Still choosing life despite everything it demanded from him.

A painful lump formed in Minho’s throat.

Jisung’s eyelids slowly began drooping.

The younger was barely awake.

Barely conscious.

Yet he continued looking at Minho as though he was afraid the older might disappear if he looked away.

Minho carefully took his hand.

“I’m right here.”

A weak squeeze answered him.

Then Jisung’s eyes finally drifted shut.

Within minutes, his breathing deepened.

Not perfect.

Not healthy.

But peaceful.

And that was enough.

Minho remained still.

Watching him.

The room seemed impossibly quiet now.

His eyes traced every feature of Jisung’s face.

The curve of his nose.

The dark lashes resting against swollen cheeks.

The pale skin.

The fragile body beneath the blankets.

Fear settled heavily inside his chest.

Because seeing Jisung sleeping peacefully should have comforted him.

Instead, it terrified him.

The younger looked so fragile.

So heartbreakingly fragile.

Like someone the world could take away at any moment.

Minho lowered his head.

His grip on Jisung’s hand tightened slightly.

And for the first time all day, he allowed himself to think the thoughts he’d been desperately trying to avoid.

What if one day this bed was empty?

What if one day he reached for Jisung’s hand and there was nobody there?

What if one day there were no more hospital admissions?

No more dialysis sessions?

No more arguments?

No more late-night conversations?

No more Jisung?

The thought alone made his chest cave in.

“No.”

The word escaped before he realized he’d spoken aloud.

His eyes immediately filled with tears.

He looked at the sleeping boy beside him.

His boy.

His baby.

His honeybee.

Eight years.

Eight years of laughter.

Eight years of memories.

Eight years of love woven into every corner of his life.

There was no version of Minho that existed without Jisung.

Every future he had ever imagined included him.

Every dream.

Every plan.

Every ordinary little moment.

Jisung was there.

Always there.

Minho bowed his head, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

For months he had tried to stay strong.

For Jisung.

For everyone else.

But tonight the fear felt unbearable.

Quietly, he pressed Jisung’s hand against his forehead.

A desperate gesture.

Almost prayer-like.

And maybe it was.

Because in the silence of that hospital room, Minho found himself praying harder than he ever had before.

Not for money.

Not for success.

Not for himself.

Just for Jisung.

Please.

Please let him stay.

Please let me keep him a little longer.

Please don’t take him away from me.

His shoulders trembled.

Tears continued falling.

If there was a way to trade years from his own life, he would.

If there was a way to carry half of Jisung’s pain, he would.

If there was a way to sacrifice everything he owned just to guarantee that Jisung would survive, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Career.

Money.

Comfort.

Dreams.

Anything.

Everything.

None of it mattered.

Not compared to the boy sleeping beside him.

Minho lifted his head and looked at him again.

The monitors continued their steady rhythm.

The oxygen mask rose and fell with every breath.

Alive.

Still alive.

Still here.

The sight brought fresh tears to his eyes.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Jisung’s forehead.

A lingering one.

As though he was trying to memorize the feeling.

When he finally pulled away, his voice cracked.

“I love you.”

The words were barely audible.

“I love you so much.”

Jisung remained asleep.

Unaware of the tears.

Unaware of the prayers.

Unaware of the desperation hidden behind Minho’s exhausted eyes.

But Minho stayed there anyway.

Holding his hand.

Watching over him.

Praying that when morning came, Jisung would still be there to squeeze his hand back.

It was well past midnight when the quiet of the room was interrupted.

The overhead lights remained dimmed, casting soft shadows across the walls. Hyunjin was asleep on the couch near the window, one arm hanging over the edge of the cushion. Minho remained awake in his chair, exactly where he had been for hours.

He hadn’t moved.

Couldn’t move.

Not when Jisung was finally sleeping peacefully.

The younger lay beneath the blankets, his breathing slow and steady beneath the oxygen mask. The feeding pump continued its quiet rhythm beside him while the monitors emitted their familiar beeps.

For the first time all day, he looked comfortable.

Or as comfortable as someone in his condition could be.

Minho was absentmindedly stroking his hand when a soft knock sounded at the door.

His stomach immediately tightened.

Nobody knocked on hospital room doors after midnight unless they had something important to discuss.

A doctor stepped inside, accompanied by one of the nurses.

The expression on the doctor’s face was enough to make Minho stand immediately.

“What happened?”

The doctor glanced toward the sleeping patient before gesturing toward the corner of the room.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

Fear instantly settled in Minho’s chest.

The familiar kind.

The kind he’d become all too acquainted with over the years.

Slowly, he followed.

“What is it?”

The doctor lowered his voice.

“We received the laboratory results that were taken during dialysis earlier.”

Minho felt his pulse quicken.

“And?”

The doctor sighed.

“The results show signs that there’s still an active infection somewhere in his body.”

The words felt like a punch to the stomach.

For a second, Minho couldn’t respond.

His eyes immediately drifted toward Jisung.

Still sleeping.

Still looking so fragile.

“An infection?” he whispered.

The doctor nodded.

“The inflammatory markers remain elevated. Higher than we’d like to see.”

Minho felt cold.

“But the surgery…”

“The amputation removed the infected tissue we could identify at the time.”

The doctor carefully chose his words.

“But these results suggest there may still be another source.”

Minho’s throat tightened.

Another source.

Another problem.

Another complication.

It felt endless.

The doctor continued.

“We examined the surgical site thoroughly.”

Minho immediately looked up.

“The stitches?”

“No obvious signs of infection.”

The doctor’s voice remained calm.

“The wound appears clean.”

That made even less sense.

Minho ran a hand through his hair.

“If the stitches aren’t infected, then where is it coming from?”

The doctor remained silent for a moment.

Not because he didn’t want to answer.

Because he couldn’t.

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

Those words terrified Minho more than anything.

Because uncertainty had become the scariest part of Jisung’s illness.

At least known problems could be treated.

Known problems had names.

Solutions.

Plans.

But an unknown infection?

That was different.

“We suspect it may be internal.”

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Minho stared.

Internal.

The word echoed inside his head.

His mind immediately jumped to a hundred terrible possibilities.

Bloodstream infections.

Deep tissue infections.

Complications hidden somewhere inside a body that had already suffered too much.

The doctor quickly continued.

“Right now, it’s only a suspicion.”

Minho latched onto those words.

Only a suspicion.

Not a certainty.

Not yet.

“We’ll need additional tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“Blood cultures. Imaging. Further investigations.”

The doctor glanced toward Jisung.

“We need to find the source.”

Minho followed his gaze.

The younger remained asleep.

Completely unaware of the conversation taking place only a few feet away.

For a moment, the older felt overwhelmed by a crushing sense of helplessness.

Just when they thought they had solved the problem.

Just when the surgery seemed successful.

Just when they had allowed themselves a little hope.

Another obstacle appeared.

Another battle waiting for them.

The doctor placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“We caught this because we checked.”

Minho looked up.

“We haven’t stopped looking.”

The reassurance helped.

A little.

But not enough to erase the fear.

Nothing could.

After the doctor and nurse left, silence returned to the room.

Minho remained standing where he was.

Unable to move.

Unable to think.

The information continued replaying in his mind.

Still infected.

We don’t know where.

Possibly internal.

Eventually, he walked back toward the bed.

Slowly.

As though afraid the floor might disappear beneath him.

Jisung was still asleep.

Still breathing steadily.

Still holding on.

The younger looked peaceful, completely unaware that another storm might already be gathering.

Minho sat down carefully.

His hand found Jisung’s immediately.

Warm.

Alive.

Still here.

The older closed his eyes briefly.

He was so tired.

So unbelievably tired.

Yet fear instantly pushed away any chance of sleep.

Because tomorrow would bring more tests.

More questions.

More waiting.

And maybe answers they didn’t want to hear.

Jisung shifted slightly in his sleep.

A faint crease appeared between his brows before disappearing again.

Minho gently brushed his hair back.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“Just give us one break.”

The words weren’t directed at anyone in particular.

Not the doctors.

Not the hospital.

Maybe God.

Maybe fate.

Maybe the universe itself.

“I just want one break.”

Across the room, Hyunjin continued sleeping peacefully, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place.

Meanwhile, Minho sat in the darkness beside Jisung’s bed, holding his hand as tightly as he dared.

Listening to the monitors.

Watching each breath.

And silently preparing himself for whatever bad news tomorrow might bring.

Minho never closed his eyes.

The entire night passed in a blur of monitor lights, whispered prayers, and fear.

After the doctor had informed him about the laboratory results showing signs of a persistent infection somewhere inside Jisung’s body, sleep had become impossible. Every time he looked at the younger, all he could think about was the doctor’s words.

We suspect it may be internal.

The uncertainty was eating him alive.

For hours, he sat beside the bed, watching Jisung sleep.

Or at least trying to sleep.

Even unconscious, the younger never seemed truly comfortable anymore. Every now and then, a small wince would crease his face. His fingers would twitch. His body would shift slightly beneath the blankets before settling again.

Minho noticed every single movement.

Every breath.

Every sound.

The oxygen mask rose and fell steadily over Jisung’s face, and Minho found himself counting the breaths without realizing it.

One.

Two.

Three.

Still breathing.

Still here.

The thought repeated in his mind like a prayer.

Every time he looked away from Jisung, fear immediately crawled into his chest.

What if something happened?

What if he stopped breathing?

What if his condition worsened again?

What if—

Minho stopped himself before the thoughts could continue.

He couldn’t think like that.

He couldn’t.

Around five in the morning, the first traces of dawn began appearing through the hospital window.

The sky shifted from black to dark blue.

Then gray.

The city slowly woke up.

The hospital floor began coming alive again as nurses changed shifts and staff prepared for another day.

Minho hadn’t moved.

His neck hurt.

His back hurt.

His eyes felt dry and swollen from lack of sleep.

And suddenly, he realized something.

He hadn’t eaten.

Not properly.

Not yesterday.

Not the day before that either.

His stomach twisted painfully.

At 5:50 AM, he finally stood.

Reluctantly.

His eyes immediately drifted toward Jisung.

The younger was sleeping.

His breathing was stable.

His oxygen mask remained securely in place.

The monitors looked reassuring.

Hyunjin was still asleep nearby.

It would only take a few minutes.

Ten at most.

Fifteen if the cafeteria was crowded.

Minho gently reached forward and brushed a hand through Jisung’s hair.

“I’ll be right back.”

His voice was barely audible.

The younger didn’t respond.

Still asleep.

Minho swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

Then slowly left the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence returned.

For a while, everything remained peaceful.

The morning light gradually brightened the room.

The feeding pump continued its quiet rhythm.

The monitors beeped steadily.

Hyunjin slept soundly on the couch.

Then—

A sound.

A weak gasp.

Hyunjin stirred.

His brows furrowed.

Half-asleep.

Not fully awake.

Another gasp.

Softer this time.

But unmistakable.

His eyes slowly opened.

At first, confusion clouded his expression.

Then he heard it again.

A shallow, strained breath.

His entire body immediately tensed.

The last traces of sleep vanished.

“Jisung?”

He sat upright so quickly the blanket slid off the couch.

The younger’s eyes were open.

Barely.

His face had become frighteningly pale.

His chest rose unevenly beneath the blanket.

The oxygen mask still covered his face, yet something was terribly wrong.

He was gasping again.

Not like yesterday.

Yesterday had been violent.

Desperate.

Panicked.

This was different.

This looked weaker.

Far weaker.

As if his body no longer had enough strength to fight.

Each breath seemed to take enormous effort.

His chest rose.

Paused.

Then fell.

Another weak gasp followed.

Then another.

The sight immediately sent fear crashing through Hyunjin.

“No.”

He was already standing.

Already rushing to the bedside.

“Jisung.”

The younger’s eyes shifted slightly toward him.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly.

They looked distant.

Unfocused.

Exhausted.

A tiny sound escaped beneath the oxygen mask.

Almost like a plea.

Hyunjin’s hands immediately began shaking.

“No, no, no…”

He grabbed his phone.

His fingers trembled so badly he nearly dropped it.

The contact list blurred through his tears.

Finally, he found Minho’s name and pressed call.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

The third ring felt endless.

Then—

“Hyunjin?”

Minho answered immediately.

The younger couldn’t even control his voice.

“Hyung…”

His words broke apart.

Minho instantly heard the panic.

“What happened?”

“Come back.”

A sob escaped him.

“Please.”

Hyunjin looked toward Jisung again.

The younger’s breathing looked weaker now.

More exhausted.

More fragile.

“Please come back.”

There was a pause.

Then Minho’s voice came through.

Sharp.

Terrified.

“I’m coming.”

The call ended.

Meanwhile, several floors below, Minho was already running.

The food he’d just bought remained clutched in one hand.

He didn’t remember leaving the cafeteria.

Didn’t remember pushing through the crowd.

Didn’t remember anything except the fear that immediately exploded inside him.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Not again.

Please not again.

Every horrifying possibility flooded his mind.

His legs moved faster.

The bag swung wildly in his hand.

People turned to stare.

He didn’t notice.

Nothing mattered except reaching Jisung.

The elevator felt too slow.

The hallways felt too long.

Everything felt too far away.

Then finally—

The room.

Minho practically burst through the door.

The sight waiting for him shattered him instantly.

Jisung was still in bed.

Still wearing the oxygen mask.

Still struggling.

But there was something different.

Something terrifying.

He looked tired.

Not ordinary tired.

Not sleepy.

Not exhausted.

The kind of tired that frightened people.

The kind that made him look like he had nothing left.

The kind that made Minho’s chest cave in.

The bag slipped from his hand.

Food containers scattered across the floor.

He didn’t even look.

Didn’t care.

He was already moving.

Already at the bedside.

Already reaching for him.

“Baby.”

His voice broke immediately.

Jisung’s eyes shifted toward him.

The moment he recognized Minho, something inside the older completely fell apart.

“Oh God.”

Minho carefully gathered him into his arms despite all the tubes.

Despite the oxygen mask.

Despite the wires connected to his body.

He held him like he was afraid he would disappear.

Like if he let go, he’d lose him forever.

Jisung felt impossibly light.

Far too light.

His body barely had the strength to lean into him.

Another weak gasp escaped him.

Minho’s vision blurred.

Tears streamed down his face.

“No.”

His voice cracked violently.

“No, baby.”

He pressed trembling kisses against Jisung’s forehead.

His hair.

His temple.

Anywhere he could reach.

His entire body shook with sobs.

“You can’t.”

Another broken breath.

Another weak gasp.

Minho felt like his heart was being torn apart.

“Please.”

His forehead pressed against Jisung’s.

“Please stay with me.”

Across the room, Hyunjin had begun crying too.

Unable to stop.

Unable to watch without breaking.

Because the love between them was impossible to miss.

The desperation.

The fear.

The way Minho held him as though he was trying to physically keep him in this world.

It hurt.

It hurt so much to watch.

The morning sunlight slowly spilled through the hospital window.

The monitors continued their steady beeping.

The feeding pump hummed softly.

And in the middle of it all, Minho clung desperately to Jisung, tears soaking the younger’s hospital gown as he silently begged God, fate, anyone listening—

Not yet.

Please.

Not yet.

By nine o’clock that morning, the hospital room felt suffocating.

Not because of the machines.

Not because of the oxygen equipment.

Not because of the countless medical supplies surrounding the bed.

But because of the fear that had settled over everyone inside.

The events of the morning had left a wound in the room that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

Minho was still sitting on the edge of Jisung’s bed.

He hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t eaten.

Hadn’t even glanced at the breakfast he had dropped on the floor hours earlier when he’d rushed back after Hyunjin’s phone call.

The food was long gone now, thrown away by one of the nurses.

But Minho hadn’t noticed.

He barely noticed anything anymore.

His entire world had shrunk to the boy in his arms.

Jisung remained partially propped against him, supported carefully by pillows and Minho’s body. The oxygen mask covered most of his face, fogging faintly with every breath.

The breaths were still weak.

But they were there.

That was what mattered.

Every breath mattered.

Every second mattered.

The swelling that dialysis had removed yesterday had not fully returned, but his face still looked puffy. His eyelids remained heavy, barely opening for more than a few moments at a time.

He seemed trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

Too exhausted to stay awake.

Too uncomfortable to rest properly.

Every now and then, a faint wince would pass across his features.

A tiny crease between his brows.

A slight tightening of his jaw.

Even when lying completely still, pain seemed to follow him.

Minho noticed every single one.

Every twitch.

Every grimace.

Every shallow breath.

His hand never stopped moving.

Brushing through Jisung’s hair.

Rubbing circles against his arm.

Adjusting the blanket.

Touching him just to reassure himself that he was still warm.

Still alive.

Still here.

The monitor beside the bed continued its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The sound had become the most important thing in Minho’s life.

Every beep felt like permission to breathe.

Every beep meant one more second.

One more moment.

One more chance.

Across the room, Hyunjin sat silently on the couch.

The younger hadn’t returned to sleep after the morning scare.

He couldn’t.

The image of Jisung gasping weakly beneath the oxygen mask kept replaying inside his head.

What frightened him most wasn’t how badly Jisung had struggled.

It was how little strength he had left while doing it.

Yesterday’s episode had been desperate.

Today’s had been weak.

Exhausted.

Like his body was running out of energy.

The thought alone made Hyunjin’s chest ache.

Nobody spoke much.

The room remained quiet.

Heavy.

The kind of silence that only exists when everyone is afraid of the same thing.

Then came a knock at the door.

Soft.

Careful.

Nobody immediately reacted.

Another knock followed.

The door slowly opened.

Several familiar faces stepped inside.

The moment they entered, the atmosphere shifted.

Not because things had gotten better.

Because more people had arrived to carry the fear together.

Chan stepped inside first.

The moment his eyes landed on Jisung, he froze.

Completely.

For several seconds, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t even blink.

No update.

No phone call.

No message from Minho.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

The oxygen mask.

The feeding tube taped against his cheek.

The dramatic weight loss.

The hollow exhaustion visible even while he slept.

And the way Minho was holding him.

As though letting go wasn’t an option.

As though it never would be.

Behind him, Changbin entered next.

His expression immediately darkened.

Then came Felix.

Then Seungmin.

Then Jeongin.

One by one, they stepped into the room.

One by one, they saw Jisung.

And one by one, their hearts broke.

Felix was the first to look away.

His eyes instantly filled with tears.

He pressed his lips together tightly.

Trying to hold himself together.

Trying not to cry.

Failing.

A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

Then another.

The sight of Jisung lying there felt unreal.

Wrong.

Everything about it felt wrong.

The boy who used to fill every room with noise now barely had enough strength to keep his eyes open.

The realization hurt more than Felix expected.

Changbin remained near the foot of the bed.

His hands clenched into fists.

His jaw tightened.

He looked angry.

Not at Jisung.

Not at anyone.

Just angry at the situation.

Angry that this was happening.

Angry that someone who had already suffered so much was still suffering.

Angry that nobody seemed able to stop it.

Seungmin stood quietly beside him.

Silent.

Observing.

His eyes moved across the machines.

The monitor.

The oxygen equipment.

The feeding pump.

Then back to Jisung.

His expression remained calm.

But his eyes gave him away.

They were red.

Suspiciously red.

As though he’d spent the entire journey trying not to cry.

Meanwhile, Jeongin lingered closer to the door.

The youngest looked shaken.

More shaken than he’d admit aloud.

He stared at Jisung for a long time.

Almost as if he was searching for the energetic person he knew somewhere beneath all the illness.

But all he found was exhaustion.

Chan was eventually the first to approach.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The room remained silent as he walked toward the bed.

His eyes never left Jisung.

Not once.

When he finally reached him, he stopped.

The younger looked so small.

So fragile.

Chan swallowed hard.

His hand slowly reached forward.

Gently brushing a few strands of hair away from Jisung’s forehead.

The movement was familiar.

Instinctive.

Something he’d done countless times before.

Only now it felt different.

Everything felt different.

“Hey, Ji.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

Jisung didn’t respond.

Didn’t open his eyes.

Didn’t move.

But the monitor continued its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Chan’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

A shaky breath escaped him.

“You’ve got everyone worried.”

The attempt at humor fell apart halfway through.

His voice cracked.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody could.

Because the truth hurt too much.

Minho lowered his gaze.

Looking at Jisung once more.

The younger’s head remained resting against his chest.

His breathing remained weak.

His body remained frighteningly thin.

But he was still here.

Still fighting.

Still holding on.

The monitor continued beeping.

Steady.

Persistent.

Defiant.

And as the room slowly filled with the people who loved Jisung most, nobody spoke about death.

Nobody said the things they were secretly afraid of.

Instead, they gathered around his bed.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Because as long as that monitor kept beeping and Jisung’s chest continued rising beneath the blanket, there was still something left to fight for.

And every single person in that room was praying he would keep fighting a little longer.

The room didn’t change much after everyone arrived.

It just got heavier.

Like the air itself had learned how to grieve.

Minho was still holding Jisung the same way he had been since the moment he ran back in—carefully, protectively, like his arms were the only thing keeping the younger anchored to the world.

Jisung’s head rested against his chest now.

Loose.

Weak.

His body didn’t resist being held, but it didn’t exactly respond either. The oxygen mask stayed firmly in place, fogging softly with each uneven breath that slipped out of him.

The monitor beside the bed kept its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

That sound was the only thing in the room that felt honest.

Everything else was fragile.

Human.

Breaking.

One by one, the others filled the space around the bed, but nobody did it loudly. Nobody rushed. Nobody spoke over anyone else. It was as if even their footsteps were afraid of disturbing him.

Chan stayed near the foot of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes locked on Jisung like he was trying to memorize every detail before something could take it away.

Changbin stood beside him, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were pale, jaw locked in a way that suggested he was holding back something bigger than words.

Felix had already given up on pretending he was okay. His face was wet, tears falling freely now, his gaze fixed on Jisung’s hand in Minho’s.

Seungmin stood quietly near the side, eyes red but controlled, blinking slowly like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart completely.

Jeongin hovered slightly behind them, breathing unevenly, wiping his face only when he thought no one was looking.

And Hyunjin… Hyunjin hadn’t moved from the couch, but his head was bowed now, hands covering his mouth as silent tears slipped through his fingers.

Nobody said “he’s going to be okay.”

Nobody lied.

Because the monitor didn’t lie.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Minho felt every sound of it in his ribs.

He kept his forehead close to Jisung’s hair, eyes closed, breathing uneven. His thumb kept tracing slow, repetitive circles on the younger’s hand like a habit he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Jisung stirred faintly.

Just a small movement.

Not enough to wake.

Just enough to remind them he was still aware of something—still existing somewhere between sleep and pain.

A faint, broken breath slipped through the oxygen mask.

Minho immediately tightened his hold slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to reassure.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracked beyond repair. “I’m here.”

Jisung didn’t answer.

But his fingers twitched.

Weakly.

Barely.

Still, Minho held onto that like it was everything.

Behind them, Felix let out a sound he couldn’t contain anymore—something between a sob and a breath—and turned away, pressing his forehead against his hand.

Changbin looked like he wanted to move closer but didn’t trust himself not to fall apart if he did.

Chan slowly lowered his head.

Eyes shut now.

Praying without words.

Seungmin finally blinked, and a tear slipped down despite the effort to hold it back.

Jeongin’s shoulders shook once.

Then again.

And then he covered his mouth fully, trying to stay quiet, failing anyway.

The room was no longer silent.

It was full of crying that didn’t want to be loud but couldn’t stay contained.

Minho opened his eyes again, looking down at Jisung.

His face was completely wrecked with exhaustion and fear. His lips trembled slightly as he pressed a kiss to Jisung’s hair, lingering longer than usual.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so softly it almost disappeared. “I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Jisung’s breathing answered him instead.

Slow.

Uneven.

Still there.

Still refusing to stop.

And that somehow hurt more than silence.

Because it meant he was still fighting through everything.

Still trying.

Even like this.

Minho shut his eyes again, tears slipping freely now, soaking into Jisung’s hair.

Around them, everyone else was doing the same thing in their own way—heads bowed, hands clasped, faces covered, shoulders shaking quietly.

No one was praying the same way.

But everyone was praying for the same thing.

Not a miracle.

Not a promise.

Just time.

A little more time.

Another morning.

Another breath.

Another chance for the heart monitor to keep saying what they all needed it to say.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Still here.

Still fighting.

Still not gone.

The room had been unraveling in silence.

Not loud. Not chaotic.

Just slow, painful breaking—like something being pulled apart thread by thread until nothing held the shape of normal anymore.

The monitor still kept its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

But even that sound felt different now.

Like it was the only thing standing between them and something irreversible.

Minho was still holding Jisung close, his arms wrapped around him with a kind of careful desperation—like pressure alone could keep him anchored to life. His hand never left Jisung’s, fingers locked around his as if letting go would mean losing him entirely.

Jisung’s breathing was still weak.

Still uneven.

Each inhale through the oxygen mask looked like effort carved out of something already exhausted.

And then—

His eyes moved.

At first, Minho thought it was just another flicker of sleep.

But it wasn’t.

Jisung’s eyelids stayed heavy, half-lowered and unmoving.

Only his eyes shifted beneath them.

Slowly.

Unsteadily.

As if his body no longer had strength to fully open them, so all he could do was move what was already there.

His gaze drifted.

Not sharp.

Not focused.

But searching.

The kind of searching that didn’t feel curious.

It felt urgent.

Minho noticed instantly.

“Ji?” he whispered, pulling back just enough to see his face.

Jisung didn’t respond.

His eyes continued moving.

Across the room.

Left to right.

Stopping briefly on shapes he recognized but couldn’t fully process.

Chan near the window.

Still.

Silent.

Watching.

Changbin beside him, jaw tight, eyes lowered like he couldn’t stand to be seen while breaking.

Felix with both hands over his mouth, tears slipping through his fingers.

Seungmin standing stiff near the bed, eyes red, blinking too slowly.

Jeongin barely holding himself together, shoulders shaking faintly.

Hyunjin on the couch, bent forward, crying into his hands.

And then—

Back to Minho.

His eyes stopped there.

And something in his expression changed.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was worse than that.

It was recognition mixed with fear.

The kind of fear that doesn’t come from confusion.

It comes from understanding too much.

His brows tightened faintly.

Barely visible.

But enough.

And a tear formed at the corner of his eye.

It didn’t fall immediately.

It just stayed there for a moment, trembling with him.

As if even gravity was taking its time deciding.

Then it slid down.

Slow.

Quiet.

Unstoppable.

No sound followed it.

Jisung’s body didn’t have the strength for dramatic reactions anymore.

Only his eyes betrayed him.

Still open.

Still moving slightly.

Still locked on Minho now.

And in them—

Fear.

Raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind that comes from pain alone.

The kind that comes from knowing something is wrong and not being able to fix it.

The kind that asks without words:

Am I leaving?

Minho felt it hit him so hard his chest tightened instantly.

“No—hey,” he said quickly, voice cracking, leaning in closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “Look at me. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re safe.”

But Jisung didn’t calm.

If anything, his breathing became more uneven.

A faint gasp slipped through the oxygen mask.

Then another.

Still weak.

Still broken.

Like his body was struggling just to keep up with itself.

His eyes stayed open the entire time.

As if closing them felt dangerous.

As if shutting them meant trusting the world to continue without him.

His gaze flickered again—just once—toward the others.

A final sweep.

Not frantic.

Not panicked.

Just… checking.

Like he was making sure everyone was really there.

That this wasn’t the moment he’d be alone.

And then his eyes returned to Minho.

And stayed.

Something in his expression softened slightly, but not into peace.

Into pleading.

Subtle.

Quiet.

But unmistakable.

The kind of look that doesn’t need words to say:

Don’t let me go.

Minho broke completely.

His grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, only enough to ground himself.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’ve got you, I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Not even for a second.”

His forehead pressed gently against Jisung’s again.

Tears falling freely now.

Behind them, the room had gone still in a different way.

Felix turned fully away, shoulders trembling violently.

Hyunjin let out a broken sound, curling tighter into himself.

Changbin stared at the floor like it had answers.

Seungmin blinked fast, tears slipping despite his effort to stay composed.

Jeongin covered his mouth, shaking silently.

Chan closed his eyes.

And stayed like that.

Praying.

No one spoke.

Because no one could.

The monitor kept its rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

And Jisung’s eyes—still open, still weak, still full of fear—remained fixed on Minho like he was the only stable thing left in a collapsing world.

Like he was the last thing keeping him from slipping under.

And Minho held him like that truth was something he could physically fight.

The room had gone quiet in a way that felt heavy rather than peaceful.

Not the silence of rest—more like the silence of people who had run out of strength to keep breaking apart out loud.

No one was crying anymore.

Not because it hurt less.

Because it hurt too much to keep doing it.

Some of them stared at the floor. Some at the walls. Some at nothing at all, eyes unfocused, like their thoughts had drifted somewhere they couldn’t follow.

The monitor kept its steady rhythm in the background.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

That sound was the only thing that still felt structured, still felt like it belonged to the world they knew.

Everything else felt suspended.

Minho didn’t look away from Jisung even once.

He sat close to the bed, one arm wrapped carefully around him, holding him in a way that was firm enough to reassure but gentle enough not to disturb. His other hand moved through Jisung’s hair in slow, repetitive strokes.

Not rushed.

Not frantic anymore.

Just steady.

Like he was trying to lend his calm through touch alone.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice worn down but soft enough to feel like it belonged only to them. “Stay with me, okay?”

Jisung didn’t answer.

His eyes were still open, though barely.

Half-lidded and unfocused, they drifted slightly before settling again on Minho’s face. It wasn’t a strong gaze. It wasn’t even fully intentional-looking anymore.

But it kept coming back to him.

Like it didn’t know where else to go.

Minho noticed immediately.

His thumb paused for a second in Jisung’s hair, then resumed—slower this time.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just look at me. You’re doing okay.”

His voice cracked a little at the end, but he didn’t stop.

Jisung’s breathing stayed uneven.

Shallow rises and falls under the mask, each one looking like effort stretched thin.

Still, he stayed there.

Still looking.

Still aware enough to recognize him.

Minho leaned in slightly, lowering his voice even more.

“You don’t have to fight anything right now,” he said. “Just… stay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The words weren’t strong.

They weren’t polished.

They were the kind of words someone says when they’re holding on by habit, by love, by desperation that has nowhere else to go.

Behind them, the room remained still.

Bodies leaned where they had settled. Faces stayed turned away or down. Shoulders rose and fell slowly, as if even breathing had become tiring.

No one interrupted the moment.

No one needed to.

The only movement that mattered was the small one in the bed.

Jisung’s eyes shifted slightly again.

Not a full turn.

Just a faint adjustment, like his attention was struggling to stay anchored.

But it still landed on Minho.

And stayed.

That small return—again and again—was the only thing keeping Minho from completely falling apart.

His grip tightened just enough to feel him there.

Not holding him back.

Just holding him close enough to believe he wasn’t slipping away.

“I’m right here,” Minho repeated, quieter now. Almost like he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. “You’re not alone. You’re not.”

Jisung didn’t move much.

But his gaze didn’t leave him.

And in that fragile stillness, with nothing but beeping machines and exhausted silence around them, that was enough to feel like a promise neither of them could afford to break.

At 11:30, the door opened quietly.

A nurse stepped inside, careful with her movements, like she already understood the weight in the room and didn’t want to add to it.

Her eyes moved briefly across everyone—those sitting, those standing, those barely holding themselves together—before settling on Minho.

Minho didn’t even have to ask.

Something in her expression already told him this wasn’t a routine check.

“I need to speak with you for a moment,” she said softly.

He nodded once.

Carefully, he adjusted his hold on Jisung first—checking his breathing, brushing his hair back again, like he couldn’t leave him even for a second without making sure he was still okay.

Only then did he slowly stand.

The nurse led him just a few steps away from the bed, close enough that he could still see Jisung’s face.

Still hear the monitor.

Still feel like he hadn’t really left.

Her voice dropped lower.

“His condition is still very fragile,” she said. “And with his current state… there may not be many options left that can change the outcome.”

Minho’s jaw tightened slightly.

He already knew where this was going.

He just didn’t want to hear it spoken out loud.

The nurse continued carefully.

“There is also the matter of invasive interventions. He previously declined long-term advanced support before his condition worsened, and we need to respect that as much as possible.”

A pause.

Then the question came.

Measured. Clinical. But still heavy.

“If his heart were to stop, do you want us to perform resuscitation?”

For a second, Minho didn’t respond.

His eyes shifted back toward the bed.

Jisung was still there.

Still breathing through the mask.

Still fragile in a way that made Minho feel like the world was holding him too tightly.

Still alive.

Barely.

The thought of forcing him through chest compressions, shocks, tubes again—after everything—made something in Minho twist painfully.

His throat tightened.

He swallowed once.

Then shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly.

The nurse didn’t react outwardly.

She just waited.

Minho’s voice broke slightly as he continued.

“I don’t want him… to go through more pain.”

A pause.

His hand clenched at his side.

“If it happens… let him go peacefully.”

The words felt wrong the moment he said them.

But also honest.

The nurse nodded slowly.

“Okay,” she said gently. “We’ll document a Do Not Resuscitate order based on your decision as the primary guardian.”

She gave him a moment.

Just one.

Before stepping out.

The room felt colder after she left.

Minho stood still for a second longer than necessary, staring at the space where she had been.

Like if he stayed frozen long enough, the moment wouldn’t become real.

But it already had.

When the nurse returned, she was holding a form.

She didn’t place it immediately in his hands.

She simply stood near him, respectful, patient.

The paper looked too ordinary for what it meant.

Just a sheet.

Just ink.

Just a decision.

But Minho knew better.

It wasn’t just a form.

It was a line in the sand between fighting endlessly and letting nature take its course when there was nothing left to fight with.

His chest felt tight.

He walked back to the bed first.

Jisung’s eyes were still half-open, still weak, still drifting back to him whenever they could.

Minho sat down beside him again, gently taking his hand.

His thumb brushed over Jisung’s knuckles.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was memorizing them.

Behind him, the nurse remained quiet.

Waiting.

Not rushing.

Not pushing.

Just present.

Minho didn’t look away from Jisung when he spoke again.

His voice was softer this time.

Almost broken.

“If it comes to that…” he whispered, “don’t make him suffer more.”

His hand tightened slightly around Jisung’s.

“But don’t leave him alone either.”

A pause.

His eyes lowered.

“I want him to feel… safe.”

The nurse nodded once.

And gently placed the DNR form on the side table.

No pressure.

No urgency.

Just reality sitting quietly in the room with them.

Minho didn’t touch it right away.

He just stayed there.

Holding Jisung’s hand.

Watching his breathing.

Listening to the monitor.

And trying very hard not to fall apart under the weight of what “there might not be another way” really meant.

The room didn’t feel real anymore after the door closed.

It was like something in the air had changed—subtle, but irreversible. The kind of change you don’t hear, you just feel settling into your bones.

Minho was still sitting beside the bed, the paper in front of him now signed.

The ink looked too clean for what it meant.

Chan stood a little behind him, still and silent, eyes lowered. He had already signed too, without hesitation, without words. Just presence. Just understanding. Just acceptance of something none of them wanted to accept.

The nurse had left quietly, taking the form with her.

No final instructions. No dramatic goodbye.

Just footsteps fading down the hall.

And then—

Silence.

Not peaceful.

Not soft.

Just empty.

Minho stared at the space where the paper had been for a long moment, like his mind hadn’t fully caught up with what his hand had done.

Then, very slowly, his gaze shifted back to Jisung.

Still there.

Still breathing.

Still faintly moving his eyes whenever Minho spoke.

But it didn’t feel like relief anymore.

It felt like time had narrowed.

Like everything had become more fragile than it already was.

His lips parted slightly.

Nothing came out at first.

Then his body gave up trying to stay composed.

A broken sound escaped him.

Small.

Cracked immediately.

“No…”

It came again, louder this time.

His shoulders dropped as if the weight of everything he’d been holding suddenly collapsed inward.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice already breaking apart. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

And then it stopped being speech.

It turned into sobs.

Deep, uncontrollable ones that shook his entire body.

He bent forward beside the bed, gripping the mattress tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“I didn’t do enough,” he choked out between breaths, shaking his head repeatedly. “I didn’t— I didn’t do enough for you…”

His voice cracked so hard it barely carried.

But his hand never left Jisung’s.

It stayed there, holding on like instinct had taken over where reason failed.

Behind him, Chan didn’t move.

He only lowered his head further, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

He looked like he was trying not to fall apart too, just in a quieter way.

The others didn’t speak either.

Because there was nothing to fix.

Nothing to interrupt.

Nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

The room held all of them in the same unbearable stillness.

Then—

Jisung moved.

Not fully.

Not dramatically.

Just a faint shift in his face.

His eye, half-lidded and tired, slowly turned.

It took effort.

Too much effort for something so small.

But it happened.

And then a tear formed.

It didn’t rush.

It didn’t fall quickly.

It just gathered at the corner of his eye, trembling there for a second like it was deciding whether it had permission to exist.

Then it slipped down his cheek.

Quiet.

Helpless.

No sound.

No reaction from the rest of his body.

Just that one tear.

And his gaze—

Still on Minho.

Still there.

Still aware enough to see him breaking.

Minho noticed instantly.

His breath caught so sharply it sounded painful.

“Ji…” he whispered, voice collapsing again.

He leaned in immediately, hands trembling as he carefully wiped the tear from Jisung’s face, like he could undo the sadness just by touching it gently enough.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer now, voice wrecked beyond repair. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Jisung didn’t respond.

But his eyes stayed open.

Still looking at him.

Still faintly searching.

Not for answers.

Not for explanations.

Just him.

And Minho, still crying, pressed his forehead carefully against Jisung’s hand again, holding on like letting go wasn’t something he was capable of anymore—like the world outside this bed no longer existed in any way that mattered.

The room changed again—but this time, it wasn’t loud. It didn’t break.

It softened.

Like something sharp inside it had finally dulled into something unbearably quiet.

No one was speaking anymore in full sentences. Even breathing felt careful now, like the air itself had become fragile.

Jisung was still in the bed.

Still connected.

Still breathing through the mask in shallow, uneven rhythms that no longer felt like effort alone—but endurance pushed far beyond what his body should’ve carried.

His eyes stayed half-open.

Not fully awake.

Not fully asleep.

Just… present enough to feel everything around him.

Minho didn’t move from his side.

He had stopped wiping his tears at some point. They just kept falling now, unchecked, warm against his hands as he held Jisung’s fingers like they were the last thing real in the world.

His forehead rested near Jisung’s hand.

Not quite touching.

Not quite letting go.

“I’m here,” he kept whispering, voice raw and thinning out with every repetition. “I’m right here, Ji…”

But his words weren’t commands anymore.

They were acknowledgments of helplessness.

Behind him, the others had gathered closer now.

Not crowded.

Just… closer.

As if distance suddenly felt disrespectful.

Chan stood at the head of the bed, eyes lowered. His hand rested lightly on the rail, knuckles tense, jaw tight in a way that suggested he was holding something enormous inside himself.

Changbin stood beside him, no longer trying to hide the tremor in his breathing. His eyes were fixed on Jisung, but unfocused—like looking directly hurt too much.

Felix was the first to fully give in.

He stepped closer, took Jisung’s hand carefully, and held it with both of his. His tears fell steadily now, quiet and unhidden.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice breaking halfway through. “I’m so sorry… I wish I could— I wish I could take it for you…”

His sentence didn’t finish.

It dissolved.

Seungmin stood just behind him, shoulders drawn inward, blinking too slowly as tears slid down without resistance. He looked away briefly, then back again, like he was trying to memorize Jisung in a way that hurt too much to sustain.

Jeongin hovered near the side, hands clasped tightly together, lips moving in something that wasn’t quite audible anymore. A prayer, maybe. Or just words that had nowhere to go.

And Hyunjin, still near the couch, had finally stood.

Slowly.

Like his body had decided it couldn’t sit with distance anymore.

He didn’t approach fully. Just closer. Enough to be part of the circle.

Enough to feel it.

The realization wasn’t spoken.

It didn’t need to be.

It came in the stillness between breaths.

In the way no one reached for hope anymore—only for him.

There was no more bargaining left in the room.

No more fighting in words.

Only something quieter.

Acceptance, wrapped in grief.

Minho finally lifted his head slightly.

His face was completely broken now—eyes red, cheeks wet, expression pulled apart by exhaustion and love that had nowhere to go.

He looked at Jisung for a long moment.

Really looked.

Like he was trying to hold onto every detail at once.

Then his voice came out, softer than anything he’d said all day.

“You don’t have to do anything anymore,” he whispered. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

A pause.

His hand tightened slightly around Jisung’s fingers.

“Just… rest.”

The word landed heavily in the room.

Rest.

Not as surrender.

But as permission.

Felix bowed his head further, shoulders shaking again.

Changbin turned slightly away, pressing his lips together so tightly it looked painful.

Seungmin closed his eyes.

Jeongin wiped his face quickly, then stopped trying to hide it at all.

Chan lowered his head fully now, exhaling slowly like something inside him had finally accepted what it had been resisting.

And Jisung—

Jisung’s eyes shifted faintly.

Not fully focusing.

Not fully responding.

But enough to feel them.

Enough to know they were there.

Enough to hear him.

Minho leaned closer, pressing a trembling kiss to his hair, lingering like he was trying to memorize the feeling of it.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “You’re loved. You’re so loved.”

His breath hitched.

“You can rest now, Ji.”

And in that moment, the room didn’t feel like it was saying goodbye all at once.

It felt like seven people standing in the same unbearable stillness—

learning how to let someone go while still loving him too much to ever stop holding on in their hearts.

Another hour passed the way heavy things fall—slow at first, then all at once in how they change everything without making noise.

The room didn’t move much.

It just felt… dimmer.

Not because the lights shifted, but because everyone inside had begun to run out of energy even for grief. Shoulders stayed slumped. Heads bowed. Hands stayed clasped or held or clenched. No one really had posture anymore—only endurance.

The whispers never fully stopped.

They just thinned.

Soft phrases kept slipping through the silence like fragments of prayer that no longer needed form.

“You’re okay…”

“We’re here…”

“You can rest…”

“It’s alright…”

But even the voices sounded farther away now, like they were being spoken through something thick.

Minho was still beside Jisung, still holding him close enough that their arms stayed connected even when he leaned forward. His hand never left Jisung’s. His thumb moved occasionally—slow, repetitive, almost absent-minded now, like if he stopped moving he might fall apart completely.

Jisung’s breathing had changed.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was gradual enough that only those who had been watching him for hours noticed.

Each inhale seemed shorter than the last.

Each exhale quieter.

Like the space between effort and rest had begun to close.

His eyes remained half-open, but something about them had shifted too.

The color was no longer what it had been.

What used to be clear and familiar had dulled into a deep yellow tint, spreading across both eyes in a way that made them look foreign—like the body was no longer fully recognizing itself.

And at the lower corner of his left eye, the dark mark remained.

Unmoved.

Unchanged.

Still there.

Felix noticed first.

He had been staring without really meaning to, eyes unfocused until his attention caught on the change.

A breath caught in his throat.

“…His eyes,” he said, barely audible.

Seungmin turned sharply.

Then froze.

Changbin’s face tightened immediately, like something inside him physically resisted what he was seeing.

Jeongin stepped closer without thinking, then stopped halfway, unsure if getting nearer would make it worse or more real.

Hyunjin slowly lifted his head again, eyes red and hollow, and then looked away almost instantly, like he couldn’t hold the image.

Chan didn’t move at first.

Then his jaw clenched slightly.

Not in shock.

In helpless recognition.

Because there was no longer any doubt left to hold onto.

Minho felt it before he even looked.

The shift in the room.

The way everyone went still at once.

His hand tightened instinctively around Jisung’s.

“…Ji,” he whispered.

When he looked, his breath stopped.

Both of Jisung’s eyes had changed now.

The white that should have been there was no longer white.

It had turned a deep, unsettling yellow that caught the light in a way that felt wrong—like something internal had finally made its way outward.

The dark mark still sat at the corner of his left eye, unchanged, quiet but undeniable.

Minho’s throat tightened instantly.

For a second, he just stared.

Like if he looked long enough, it would reverse itself.

It didn’t.

His voice broke when he finally spoke.

“No…” he whispered again, but weaker this time. Less denial. More fear trying not to collapse.

Behind him, someone made a sound—Felix, maybe—small and shattered, immediately followed by a hand covering his mouth.

Seungmin turned away fully now.

Changbin lowered his head sharply, shoulders rising and falling unevenly.

Jeongin shook faintly where he stood, eyes fixed on the floor as if unable to process the sight any longer.

Hyunjin pressed his hand over his face, breathing unsteady.

Chan finally closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

Like he needed to stop seeing it to keep himself from breaking completely.

The room didn’t erupt.

It didn’t need to.

It simply… fractured quietly in different directions.

And Minho—

Minho leaned closer to Jisung immediately, like instinct refused to let him pull away even now.

His voice came out hoarse, trembling.

“It’s okay…” he whispered again, though it didn’t sound like comfort anymore. It sounded like something he was saying to keep himself from falling apart. “You’re still here. I’m here.”

His forehead rested gently against Jisung’s hand.

And he stayed there.

Even as Jisung’s breathing grew softer.

Even as the room filled again with silent, broken prayers.

Even as everyone around them realized, in the quietest way possible, that there was nothing left to reverse—only time left to share.

The room didn’t notice it all at once.

It happened the way endings usually do—quietly, without announcing themselves.

Jisung’s breathing had been getting lighter for a while, each rise of his chest smaller than the last, each exhale fading a little more into the space around him.

Minho stayed close, still holding him, still brushing his hair back like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

“You’re okay…” he whispered, voice barely holding shape anymore. “It’s okay… I’ve got you.”

Jisung’s eyes were still faintly open.

Not wide.

Not focused.

Just there—half-lidded, distant, tired in a way that went beyond exhaustion. The yellowed stillness in them made him look almost peaceful in a strange, distant way, like his body had already started stepping away long before anyone else could follow.

The room around them stayed still.

Even the whispers had faded into something softer than sound.

Just presence.

Just waiting.

Minho didn’t ask him to hold on.

Not anymore.

His voice had shifted somewhere quieter.

Somewhere gentler.

“It’s okay,” he said again, forehead almost touching Jisung’s hand. “You don’t have to fight anymore. You’ve done enough… you’ve suffered enough.”

His thumb moved slowly over Jisung’s fingers.

Steady.

Reassuring.

Like he was guiding him somewhere soft instead of pulling him back.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here with you.”

Jisung’s next breath didn’t come.

The pause stretched.

Longer than the ones before it.

Minho didn’t react immediately. He just stayed there, still speaking softly, like the silence hadn’t fully registered yet.

But then—

The monitor changed.

The sound that had been steady for so long faltered.

Then flattened.

A long, unbroken tone filled the room.

The kind of sound that didn’t belong to life anymore.

The kind that meant there was nothing left for it to measure.

Everything stopped.

No movement.

No breath.

No rise or fall.

Just that single, continuous line.

Minho froze.

For a moment, his hand didn’t even move.

Then he looked down at Jisung.

His eyes had closed.

Not abruptly.

Not violently.

Just… gently.

Like he had finally let go of something heavy he’d been carrying for too long.

Like he had already accepted it before anyone else could say a word.

Minho’s lips parted slightly.

No sound came out.

The room behind him shattered instantly.

A few gasps. A broken sob. Someone stepping back too quickly.

But Minho didn’t move.

He stayed right there.

Still holding Jisung’s hand.

Still close enough that their foreheads could have touched if he leaned forward.

And then, in a voice so soft it barely existed, he spoke again.

Not pleading.

Not begging.

Just staying with him a little longer in the only way left.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, tears finally falling freely. “You can rest now.”

His hand tightened around Jisung’s once.

Then slowly relaxed.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking completely on the last word. “I love you… so much.”

And even as the monitor kept its flatline behind him, Minho didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not for a while.

Just sitting there in the silence that followed everything, holding onto the person he loved as if love alone could still mean something in a room that had already said goodbye.

The door opened again, but this time no one reacted quickly.

Even movement felt too heavy now.

The doctor stepped inside quietly, his presence immediately shifting the air in the room into something more formal, more final. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Everyone already knew why he was there.

His eyes moved over the scene once—Minho still seated by the bed, still holding Jisung’s hand; the others standing or sitting in scattered silence, faces stained and exhausted.

For a moment, the doctor simply observed.

Then he approached the bedside.

He checked the monitor first.

Already flat.

Then he looked at Jisung.

Still.

Peaceful in a way that didn’t match the weight of everything that had led here.

The doctor lowered his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently.

No one answered.

Minho didn’t even look up right away. His fingers were still wrapped around Jisung’s, as if letting go would change what had already happened.

The doctor continued, carefully, professionally—but not coldly.

“We’ll document the time of passing.”

A pause.

The pen hovered above the chart.

The room didn’t move.

No one interrupted.

No one asked for more time.

Because there wasn’t any left to ask for.

The doctor glanced at the monitor one last time, then wrote it down.

“Time of death: 5:23 p.m.”

The words landed quietly.

Not like an announcement.

Like something being sealed.

Chan closed his eyes immediately, jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose.

Felix made a small, broken sound before covering his mouth again, shoulders shaking harder.

Seungmin looked down sharply, blinking fast, like if he focused too hard the moment would change.

Jeongin turned away completely, pressing both hands over his face.

Changbin stayed still, but his breathing hitched once—sharp, painful—before he lowered his head.

Hyunjin sank slightly where he stood, like his legs forgot how to support him for a second.

But Minho—

Minho didn’t move at first.

He just stayed there.

Holding Jisung’s hand.

As if the number didn’t matter more than the warmth that had just left.

Then, slowly, his head bowed.

His forehead touched Jisung’s hand.

And his shoulders finally broke.

Not loudly at first.

Just a tremor.

Then another.

Then everything.

A sound escaped him—raw, uncontained, the kind that comes when grief has nowhere left to go.

“I’m sorry…” he choked out, voice collapsing. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

His grip tightened once more, then softened again, like his body couldn’t decide between holding on and accepting it.

But even as he cried, even as the room fell apart around him in quiet, shattered pieces—

Minho didn’t let go of Jisung’s hand.

Not yet.

Not in that moment that felt too real to survive.

The room didn’t stay the same after that moment.

It couldn’t.

People began to move, slowly at first—like they were afraid the act of leaving would make everything more real than it already was. Someone spoke softly to the doctor. Someone else stepped out into the hallway, unable to breathe inside those four walls anymore.

But Minho stayed.

Still sitting beside the bed.

Still holding Jisung’s hand.

As if time had forgotten to remove him too.

The noise around him faded into something distant and meaningless. Footsteps. Murmurs. Doors opening and closing. None of it reached him properly anymore.

All that remained was the space beside him.

Empty now in the most irreversible way.

He kept his forehead pressed against Jisung’s hand for a long time. Too long for comfort. Too long for anything but grief.

His shoulders trembled with every breath he tried to take.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice raw and worn out completely. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

It wasn’t even a sentence anymore.

Just repetition.

Just collapse.

His thumb still moved faintly over Jisung’s fingers out of habit, even though there was no response now. No faint return of pressure. No flicker of awareness. Nothing.

That absence hit him hardest.

Minho let out a shaky breath and finally looked up.

Jisung looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Like the world had stopped hurting him the moment he stopped being part of it.

Minho’s face twisted immediately, like that thought physically hurt him.

“I was supposed to do better,” he said quietly, voice breaking again. “I was right here… and I still couldn’t fix it.”

His hand tightened once around Jisung’s.

Then slowly loosened.

Like even his grip had accepted reality before his heart did.

“I should’ve noticed sooner,” he continued, staring at him now through tears that wouldn’t stop. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve—”

His voice cracked so hard he couldn’t finish.

He swallowed, trying again.

“I kept telling you to be strong,” he whispered. “But you were already stronger than me.”

A breath.

Shaky. Broken.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The words hung there, unanswered.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty anymore.

It felt permanent.

Minho leaned closer again, resting his forehead gently against Jisung’s hand one last time, like muscle memory refused to let him fully let go.

“I love you,” he said, softer now. No more urgency. No more hope to bargain with. Just truth. “I always did.”

His voice dropped even further.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

Outside the room, life continued the way it always does—careless, moving forward without asking permission.

Inside, Minho stayed still for a long time, holding onto what was left, letting grief sit fully in his chest without fighting it anymore.

Eventually, he would stand.

Eventually, he would have to leave.

Eventually, he would learn how to exist in a world that no longer had Jisung in it.

But not yet.

Not in that moment.

In that moment, he just stayed there—broken, quiet, full of everything he couldn’t fix anymore—still holding on to the only person he had ever loved like home.

-h.

They brought Jisung home, wrapped in a white cloth and careful hands.

The house didn’t feel ready for him—nothing ever is when someone doesn’t walk in anymore, only arrives like memory.

The funeral came after.

Simple, heavy, surrounded by people who either didn’t know what to say or had already said everything they could without it helping. Flowers lined up neatly, soft colors that felt almost disrespectful against how loud the grief actually was.

Minho barely spoke the entire day.

He stood there through it all like a body that hadn’t decided whether it belonged to the present or to the past.

When people approached him, he nodded. When they spoke, he heard them but didn’t really absorb it. Their condolences passed through him like wind through something already hollowed out.

Because in his mind, everything kept circling back to the same place.

Not the funeral.

Not the house.

But the hospital.

That place that had become too familiar. Too routine. Too permanent in a way nothing should ever be.

After everyone left, after the quiet settled into something deeper than silence, Minho found himself alone in places that used to feel shared.

That’s when it hit hardest.

The absence wasn’t just in rooms.

It was in habits.

In schedules.

In the instinct to check the time of appointments that would never come again.

Days passed, but they didn’t feel like progress. Just distance.

And then one afternoon, Minho drove past it.

He didn’t plan to.

It just appeared at the edge of his vision the way things do when your mind hasn’t learned how to avoid them yet.

The hospital building stood there—tall, familiar, indifferent.

The same entrance.

The same glass doors.

The same place where everything had once revolved around survival, waiting, and hope that had slowly worn itself thin.

Minho’s hands tightened on the steering wheel without him realizing.

His foot stayed on the accelerator, but slower now.

Like his body had forgotten how to pass it normally.

His eyes flicked toward it.

Just for a second.

And that was enough.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a building anymore.

It was Jisung sitting in waiting rooms too many times to count.

It was tired footsteps down long hallways.

It was monitors beeping through nights that never felt like they would end.

It was him laughing once, weakly, between treatments when he still had enough strength to joke about how the hospital staff probably knew him better than his own home.

Minho swallowed hard.

His grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles went pale.

He looked away too quickly, staring forward again like forcing himself not to see it would undo what he already felt rising in his chest.

But it didn’t leave.

It never really did.

His throat tightened as he drove past.

And for a moment—just a moment—he couldn’t breathe properly.

Because it wasn’t just a hospital anymore.

It was the place where Jisung had spent so much of his life trying to stay alive.

And now it stood there, unchanged.

While everything inside Minho had completely fallen apart.

He pressed his foot gently on the accelerator again, moving forward, but his eyes stayed unfocused for a while longer.

And even after the building disappeared in the rearview mirror, it didn’t really leave him.

It stayed.

In the silence of the car.

In the space beside him.

In the part of his life that would never feel normal again.

-h.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only places like that know how to be—soft wind, distant birds, sunlight that didn’t ask questions. Everything looked unchanged, which somehow made it worse.

Minho was already there when the others arrived.

Same spot. Same stillness. Same hands resting near the stone like he was afraid even grief would move if he shifted too much.

Jisung’s name sat carved into marble—simple, final, unfairly neat.

Minho didn’t look up when footsteps approached.

He already knew who it was.

One by one, they came closer.

Chan first, slow and steady. Changbin behind him, hands tucked into his sleeves. Felix with a small bouquet held too carefully, like anything stronger would break him. Hyunjin trailing slightly behind, eyes already red. Seungmin and Jeongin together, quieter than usual, like they’d agreed not to make sound unless necessary.

No one rushed the moment.

Grief had taught them that rushing only makes it sharper.

Felix placed the flowers down first.

His fingers lingered for a second too long before he pulled away.

“Hey, Ji…” he said softly, voice already shaking. “We’re here.”

Hyunjin swallowed hard, turning his face slightly away as if that would stop his eyes from stinging.

Changbin exhaled through his nose, low and controlled, but his shoulders gave him away.

Chan stood still, gaze fixed on the name like he was trying to understand something that would never make sense.

Seungmin didn’t speak at first.

He just stared.

Long enough that it almost felt like he was somewhere else entirely.

Then, quietly—

“…I remember something,” he said.

No one interrupted.

Minho’s fingers paused slightly on the edge of the stone.

Seungmin lowered himself to sit near the grass, elbows resting on his knees.

“It was the New Year beach trip,” he said, voice soft, careful. “Everyone was loud. Fireworks, drinks, music… all of that.”

A faint, humorless breath left him.

“But he wasn’t really part of it.”

His eyes drifted down.

“He was sitting a bit away from us. Watching the water instead of the countdown.”

Silence deepened around him.

Seungmin continued anyway, like pulling the memory out was the only way to survive it.

“I went to him because I thought he was just tired or being quiet like usual.”

A pause.

His fingers tightened slightly.

“And he said it so calmly.”

Another pause.

Like even now, his mind couldn’t accept how calm it had been.

“He told me… ‘This might be my last New Year.’

Just like that.”

The wind moved through the trees, slow and cold.

Seungmin shook his head slightly.

“I laughed. I thought he was joking. I told him to stop being dramatic and come join us.”

His voice cracked.

“But he wasn’t laughing.”

That part landed heavier than anything else.

Felix pressed a hand over his mouth.

Hyunjin turned fully away now, shoulders shaking quietly.

Changbin lowered his head, jaw tight.

Chan closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing himself.

Jeongin’s breathing stuttered.

And Minho—

Minho didn’t move.

But something in his grip tightened around nothing.

Seungmin looked at the grave again.

“…He already knew,” he whispered. “He just didn’t say it like a warning.”

A pause.

“…It was more like he was telling me goodbye early.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything they had missed.

Everything they didn’t understand in time.

Jeongin wiped his face quickly, but it didn’t help.

“…He didn’t even get to celebrate his birthday this year,” he said softly.

His voice trembled, breaking at the edges.

“He kept talking about it like it was something small, like it didn’t matter.”

A shaky breath.

“But I remember he was still excited.”

A pause.

“He said he just wanted to be with everyone.”

That was all.

No big wish. No grand plans.

Just people.

Just presence.

Jeongin’s voice dropped even further.

“And then it just… didn’t happen.”

The words didn’t need emphasis.

They already carried enough weight on their own.

Minho finally exhaled.

Slow.

Shaking.

His hand lifted slightly, brushing the edge of the gravestone like he was checking if it was still real.

“I still come here,” he said quietly, voice roughened by time and repetition. “Even when I tell myself I won’t.”

A small, broken laugh slipped out of him.

“I pass the hospital sometimes too. Still can’t look at it.”

He swallowed.

“It feels like everything he lived through is stuck in those places.”

A pause.

His eyes lowered.

“…And I don’t know where to put it.”

No one answered.

Because there was nowhere to put it.

Not grief.

Not memory.

Not love that had nowhere left to go.

Minho stayed there a moment longer, then leaned closer to the stone.

His voice softened until it barely carried.

“You were already saying goodbye, weren’t you?” he whispered.

No response.

Only wind.

Only silence.

Only the unbearable fact that some people leave earlier in words than they do in life.

And when they finally stood to go, none of them felt like they were leaving him behind.

It felt more like they were learning, slowly and painfully, how to carry him forward with them anyway.

The wind still moved through the trees in soft intervals. The sky still shifted from pale to gold depending on the hour. People still passed by at a distance, living lives that didn’t pause for grief.

But Minho always came back to the same place.

The same stone.

The same name carved into something that would never move again.

He stood there for a while before sitting down, like he always did now—careful, slow, familiar. His hand brushed the edge of the gravestone almost instinctively, like greeting someone who couldn’t answer anymore but was still expected in memory.

“Hey,” he murmured.

A pause.

Then, softer:

“I came again.”

Silence answered him, not unkindly. Just honestly.

Minho exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite become one.

“You’d probably tell me I’m being annoying,” he added quietly. “But you always said that even when you liked it.”

His fingers lingered on the stone.

Cool.

Solid.

Unchanging.

He leaned back slightly, eyes lifting toward the sky for a moment. The light wasn’t harsh today. It never really was here.

It felt like the world had learned how to be gentle in the wrong places.

Minho swallowed.

For a long time, he didn’t speak again.

Just sat there.

Letting the quiet sit beside him instead of fighting it.

And then, finally—

“I don’t think I understand how to live without you,” he admitted, voice low and rough at the edges. “Not fully. Not yet.”

A pause.

“But I think I understand something now.”

His gaze lowered back to the stone.

Not heavy this time.

Just steady.

“You were never… less because you were scared,” he said softly. “Or tired. Or hurting.”

A breath.

“You were still kind. Still gentle. Still you.”

His thumb traced a small, absent motion over the grass beside the grave.

His voice softened further.

“Even when everything was too much… you still tried to be soft to people.”

A faint shake of his head.

“Still checked on everyone. Still smiled like it wasn’t as bad as it was.”

His lips pressed together for a moment, holding something in.

Then it broke into something quieter.

Something honest.

“My sweet baby boy,” he whispered, barely audible now. “My honeybee…”

The words didn’t come with collapse this time.

Just warmth.

A memory that didn’t hurt as sharply anymore, but still ached in a way that felt like love refusing to leave.

“So lovely,” he continued softly. “So kind. Always.”

A long silence followed.

Not empty.

Just full of everything that couldn’t be returned.

Minho leaned forward slightly, resting his hand again on the stone.

Not gripping it.

Not clinging.

Just there.

Present.

“I still don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted. “But I’m trying to live in a way that doesn’t waste what you gave.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I won’t lose hope.”

A small breath.

“I think that’s the only thing I can keep from you that still feels like you.”

The wind passed gently through the trees again, like an answer that didn’t need words.

Minho stayed a while longer.

Not because he was waiting for anything.

But because leaving used to feel like abandonment.

And now, slowly, painfully, it had started to feel like continuing.

When he finally stood, he didn’t look back immediately.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because he knew he would return.

And because somewhere in the quiet space between grief and love, Jisung wasn’t only the ending of something.

He was the reason Minho still chose to begin again.

If Minho were to live a million lifetimes, he’d choose Jisung in all of them. He would live and enjoy every single one of them as long as he can have Jisung, as long as he can have his honeybee.