Chapter Text
JISUNG.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound pulled me from the depths of nothingness, rhythmic and relentless, like a metronome pounding against my skull. My heart thudded faintly in my chest, each beat an effort, a struggle. I couldn't breathe properly, it felt like my lungs were stuffed with lead.
I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn't cooperate at first. The effort was monumental, my eyelids heavy as stone. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to crack them open just a sliver. The world around me was a blur of light and shadows, colors smearing together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
Above me, faces floated into view. My family.
They stood in a circle, their heads bowed, hands clasped together. My mother's shoulders shook as she whispered prayers, tears streaking down her face. My father's jaw was tight, his eyes red-rimmed and raw, though he was trying his best to look strong. My sister clutched my hand, her fingers trembling against mine, her lips moving silently.
I couldn't make out their words, but their voices were a soft hum, sorrowful and desperate. It was like they were trying to tether me to this world, calling me back to them.
But I felt so far away.
Every nerve in my body screamed in pain, a dull, throbbing ache radiating from every joint and muscle. My chest felt heavy, my breaths shallow and labored, as if I were drowning on dry land.
I wanted to speak, to tell them I was still here, but my throat was raw, my voice nonexistent. Instead, a weak, involuntary gasp escaped my lips.
My sister's head shot up. "He's awake!" she cried, her voice cutting through the haze.
The others looked down at me, their blurry faces lighting up with hope. My mother reached out, brushing her fingers gently against my cheek. "Jisung," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Mom.
I couldn't answer.
I had so much will but my body never cooperate with my brain.
I wanted to tell her that I was okay.
That I was still here at least.
Though I wasn't
It didn't feel like it.
Mom.
I tried again but I couldn't. My lip didn't even move.
It felt like I wasn't even trying.
Mom.
My body didn't respond to my brain.
My body felt dead.
Before I could muster the strength to try again, the world around me started to tilt and spin.
The beeping from the monitor grew louder in my ears, my chest tightened even more, and the edges of my vision turned dark.
"No, no, no," my sister's voice wavered, her grip on my hand tightening.
The light above me flickered, and the voices blurred together into a cacophony of noise. My head fell to the side, and everything began to fade again.
The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me was my family's faces-etched with fear, love, and pain-praying desperately over me.
And then, nothing.
I was trapped in my own body. My mind was awake, sharp and cruel in it's clarity, but my body refused to obey me. I could feel the stiffness in my limbs, the ache in my joints, and the sharp, unbearable pain in my chest that never seemed to let up. Every breath I took felt borrowed, forced, and unnatural.
The beeping of the monitor was my only companion, a constant reminder that I was alive-if this even counted as living. I hated that sound. It mocked me, each pulse driving home the reality that my body was failing, no matter how hard I fought to stay here.
The worst part wasn't the pain. It was the stillness.
Lying here, day after day, unable to move, was torture. I could hear the nurses murmuring in the hallway, the occasional shuffle of my family's footsteps as they came in and out, their voices tinged with forced optimism. My mother would sit by my bed, holding my hand, her tears soaking the skin she probably thought I couldn't feel.
I felt everything.
I felt the weight of their expectations, their hope, their belief that I could pull through this. They didn't know what it was like to be stuck inside this failing shell, feeling every agonizing second stretch into an eternity.
I tried to hold on. God, I tried.
But it was too much.
I'd spent my whole life fighting-against my body, against my illness, against the odds that were stacked against me from the moment I was born.
No childhood. No sleepovers, no school trips, no wild adventures. My life had been a series of sterile hospital rooms, needles, and medications.
This wasn't living. It never had been.
And now, as I lay here, unable to even open my eyes, I realized I couldn't do it anymore.
I'd made a promise to my family. I'd told them I'd fight until the very end. I could still hear my father's voice echoing in my mind, strong and determined: "You're a fighter, Jisung. You've always been. Don't give up now."
But I wasn't strong. Not anymore.
I'd reached my limit, and I was done pretending otherwise.
Every day was worse than the last. The pain was unbearable, a constant reminder that my body was losing this battle. It was suffocating, the weight of it crushing me from the inside out. My breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one harder than the last.
I didn't want to do this anymore.
I couldn't keep watching my family destroy themselves over me. My parents were draining their savings to keep me in this special hospital, a place that was meant to give me the best care money could buy. But even this wasn't enough.
They were clinging to hope, but I wasn't.
Deep down, I knew. I wasn't going to get better. I could feel it in my bones, in the way my body was slowly shutting down. This wasn't just another setback. This was the end.
And yet, I felt guilty.
I didn't want to let them down. They'd sacrificed so much for me, given up so much, and all I could do was lie here, useless and broken. I'm their son, and I was about to fail them in the worst way possible.
But I can't keep fighting just for them.
As much as I loved them I wanted to keep holding on to the tiniest bit of hope threading me to believe I could keep going.
I was tired.
So, so tired.
I wanted peace. I wanted to stop hurting. I wanted to close my eyes and not feel this unbearable weight pressing down on me anymore.
I don't want to feel this stiffness anymore.
This never ending circle of only my mind being awake and not my body.
I didn't want to leave them. I loved them more than anything in this world. But this wasn't a life, and I couldn't keep pretending it was.
In the silence of my mind, I finally made the decision.
It was time to let go.
I could feel my body giving out, bit by bit. My breaths were weaker, my heartbeat slower. The monitors would pick it up soon, and the nurses would rush in, trying to save me. But it didn't matter.
I was done fighting.
As the world around me faded into a haze of white noise, I thought about my family. I hoped they would forgive me. I hoped they would understand that this wasn't me just selfishly giving up it was me finding peace.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid.
I was ready.
Slipping away into the light.
The edges of my consciousness were fraying, unraveling into a haze of numbness and quiet. The constant hum of the machines around me faded into a distant murmur, almost like a lullaby. My chest felt heavy, my breaths shallow.
I'm going to die.
This was peace. Finally.
But then, just as I was about to let go, the tranquility shattered.
There was a deafening bang, like someone had slammed a door open with too much force. My heart, which had been sluggish and weak moments before, jolted back to life, racing with panic.
The sound was followed by a rush of footsteps, a cacophony of voices shouting over one another, and a scream so raw and guttural it sent chills through my veins.
My eyes shot open, wide and wild, pupils darting around the room in a frenzy. The blurriness from before hadn't fully cleared, but I could make out the figures moving in the chaos.
It was the doctor, the one who had been with me since my first day in this hospital. He was gripping the arm of a young man, dragging him into the room with the help of two nurses. The boy was thrashing violently, his screams echoing off the sterile walls.
"Hold him down!" the doctor yelled, his voice strained with effort.
The young man fought back with a ferocity I didn't think was humanly possible. His movements were erratic, wild, as though he were possessed by something primal and unrelenting. He kicked, clawed, and swung his arms, trying to free himself from their grip.
"Let me go!" he roared, his voice hoarse but powerful.
The nurses struggled to restrain him, their grips slipping as he thrashed against them. One of them stumbled backward, nearly colliding with the machines by my bedside.
I flinched, my body tense despite the weakness that had consumed me moments before. My heart was hammering in my chest, the steady beeping of the monitor now erratic and frantic.
"Get more help!" one of the nurses called out, her voice trembling.
But the boy was relentless.
His eyes were wide and wild, darting around the room like a caged animal searching for an escape. His hair was disheveled, his clothes torn and stained, and his face was contorted with a mix of rage and despair.
I couldn't look away.
"Please, calm down!" the doctor pleaded, his tone softer now, almost desperate. "We're trying to help you."
"You can't help me! No one can!"
His words hung heavy in the air, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
I felt a lump form in my throat, the weight of his anguish pressing down on me. For a moment, it was as if I could feel his pain, raw and all-consuming, seeping into my own fragile state.
The nurses finally managed to pin him down against the floor, their combined weight barely enough to keep him still. His screams had turned into ragged sobs, his body shaking with the effort of his resistance.
"Mother!!!!!" He screamed. "What did you do to my mother!!"
The doctor knelt beside him, a syringe in his hand.
"It's going to be okay," the doctor said, his voice steady but weary. "Just breathe. This will help."
"No!" the boy cried out, his voice cracking. "Don't-don't do this!"
The boy's screams turned guttural as he thrashed harder, his voice breaking from the strain. "Don't touch me! DON'T TOUCH ME!"
But his struggles were growing weaker, his energy draining as quickly as mine had been moments ago.
I wanted to look away, to shut my eyes and block out the scene unfolding before me. But I couldn't.
The doctor injected the contents of the syringe into the boy's arm, and within seconds, the fight left him. His body went limp, his head lolling to the side as his breathing slowed.
The room fell silent, save for the sound of my own rapid heartbeat and the steady hum of the machines.
The nurses lifted the boy onto the bed across from mine. His eyes fluttered open briefly, meeting mine for the briefest of moments before closing again.
I felt a shiver run down my spine.
"Is he okay?" one of the nurses asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. "For now. Keep an eye on him."
They adjusted the machines around the boy's bed, their movements quick and efficient. The chaos had subsided, but the tension in the room was still very much present and I remained in shock.
I let out a shaky breath, my body sinking back into the mattress. My heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the commotion refusing to dissipate.
~
Midnight always had a way of making the sterile, whitewashed halls feel like a liminal space between life and death. The faint hum of machines filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional beeping of my heart monitor.
I couldn't sleep.
The pain coursing through my body was relentless, my joints ached, my chest felt like it was being crushed under a heavy weight, and every shallow breath sent a ripple of discomfort through me.
Lying still, I turned my head slightly to the side, wincing at the effort. Across the room, the boy-Minho, as I'd overheard earlier-lay motionless on his bed. At first, I thought he was asleep, but then I heard it.
A faint murmur.
I strained my ears, my curiosity piqued despite my exhaustion. His lips moved, though his eyes remained shut, and the words he spoke were low and incoherent.
I watched him, my gaze flickering between the shadows on the walls and his restless form. The muttering grew louder, his words becoming slightly clearer.
"Mom," he said, his voice trembling. "Open the door. You're back... You're back now."
He fell silent for a moment, and I thought he was done. But then, his breathing quickened, and his body started to twitch. Sweat dotted his forehead, glistening under the dim light.
"Don't touch her!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "Please! She's all I have-don't hurt her!"
My heart clenched.
This wasn't just a nightmare. Whatever he was experiencing felt too vivid, too raw, like he was reliving something horrible.
I wanted to call for a nurse, but my voice felt trapped in my throat. I could only watch as he writhed on the bed, his body tense and his face contorted in agony.
"Please don't kill her!" he screamed suddenly, his voice echoing through the room.
I flinched, my pulse quickening in response to the sheer desperation in his tone. My chest heaved as I tried to steady my breathing, but the fear clawing at me made it difficult.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, he stopped.
The room fell into a heavy silence once again. His body stilled, his breathing slowing to an uneven rhythm. I closed my eyes, willing myself to forget what I'd just witnessed.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Every noise, every flicker of movement, kept me on edge. I couldn't shake the unease that had settled in my chest.
A rustling sound jolted me back to full awareness.
I opened my eyes slowly, my body stiff with dread. My gaze was met with a sight that made my blood run cold.
Minho was standing by my bed.
His face was mere inches from mine, his eyes wide open but disturbingly vacant, like he wasn't really there. His expression was blank, yet something about it sent a shiver down my spine.
"Why did you kill her?" he asked, his voice low and monotone.
My heart stopped.
His words hung in the air, sharp and accusing, and my mind raced to comprehend what he was saying. My body screamed at me to move, to call for help, but I was too weak, too paralyzed by fear to act.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing through me. "Why did you kill her?" he repeated, louder this time, his voice filled with an unhinged intensity.
"I-I didn't," I whispered, though the words barely left my lips.
Before I could react, his hands shot out, wrapping around my neck with a grip so forceful it stole the breath from my lungs.
"I'm going to kill you!" he growled, his face contorted with rage.
My vision blurred as I gasped for air, the pressure on my throat unbearable. I tried to push him off, but my arms were too frail, my strength nonexistent.
The machines around me started to scream, their alarms blaring as my heart rate skyrocketed.
Panic surged through me. My body twisted weakly, but it was no use. His grip was unyielding, and his face remained inches from mine, his eyes wild with fury.
I tried to call out, but no sound came. The room around me spun, dark spots clouding my vision. My chest burned as I struggled for even the smallest gulp of air.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
"Get off him!" a voice shouted, and within moments, hands were pulling Minho away from me.
I collapsed back onto the bed, gasping and coughing, my vision swimming as the nurses restrained him.
"Let me kill me. He killed my mother." The nurse held him down injecting him again and securing him with straps to prevent him from lashing out.
The last thing I saw before everything went black was Minho's face.
~
When I woke, you the world was a blur of light and pain. My head throbbed mercilessly, each beat like a drum pounding against my skull. My vision was hazy, the edges of everything swimming together in a way that made my stomach churn. I tried to move, but my body refused to cooperate, weighed down by exhaustion and weakness.
I blinked a few times, willing my surroundings to come into focus. Slowly, the sterile white walls of the hospital room came into view. The faint beeping of machines punctuated the silence, grounding me just enough to remind me where I was.
Turning my head felt like moving a mountain, but I managed it, groaning softly at the strain. My gaze fell on the boy across the room-Minho.
He was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, but something was different. His arms and legs were bound to the bed, thick leather restraints securing him in place. His wrists bore fresh bruises where he must have struggled, and his face, though calm in slumber, carried a haunted tension.
And then it all came rushing back.
The screams.
The vacant, accusing eyes.
His hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me.
My breath hitched, and my body tensed involuntarily. The memory of his rage, his strength, and the sheer terror I'd felt in that moment was too vivid, too raw.
He'd accused me of killing his mom.
It didn't make sense. I'd never met this boy before he was wheeled into my room, chained to whatever past haunted him. I'd spent my entire life in hospitals, my days confined to sterile rooms and punctuated by endless tests and treatments. I didn't even know what it was like to live outside these walls, let alone find the strength-or opportunity-to harm someone.
And yet, he'd looked at me with such unbridled hatred, as if I were the cause of all his suffering.
I shivered, my throat aching at the memory of his grip.
I didn't want to be in the same room as him. Not after what he'd done. Not after how close he'd brought me to death.
Who was he?
Why was he here?
All the time I had been in this hospital, I had only ever been surrounded by people like me-people with failing bodies, with conditions that stole their lives away bit by bit. Minho didn't seem like any of us. He was strong-too strong. The way he fought the doctors, the way he screamed and resisted, it was nothing like what I'd seen before.
His condition wasn't like mine.
So why was he here?
The thought made me uneasy. It was already hard enough being in this place, knowing my days were numbered. I didn't want to be around someone who could so easily take my life before my illness even had the chance to.
The doctors had always said I was dying. That my condition would eventually take me. But I'd never felt the cold grip of death so tangibly as I had last night, with his hands around my neck and my vision fading to black.
Was this even worth fighting for anymore?
The thought settled heavily in my chest, and I closed my eyes, trying to drown out the hopelessness creeping in. The doctors had always been clear about my prognosis: there was no cure, only treatments to prolong the inevitable. My family, desperate for a miracle, had spared no expense to keep me in this hospital-the best of its kind, designed for patients like me.
But what was the point?
The decision to take the Paradise Drip had been looming over me for years. It was a miracle drug, they said-a chance to feel whole, to live without pain or sickness. But the catch was steep: seven days of wellness, followed by certain death.
I'd seen so many of my friends choose it.
One by one, the kids I'd befriended in this place, the only people who understood what it was like to live this half-life, had made their choice. I'd watched them thrive for seven days, their faces glowing with health and joy, only to disappear forever.
I'd always said no.
The idea of sacrificing even the smallest chance at a future for a single week of normalcy felt selfish. My parents had begged me to hold on, to keep fighting, and I'd promised them I would.
But now?
Lying here, my body broken and my spirit drained, I wasn't so sure anymore.
What future was I clinging to? Another year of pain? Another month of hospital rooms and false hope? Another day spent tethered to machines and medications that couldn't save me?
I turned my head back to stare at the ceiling, the ache in my chest deepening.
I don't want to be here anymore.
I want to feel alive.
Truly alive. Not this half-existence where every breath was a struggle and every moment was tinged with pain. I wanted to laugh, to run, to feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. I wanted to experience life as it was meant to be, even if only for a short while.
Seven days.
And if death was the only certainty, then maybe it was time to make peace with it.
The Paradise Drip wasn't just a death sentence. It was freedom. A chance to escape this endless cycle of suffering and embrace life, however fleeting it might be.
For SEVEN DAYS
The decision settled in my heart like a stone dropping into still water.
I would do it.
I'LL CHOOSE THE PARADISE DRIP.
For the first time in years, I felt a sense of clarity. This isn't about giving up. This was about reclaiming the time I had left and living it on my terms.
The fear of disappointing my family lingered, but I pushed it aside. They wouldn't understand, not at first, but I hoped they'd come to see that this was what I needed.
Taking a shaky breath, I let my eyes drift shut.
I won't tell them .
They'll be so disappointed knowing I choose selfishly.
I'd talk to the doctor soon.
The door creaked open, pulling me from my thoughts. Nurse Hyejin walked in, her usual gentle smile on her face as she carried her clipboard.
"Good morning, Jisung," she said softly, setting her things down beside my bed.
I nodded weakly. "Morning."
She began her routine check-up, taking my vitals, checking my IV. I laid there still, only able to turn my head slightly as she worked. The silence in the room felt heavy, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn't shake.
Hyejin narrowed her eyes playfully before her gaze shifted to the boy on the other bed. Her expression turned more serious, and she leaned closer to me.
"He's awake," she said in a hushed voice.
I slowly turn my head to the other side and met his gaze. His eyes were wide open, staring, gaze piercing, almost predatory, and it sent a chill down my spine
"He seems really far away."
"The medicine hasn't worn off yet," Hyejin continued, keeping her voice low. "But stay away from him. He's dangerous."
Before I could manage to reply she interrupted. "I know you like befriending the newcomers, but promise me you'll sit this one out. He's not someone you can help."
I chuckled nervously, his eyes flickering back to him. "You don't need to tell me twice. He's scary-looking."
"Don't say that."
Hyejin's voice trailed off, her expression softening. We stay quiet for what felt like and hour but it was just a few minutes of me just watching her do her job.
I hesitated, but curiosity got the best of me.
"Nurse Hyejin," I murmured.
"Hm?" She glanced at me while noting something on her clipboard.
"May I ask... what's wrong with him?" My eyes flickered to Minho, still restrained in his bed across the room. "I know I'm not supposed to but..."
She followed my gaze and sighed. "Jisung this is how you always start." She poked the tip of my nose.
She looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. "I don't think I know the whole story, but... his family was brutally slaughtered in front of his eyes."
My heart sank.
"And ever since then, he's been battling severe mental issues and.... he sees things that aren't there, and his episodes are violent. They had to move him from a psych ward to us."
"Oh..."
My stomach churned. No wonder he acted the way he did. No wonder he'd mistaken me for someone else.
"And from what we're looking at," Nurse Hyejin went on, adjusting my IV, "we can only offer him the paradise drug for a change."
I stiffened.
"But... he'll die."
She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. "But he gets to live well before that."
I swallowed hard, my mind racing.
"Is that what he wants?" I asked hesitantly.
"The doctors will decide."
My jaw clenched. "The patients are to decide, are they not?"
She gave me a small, sad smile. "He's not well enough to decide that."
I hated that answer.
"So don't do it, then," I said, my voice firmer than before. "Let him be."
Nurse Hyejin tilted her head at me, curiosity in her eyes. "Why are you so bothered about it?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came.
Because I knew what it meant to face the choice of the paradise drug.
Because I had watched people I cared about take it and leave me behind.
Because for the first time, I was considering it for myself and I knew what it meant. But he doesn't.
He doesn't even get to choose.
"Jisung you won't even get the time to befriend him so stop thinking about it, our decision will be made in 24hrs and whatever comes out of it would be what's best for him, we don't want him out there hurting anyone."
I turned away, staring at the ceiling again. "Give him some time, he might improve."
Hyejin shook her head, her tone somber. "He's gone, Jisung. The human in him was forcefully taken away."
I looked to him and his focus was still on us but it felt like he wasn't in the room with us.
He was a million miles away from here.
And that didn't seem human.
Hyejin gave me a gentle pat. "Try to have some breakfast. I'll bring in your medication in an hour."
And then she left, the door clicking shut behind her.
I laid there, feeling heavier than before.
Minho was going to die.
And for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
And.
I didn't even know him.
~
I didn't go for breakfast.
Instead, I maneuvered my wheelchair through the quiet hallways of the hospital, the hum of the electric motor filling the empty silence. The fluorescent lights buzzed above me, casting a cold glow over the white walls. My hands gripped the controls tightly, my heart hammering in my chest as I made my way to my doctor's office.
By the time I reached his door, my fingers were trembling. I hesitated for only a second before knocking.
"Come in."
I pushed the door open, rolling inside. My doctor sat behind his desk, flipping through a patient file, but when he looked up and saw me, he immediately set it down. His expression softened, as if he already knew why I was here.
"Jisung," he greeted. "What can I do for you?"
I swallowed hard. "I want to take the paradise drug."
There was no hesitation in my voice. I had thought about this for far too long.
He leaned back in his chair, studying me carefully before sighing. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "I won't sugarcoat this, Jisung. This isn't a miracle cure. This isn't just rainbows and butterflies. You don't get a fairytale ending. Seven days. That's all. And after that-"
"I die," I finished for him. "I know."
He tilted his head slightly. "Do you?"
I exhaled sharply. "I've thought about it. I know what it means. And I know what it doesn't mean. I just... I just want to feel alive. Even if it's only for a week."
He rubbed his temples. "And your family? What about them?"
"They won't know." I shifted slightly in my chair. "I don't want them to know. Not now, not ever. Even after I die."
His brow furrowed. "Jisung-"
"I don't want them to carry that weight," I interrupted. "I don't want them to think I gave up."
He sighed heavily. "But you are giving up."
But I didn't argue. Because deep down, I knew he was right.
"You know there's still a slight possibility of you getting better and finally leaving here to be with your family in good health...
That's if you stay here and continue to fight and not stupidly choosing this for yourself because you've spent your years romanticizing good health."
There was silence.
"Paradise is not an easy ticket to heaven it's suicide on a bed of roses."
"I am aware of that. I just... I don't believe in getting better anymore." My voice was quiet, almost fragile. "I've spent 21 years like this. If there was a possibility, wouldn't I have seen it by now?"
For a long moment, he didn't speak. He just looked at me, his gaze searching. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Alright," he said.
A strange relief flooded through me.
He pulled out a folder from his desk, flipping through the pages before setting it in front of me. "You need to sign these. A waiver. A consent form. Some legalities."
My hands shook slightly as I picked up the pen, but I signed every line, every page, sealing my fate with ink.
When I was done, he took the papers back, scanning over them before closing the folder.
"You'll receive the drug tonight," he said, his voice calm but firm. "It'll take effect by morning."
I nodded.
He looked at me one last time, as if searching for any sign of hesitation. But I didn't give him one.
He exhaled. "Then... that's it."
I turned my wheelchair around, moving toward the door.
Tomorrow, I would wake up and feel whole.
And tomorrow, my countdown to death would begin.
I returned to the ward, but before I could lose myself in mindless scrolling, something caught my attention.
Across the room, Minho was awake.
His head was turned slightly, and his eyes those dark, piercing eyes were locked on me. Unlike the other night, they weren't distant or clouded with rage. This time, they seemed... present.
I froze, unsure what to do. Was he really watching me, or was it just my imagination?
Before I could decide, Minho turned his head away, breaking the moment.
He was awake.
Awake and aware.
That fact should scared me. Knowing he's a awake and aware means that the stuff he was given had already worn off and he will most like be violent again.
Do I care?
No
I love being this close to my doom
I maneuvered my wheelchair toward his bed. My heart raced as I got closer, the memory of his hands around my throat flashing in my mind. But was boosted my confidence to go this close was that he was restrained, tied securely to the bed, so I convinced myself it was safe.
I approached slowly.
Minho's head turned toward me again, and I swallowed hard.
"Hey," I said cautiously, keeping a careful distance.
He blinked at me, his expression blank. No words, no reaction.
Nothing in his eyes.
It was like I wasn't even there.
I let out a soft sigh, my shoulders sagging. The nurse had said he was gone, and now I believed her. His body was here, but his mind... it was somewhere else entirely.
Disheartened, I turned to wheel myself back to my bed when his voice stopped me in my tracks.
"I'm sorry."
I froze, my heart skipping a beat. Slowly, I turned back to face him, unsure if I'd imagined it.
"For trying to kill you..." he continued, his voice strained. "I-I'm really sorry. That must have been so terrifying to see."
I stared at him, my mind reeling. Of all the things I expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them.
And he talked so normally.
Why was nurse Hyejin acting like he was crazy out of his mind seeking bloody revenge.
And for a moment I was stunned.
His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something human in them. Regret.
"I don't know what came over me," he added, his voice trembling. "I thought you were... someone else."
I took a step closer, my fear battling with my curiosity.
"Someone else?" I echoed softly.
He nodded, his gaze dropping to the restraints around his wrists. "I thought I saw him."
I didn't know what to say. My throat felt tight. Why would he see me as someone else.
"It's okay," I said finally, though the words felt inadequate.
It wasn't okay-not really. It was scary.
But seeing him like this, vulnerable and broken, I couldn't hold onto my fear or anger.
He didn't respond, his eyes closing as if the weight of the conversation was too much to bear.
I wheeled myself back to my bed, my mind swirling with questions.
Minho wasn't sick, he wasn't a killer, he just someone haunted by his own demons. Someone who needed help to be aligned with reality again because his experience had taken it away from him and as much as I wanted to keep my distance, I couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't deserve the suicide that was waiting for him.
~Hi I started with this book because it's a really short one and it's been drafted since December. I hope you like it.
~Please vote and let me know you thought.