Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I stay up at night not because sleep eludes me, but because I can’t bring myself to accept that my day was nothing more than this mundane, predictable, endlessly repeating. The hours crawl past like slow traffic in a city that never moves, each second a reminder that nothing I do seems to matter. My job ended weeks ago, though I can’t quite call it a “job” to begin with. The offices I’d drifted between feel like a blur now, all fluorescent lights and endless paperwork. The truth is, I have nothing to hope for, and yet the night refuses to let me lie down and forget.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The hum of the fridge and the soft creak of the heating pipes are the only things that break the silence, and still, they feel louder than they should. Shadows stretch across the walls, jagged and uneven, but I don’t reach for the light switch. I like the dark, the way it folds around me, wraps me in a cloak of half-sleeping dreams I can almost touch. It’s comforting and terrifying at once.
Jisung is asleep in the bedroom, soft breaths rising and falling, his arm draped over the pillow like he belongs to the night itself. Even asleep, he glows, like a candle in a drafty room, fragile but constant. I lie on the edge of the couch, watching him through the doorway, feeling my chest tighten. Soonie, our small, orange cat, curls around Jisung’s shoulder, her purr vibrating softly, a pulse in the silence. She twitches occasionally in sleep, chasing dreams I can’t see.
Everything feels too perfect. Too small, too soft, too fleeting. I’m hyperaware of the light reflecting off Jisung’s hair, the rise and fall of his chest, the little twitch of Soonie’s tail. My mind spins, whispering warnings I can’t turn off: It can’t last. This is too good. Something will break it. I clutch the blanket around me a little tighter, trying to anchor myself in this moment that already feels like a memory I might lose.
I stare at the window. Outside, the city is quiet, but not asleep. Lights flicker from distant apartments, and I imagine stories behind each one: arguments, laughter, someone eating ice cream on a balcony, someone crying quietly, someone brushing their cat’s fur, someone scrolling through their phone and feeling exactly as small as I do. I wonder if they feel it too. the strange, fragile suspension of life when nothing is really happening, but everything could.
I reach for the small notebook I’ve kept hidden under the couch cushion. My pen hovers over the page, but nothing feels worthy of writing. I could record the patterns of shadows on the walls. I could write the sound of the radiator hum. I could describe Jisung’s breathing and call it poetry. None of it seems enough. The words feel too blunt, too concrete, too human. I want to capture the night itself, the invisible tremor that runs through it, but how do you trap a heartbeat in ink?
Soonie shifts again, stretching luxuriously, claws clicking softly against the hardwood. She opens one eye, then closes it, as if judging me for my restlessness. Jisung murmurs something, turning in his sleep, and I feel the tight coil of my chest loosen slightly. Maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe this is okay.
And yet the anxiety clings. My eyes dart to the apartment’s corners, the faint outlines of furniture, the walls that are too still. My heartbeat quickens for no reason, then slows, then quickens again. I can feel the fragility of this. my home, my love, my little cat curled like a living ornament against Jisung’s shoulder. It feels impossible that it is real, that it belongs to me, that it could survive another night without something cracking.
I take a deep breath and try to center myself. I focus on the soft weight of Soonie against Jisung, the warm sweep of his hair brushing the pillow, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. I remind myself: This is real. For now, this is real. My chest swells with a strange, fragile joy. My heartbeat slows, yet somewhere deep in me, the tremor remains. the delicate, unavoidable awareness that anything this sweet could vanish in a blink.
I shift on the couch and look at Jisung again. His face is serene, untouched by the world outside these walls. The golden lamplight catches a strand of hair that has fallen across his forehead, and I find myself holding my breath. Soonie twitches one last time and settles. Silence envelops the apartment again.
I close my eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the night pressing in. And in that moment, I realize something I haven’t admitted even to myself: I am completely, irreversibly in love with him. With Jisung. With Soonie. With the quiet, fragile life we have built together.
I let myself linger in it, in the trembling, bittersweet beauty of it, and I wonder, almost hope, that maybe, just maybe, nothing will shatter tonight.

Chapter Text

The night is quiet, softer than yesterday, but sleep still won’t touch me. I lie in bed next to Jisung, listening to the faint rustle of pages as he flips through his book. He’s completely absorbed, utterly indifferent to my presence, and somehow that makes my chest ache with both longing and anxiety. I’m not sure why. I’ve spent countless nights next to him, and yet it feels new every time, as if he could vanish in the next moment and leave only shadows behind.
The lamplight flickers gently, painting stripes across the ceiling. I watch it, hypnotized, counting each flicker as if the pattern could warn me of what’s coming. Soonie stretches across the foot of the bed, ears twitching, tail flicking now and then. She moves with that impossible combination of softness and precision that cats have, as though she owns the shadows themselves. I find myself tracking each twitch of her paw, each tiny lift of her whiskers, noting it all in my head like some obsessive inventory.
Jisung hums softly, almost imperceptibly, and it makes something coil inside me. A mixture of comfort, longing, and sharp, unreasoning worry. My mind can’t help itself. What if this hum stops tomorrow? What if the light changes, or Soonie jumps off the bed and disappears somewhere forever, or Jisung stops smiling at me like this? I push the thought away, but it clings like a shadow stretching longer than it should.
I trace the outline of the ceiling with my eyes, the corners of the room, the way the lamplight hits the dresser just so. Every detail is too perfect, too fragile. My heartbeat picks up when a floorboard creaks, though I know it’s just the house settling. My fingers flex against the sheets, as if holding them tighter could anchor reality itself.
I slightly shift, sliding closer to Jisung’s side. I think about how effortless his warmth is, how ordinary and perfect it feels. My chest tightens, a squeeze of anxiety that tastes almost like panic. This cannot last. It is too perfect. Something will break it. But then Jisung laughs quietly at a line in his book, a gentle sound that seems to echo through the room like a small, fragile bell.
And then it happens. Soonie, in a sudden, unpredictable burst of energy, leaps gracefully onto my lap, claws clicking softly against the fabric of my pajamas. I startle, heart leaping, but the shock melts instantly into a strange, swelling joy. She kneads at my stomach with delicate precision, purring like a motor made of sunlight. I look down at her, then across to Jisung, and my chest feels impossibly full, as if I’m holding the weight of the world and everything in it. And yet it’s all harmless, all soft, all bright.
I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, though my mind still buzzes with quiet warnings. This is too good. It feels unreal. It could shatter any second. And yet, I let myself linger in it, because for the first time tonight, the world feels like it belongs to me; even if only for a moment, even if it is fragile.
I reach down to scratch Soonie behind the ears, and she hums her purr into my palm. Jisung turns a page, still oblivious to the little eruption of chaos I’ve just experienced. I watch him for a long moment, my heart trembling and swelling at once, realizing that even in my paranoia, even in my sleepless nights, these small shadows and small joys are mine.

Chapter Text

The city beyond our window hums quietly, lights spilling in like tiny stars caught between buildings. The night feels different from yesterday. Softer, as if the world is exhaling and yet my chest tightens all the same. Sleep is elusive, as always, and I find myself rising from the bed where Jisung is lying beside me, already absorbed in the soft glow of his book. He doesn’t notice me slipping out, or perhaps he chooses not to, leaving me to trace my nightly routines in silence.
Soonie shifts on the bed, ears twitching, tail flicking in gentle arcs. She regards me with the faintest suspicion as I tiptoe toward the kitchen. I crouch to scratch behind her ears, letting her soft hum vibrate through my fingers, and I swear the sound is like a small chord of music, harmonizing with the faint hum of the radiator. My eyes catch the lamplight reflecting off her whiskers, the gentle curve of her back, and I pause, memorizing her movements as though committing them to memory.
The kettle waits on the stove, a familiar silver circle that gleams under the overhead light. I fill it carefully, watching the water climb, rising in translucent waves. I like the hiss that comes next, the way the first bubbles pop and tumble, and I count them silently, each one a small heartbeat echoing in the quiet kitchen. Tea has become my ritual. I measure the leaves meticulously, inhaling the herbal scent as it rises with the steam, swirling in the dim light like smoke from a candle I’ve never lit. The shapes twist in the air, and for a moment I think I see tiny figures dancing. two silhouettes holding hands, bowing, spinning, before they dissolve and vanish, leaving only the gentle warmth in my chest.
Carrying the cup back to the bedroom, I move with deliberate care, my bare feet brushing the cool floorboards. I pause at the window, watching the city lights ripple, imagining the lives behind each one: someone laughing, someone crying, someone asleep, someone awake and restless like me. The thought makes my chest tighten, and I clutch the cup closer, letting the warmth seep into my hands.
I kneel by the bed, arranging the pillows in a pattern only I understand: one slightly angled, one stacked just so, another tucked perfectly against the headboard. The blanket I smooth with meticulous care, tugging at corners until they sit just right. It’s ridiculous, I know. small, meaningless motions but they give me control in a world that often feels unmoored.
Jisung glances up at me, raising one eyebrow. “You’re very precise tonight,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but soft. I can hear him smiling under the faint rustle of his book. I shrug, pretending indifference, though the warmth that spreads through me tells another story.
I shift the lamp on the nightstand so that its golden glow brushes his hair just so, softening the shadows on his face. My fingers linger for a moment, unsure whether I’m arranging the light or simply trying to capture some essence of him I can keep. The shadows curl along the wall, long and lazy, twisting in ways that feel almost sentient. For a heartbeat, I imagine them moving independently, dancing around the apartment in silent celebration of the night, of us, of this fragile, improbable happiness.
I glance at Jisung, who is still reading, watching me with amusement and quiet affection, and I realize how impossible it all feels: the cat, the boy, the light, the softness of the night, all wrapped around me like something that shouldn’t be real, and yet undeniably is.
I sip my tea, letting the warmth travel down, anchoring me. My eyes wander to the ceiling, where the faint flicker of lamplight dances across the plaster. I notice the texture, the tiny imperfections that would normally irritate me, and now seem almost miraculous in the gentle glow. I imagine the patterns shifting slowly, like clouds floating across a dreamscape, carrying with them whispers of something just beyond understanding. The city hums below, alive but muted, and I imagine it bending toward the apartment, leaning in, curious about our tiny, fragile world.
Jisung finally closes his book, stretching and yawning, his shoulders shifting gracefully, the soft creak of the bed frame punctuating the silence. “You’re obsessed with the little things tonight,” he says, half-amused, half-pleased. I shrug again, though my chest is tight with quiet pride. “It keeps the night from slipping away,” I murmur, and he tilts his head, studying me, the corner of his lips tugging into that smile that melts something in me I didn’t even know existed.
I adjust the blanket one last time, flick the lamp slightly to perfect the shadows, and settle back onto the bed. Soonie curls against Jisung again, purring as he rests his hand over her small body. I sip the final warmth from my tea cup and let the quiet of the room envelop me. the shadows, the faint city lights, the soft hum of the radiator, the tiny flickers of magical shapes I swear I see in the lamplight.
And for the first time tonight, I let myself breathe fully, though the anxiety still lingers somewhere beneath my ribs, whispering that it’s all too perfect, that it could shatter any second. But for now, this is enough. For now, the world is soft, and alive, and somehow entirely ours.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the television fills the living room, a gentle, constant companion to the quiet rustle of blankets. Jisung is curled against me on the couch, his head resting lightly on my shoulder, eyes crinkling as he laughs at a line in the rom-com playing on the screen. Soonie stretches across our laps, purring like a small engine, kneading gently at my thigh. I should feel peaceful, happy. but instead my chest twists with a familiar tension.
I watch Jisung’s smile, slow and effortless, and something sharp stabs in my mind. It’s too perfect. It can’t last. Every hair catching the lamplight, the faint curve of his lips, the warmth radiating from his body. It all feels suspended, impossibly fragile. I want to freeze it, capture it in my memory before it dissolves, because my mind refuses to believe this comfort is real.
Soonie’s purr hums against my fingers. I stroke her soft fur, noting the twitch of her ears, the gentle flick of her tail, the warmth of her body against ours. These small, ordinary details feel monumentally precious. I try to anchor myself in them, to convince myself that this happiness is tangible, not a fleeting dream I will wake from.
The television dialogue drifts into the background, a steady stream of light and laughter, but my mind cycles insistently: One wrong move, one stray thought, and it will all shatter. Jisung will look at me differently. Soonie will run away. The light will go out. The fear is sharp, sudden, a contrast to the sweetness pressing against my ribs. I force my gaze back to the screen, forcing the warmth into my chest, willing myself to inhale and exhale slowly.
Jisung laughs quietly, burrowing closer. The simplicity of it, the closeness, the shared space. It feels sacred and terrifying simultaneously. I remind myself that nothing here is outside my control, yet I cannot shake the sensation that at any moment, this bubble will pop, leaving me alone in the gray monotony I know so well.
Hours pass quietly. The credits roll and the screen fades to black, but I do not move. Jisung’s breathing deepens, even and soft, and I feel the weight of him pressing against me, grounding me, demanding attention even in unconsciousness. Soonie curls tighter, purring more insistently. I cradle them both gently, acutely aware of every detail: the rise and fall of Jisung’s chest, the tiny twitch of Soonie’s paw, the faint scent of the blanket mixing with his shampoo.
Once Jisung drifts into a deeper sleep, I shift slightly, careful not to disturb him or the cat. I reach for my notebook, letting the pen hover over the page. My hand moves almost automatically, sketching lines, shapes, fragments of what I see and feel. A quick outline of Jisung’s sleeping face. Soonie, sprawled like a small, soft shadow across my lap. The glow of the lamplight falling in golden pools across the room.
Even as I draw, a tremor of uncertainty runs through me. It’s too good to be true. Each line I trace is an attempt to solidify what I fear will vanish. But despite the tension, I notice a subtle shift in myself. I linger over the curves of his face without flinching, tracing shadows without panic. My hand moves with a purpose that isn’t obsessive. It's careful, reverent. I am beginning, in some small way, to allow myself to observe happiness without flinching.
The room is quiet except for the soft scratch of pen on paper. I do not look up, afraid that if I do, the fragility I feel will shatter. And yet, even as I scribble imperfect sketches and half-formed sentences, I feel a strange warmth spread through me, a cautious acceptance that these moments, though fleeting, can exist without breaking.
I glance at Jisung, still asleep, hair falling across his forehead, lips soft and relaxed. Soonie’s purr continues, rhythmic and steady, and the world feels impossibly tender. I feel my heartbeat slow slightly, the tension in my chest loosening just enough to let a whisper of calm seep through. Perhaps some things can persist. Perhaps happiness, even fragile and precarious, does not have to collapse at once.
I continue sketching, letting the night stretch around me, letting the lamp cast its gentle light over the paper. The city outside is distant and muted, its hum a soft reminder that life continues, indifferent but beautiful. I trace lines for Jisung’s smile again, for Soonie’s curve, for the gentle glow pooling across the couch, committing each fragment to memory and ink, and for the first time in a long while, I allow myself a thought that feels both terrifying and exhilarating: maybe, just maybe, this can last.

Chapter Text

The night hums quietly. The apartment is warm, haloed by the low gold of the lamp near the couch. Jisung is in the kitchen rinsing cups; Soonie is perched on the window ledge, tail swaying gently to the rhythm of some distant city noise. Everything feels right. The air has that still, delicate balance that makes me wary of breathing too loudly.
I’m folding a blanket when the world blinks.
A loud pop cracks through the silence, followed by a low, electric groan. The lamp flickers once, twice, and then the room is swallowed by darkness. The kettle clatters from the counter. Something shatters.
For a second, my mind goes white with panic. My heart sprints ahead of me. earthquake, explosion, fire, collapse. My body doesn’t move, but my thoughts scatter everywhere, painting disasters across every wall. My fingers twitch helplessly at the blanket, gripping it like a lifeline.
“Minho?” Jisung’s voice cuts through the dark. Steady and careful. The sound anchors me slightly, but my chest still heaves. I hear the rustle of his feet against the floor, the quiet splash of something spilled, and the sharp pang of glass breaking further under his shoe.
“Don’t move!” I call out, voice shaking. “There’s glass… there could be….”
“It’s fine,” he says, the word simple but solid. His calm presses against the chaos in my mind. “Power just went out. I’ll grab a flashlight.”
But his voice feels far away, like it’s coming from underwater. My brain races ahead again: what if it’s not the power, what if it’s a short circuit, what if the whole building….
Then, sudden illumination. A flash of pale blue light from Jisung’s phone. His face appears in it, half-shadowed, half-serene. His hair is messy, his eyes patient. He looks heartbreakingly real.
“There,” he murmurs. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a blackout.”
The light trembles slightly as he walks closer, and in its glow I see the spilled kettle on the floor, a puddle spreading like a dark wound, and fragments of the broken mug glinting like tiny mirrors.
The sight punches the air out of me. It’s too vivid. too fragile. I drop to my knees, grabbing the towel off the counter to soak the water, my movements sharp and mechanical. “You could’ve gotten hurt,” I say, my voice too tight. “It could’ve been worse, it could’ve….”
Jisung crouches beside me. “Hey,” he whispers, brushing my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I freeze. His flashlight catches the edge of my face, and for a moment the world is still. No sound, no hum, just the two of us breathing in sync. “Nothing happened,” he says again, slower this time, like he’s teaching me the rhythm of calm.
My hands stop shaking. The puddle gleams faintly in the half-light. Soonie meows softly from her perch, unimpressed, her tail flicking as if to say, humans are so dramatic.
Jisung’s hand stays on my shoulder until my breathing evens out. When he finally stands, the beam of his phone catches the side of his smile. “You’re always expecting the end of the world,” he says gently. “But sometimes it’s just a power cut.”
I huff a quiet, shaky laugh. “It felt bigger.”
“I know,” he says simply, and something in the way he says it. Without teasing, without judgment. It loosens something deep in me.
He sets a candle on the table, lights it, and the flame leaps up, warm and golden. The small flicker throws ripples across the walls, chasing away the leftover panic like a slow exhale. I sit back, watching the glow stretch over the apartment, touching the bookshelves, the cat, the soft contours of Jisung’s face.
It’s beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.
I realize I’ve been gripping the towel so tightly my knuckles ache. Jisung notices, pries it gently from my hands, and replaces it with his fingers. His thumb draws small, grounding circles into my palm. “See?” he whispers. “Still here. Still us.”
The candlelight shivers, painting him in gold. His eyes are tired but kind, and the soft shadow of a smile hovers on his lips. For a long, quiet moment, I let the sound of the rain outside fill the space between us. The world feels as though it’s stitching itself back together, slowly, piece by fragile piece.
We sit there until the electricity returns. The lamps blink back to life, humming gently. The world is bright again, too bright, and yet it feels smaller somehow, more contained, like the darkness has left something tender behind.
Later, when Jisung has fallen asleep on the couch beside me, Soonie curled in the crook of his arm, I pull out my notebook. I draw the candle. Its tiny flame, the reflection of Jisung’s eyes in the glass, the way the dark held us still. My lines are steady this time, not frantic.
I write a single sentence beneath the sketch:
The night went out, but nothing broke.
And for the first time in a long time, I believe it.

Chapter Text

The lights hum softly again, steady and alive. The worst has passed. The mug shards are gone, the floor dry. The candle still burns on the coffee table, though it’s no longer needed; its tiny flame steady in defiance.

Jisung sits cross-legged beside me on the couch, a blanket draped over both our knees. Soonie has decided the space between us belongs entirely to her and is now grooming herself like nothing ever happened.

“Your hands stopped shaking,” Jisung says quietly.

I look down. He’s right. “Guess I ran out of panic,” I say, half a laugh, half a sigh.

He hums a soft, thoughtful sound. “You always go somewhere far when things get loud.”

“Inside my head?”

“Yeah. You vanish.”

I pick at a loose thread on the blanket. “It’s safer there.”

“Safer doesn’t always mean better,” he says. “Sometimes it’s just smaller.”

That lands somewhere deep. I swallow. “What about you? You never seem scared of anything.”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “That’s not true.” He scratches Soonie’s chin absentmindedly. “I’m scared of wasting time. Of not saying the right thing before it’s too late.”

The words sit heavy between us, real in a way that most nights aren’t.

I lean back, feeling the couch shift under our shared weight. “I don’t really have dreams anymore,” I admit. “Not the kind with hope in them. Just static. Noise.”

“Maybe that’s just your brain trying to reset,” he says. “Like after a blackout.”

I blink. The comparison hits too close. “You’re really not gonna let that one go, huh?”

He grins. “Nope. You needed the metaphor.”

Soonie flops dramatically onto her back, paws in the air, demanding attention. Jisung obliges, and I can’t help smiling at the sight. His fingers tracing soft circles on her belly, her tail flicking like a metronome for the moment’s quiet peace.

It’s ridiculous how much tenderness can fit into a single, unremarkable night.

“Maybe you should write it down,” Jisung says suddenly. “Your dreams, your fears. The noise. Even the blackouts.”

“I already do,” I say before I can stop myself. “Sketches. Notes. Nothing anyone should ever see.”

“I wanna see them.”

My chest tightens. Not from fear this time, but from the strange, aching trust that slips through the cracks. “Maybe someday,” I whisper.

He nods like that’s enough. Like someday is a real promise.

The candle flickers, Soonie’s shadow dances across the wall, and for the first time, the dark doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like space. Like room to breathe.

I look at Jisung, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes softer than any light and realize something I can’t quite name yet.

Maybe this is what safety actually looks like. Not silence. Not control. Just staying.

When he finally leans his head on my shoulder, I don’t flinch. I just let it happen.

And the thought comes quietly, like a secret I don’t need to hide anymore.

I want to stay.

Chapter Text

The morning light finds its way through the curtains like it’s searching for us. Thin gold lines on the floor, warming the tips of my toes where the blanket’s slipped off. For once, I don’t pull it back.

Jisung’s still asleep beside me, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned, hair a chaos halo. Soonie’s perched on the windowsill, tail twitching at invisible birds. Everything is still, gentle and startlingly alive.

I watch the sunlight crawl up the walls, painting the apartment in soft gold. It hits the shelf where my sketches lie scattered, glints off a half-full mug from last night, turns dust into something celestial. The air feels fragile, yes, but also forgiving.

I stand, careful not to wake Jisung, and open the window. The city hums beneath us, Traffic, laughter, a distant street musician plucking at a tune that sounds like memory. Normally, I’d shrink from the noise. Today, I just listen.

A woman below helps a stranger pick up dropped groceries. A cyclist waves at a kid. Small kindnesses, unnoticed, unremarkable, and yet they gleam brighter than they should. I feel my chest swell, a slow ache of something dangerously close to hope.

Jisung stirs behind me. “You’re up early,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep.” I smile faintly. “Again.”

He joins me at the window, arms wrapping loosely around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, and together we watch the sunlight catch on the glass towers across the street.

“It’s too bright,” he says, squinting.

“Maybe,” I murmur, “but it makes everything look new.”

He hums in agreement, and for a long while, we just stand there. Breathing in sync, hands entwined. Soonie meows softly, like she wants to join in, and Jisung laughs. The sound light, warm and utterly real cuts through the usual fog in my mind.

The world outside doesn’t feel fake today. It still trembles at the edges, like a film reel stuttering but the color’s richer, the air less heavy.

Later, we go for a walk. Down the block, someone’s hung wind chimes on a fire escape, and they sing softly in the breeze. Jisung buys two pastries from a corner bakery, one of which he insists on feeding me like I’m incapable of holding food myself. We sit on a low wall, powdered sugar dusting our fingers, and for the first time in months, I laugh without overthinking it.

It’s absurd, really. How easy it is to forget the weight when you stop looking for it.

When night falls, the city glows. Not harsh neon, but soft patches of light. Apartment windows, street lamps flickering to life, the reflection of a plane far above. Jisung draws me back to the window again, two mugs of tea in hand.

“Look,” he says, pointing toward the skyline. “It’s like the stars fell and forgot how to leave.”

I can’t help but smile. “You’re such a poet sometimes.”

He grins, nudging me. “You like it.”

I do. More than I can say.

We stand there in silence, our fingers brushing, then linking. The lights flicker once, and then twice, as if the city is breathing with us. Normally, that would send me spiraling, hunting for meaning, for threat. But tonight, it feels different. The flicker isn’t dangerous. It’s life reminding me it moves, changes, continues.

I glance at Jisung. His profile glows faintly in the city’s reflection. He catches my gaze and squeezes my hand.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You’re here.”

It sounds like an anchor.

I nod, and for the first time, I believe him.

The delicate unreality is still there, but it no longer frightens me. Maybe the world is a dream, maybe it’s always been, but dreams can be beautiful too.

The city breathes. And between it all, there’s us. Holding hands, watching the lights flicker, not in fear but in awe.

For the first time, I don’t wait for the moment to break.
I let it shine through the cracks.

Chapter Text

The idea comes to me one slow morning, quiet and unannounced, like a visitor I never invited but don’t quite want to send away. It happens while I’m feeding Soonie, watching her weave between my legs like a living ribbon. The sunlight hits the wall behind her in a way I’ve never noticed before. A pale golden patch shaped vaguely like a square. And suddenly I think: it’s empty.

The thought won’t leave.

It follows me as I wash dishes, as I straighten the couch, as I linger in the half-light between rooms. That patch of blank wall becomes a pulse. A quiet, insistent whisper saying fill me.

So that night, when Jisung falls asleep early, I pull out my old sketchbook. The one with the dog-eared corners and smudged graphite ghosts. I sit cross-legged on the floor and stare at the blank page, feeling something unfamiliar tremble in my chest. Not excitement exactly, but something close.

I start small.

A line.
Then another.
A curve that could become a hand, or a leaf, or nothing at all.

The pencil moves before I have the courage to think. The sound of scratching paper feels almost holy in the silence.

Soonie watches from the arm of the couch, tail flicking like she’s counting my mistakes. I half expect the graphite to crumble, the paper to tear, for something, anything, to go wrong. But nothing does. The lines stay where I put them. The world doesn’t collapse.

I stop after an hour, exhausted but alive. The page is a mess. uneven, heavy-handed; but it’s mine. I tape it to the wall patch that started it all.

It looks small there, dwarfed by the expanse of blankness. But something shifts inside me.

When Jisung wakes the next morning, his hair is a soft explosion and his eyes are still half-closed. He follows my gaze to the wall. “You made that?”

“Yeah,” I say, bracing for mockery.

But he just tilts his head, studying it like it’s already art. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s… messy.”

“It’s alive,” he counters.

I don’t have an answer for that.

He walks over, stands too close to the wall, then steps back like a critic at a gallery. “You should add more.”

“More?” I laugh, too nervous. “I can barely stand looking at this one without thinking I’ve ruined it.”

“That’s the point,” he says, still smiling. “You’ll never know if you stop at fear.”

The words burrow deep.

That evening, I find myself adding color. soft water pencil tones at first, then bolder strokes. Jisung hovers nearby, occasionally making coffee or humming a song I don’t recognize. He never interrupts, but his presence steadies me, like a weight that keeps my mind from floating off into panic.

At one point, Soonie decides my paintbrush is her new toy and dashes off with it in her mouth. Jisung bursts out laughing, chasing her down the hallway while I sit frozen, halfway between exasperation and awe. There’s color on my hands, the faint hum of laughter in the air, and for a moment I think this is what being alive feels like.

When he brings the brush back, he holds it out with a flourish. “She’s got taste. Only steals masterpieces.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling so wide my face aches.

By the end of the night, the wall isn’t empty anymore. It’s still patchy, unbalanced, uncertain; but something about it feels right. It’s not art, not really. It’s a map of moments. The jagged edges of my patience. The tremors of my self-doubt. The soft fingerprints of Jisung’s laughter still echoing in the corners.

And yet, even as the pride flickers in me, so does fear. I wake up in the middle of the night to check that the paper hasn’t curled, that the tape still holds. I run my fingers along the edges, terrified I’ll smudge it, ruin it, undo it.

Jisung finds me crouched in front of it at 3 a.m., eyes tired, body tense.

“Hey,” he whispers, careful not to startle me. “It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t look right,” I murmur. “It’s off-balance. I should’ve….”

He kneels beside me, his hand resting on my knee. “You’re trying to perfect something that only needs to exist.”

I stare at the drawing, the uneven lines, the messy shadows, the small patches of color that didn’t blend right. And then I look at him, sleepy and sincere, the street lamp light coming through the window reflecting off the curve of his cheek.

“How do you not get scared?” I ask.

“I do,” he admits softly. “But I do it anyway. Fear means you care.”

The words settle in me like gentle gravity.

I exhale, slow and shaky. Then I reach for my pencil again. Not to fix, not to erase, but to add. A line here, a smudge there. Tiny imperfections on purpose, proof that I’m still moving.

Jisung stays with me until dawn. Sometimes he talks, sometimes he doesn’t. Mostly, we exist in the soft rhythm of creation and quiet breathing. Soonie curls up by our feet, tail tucked under her chin, as if she knows the night has turned sacred.

By sunrise, the wall is no longer blank. It’s alive with small, uneven sketches. Plants, hands, shapes that don’t quite make sense but belong together anyway. The fragile beauty of something unfinished.

Jisung stands beside me, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Looks like a sunrise,” he says, smiling.

I follow his gaze. The first light is pouring over the drawings, turning the penciled lines gold. The fear is still there. An ache under my ribs. But it feels quieter now, tamed by the warmth creeping across the room.

I whisper, almost to myself, “It’s not perfect.”

“Neither are we,” Jisung says, brushing a thumb across the back of my hand. “But we’re here.”

For once, that’s enough.

I press my palm to the wall, feeling the texture of the paper, the coolness of the plaster beneath. And in that simple touch, I realize I’ve made something that didn’t exist yesterday. Something small, delicate, and real.

The city outside wakes with us. The faint rumble of cars, the call of birds, the scent of morning coffee drifting through a window cracked open to the world.

I don’t know what this project will become. Maybe it’ll fall apart. Maybe I’ll mess it up tomorrow. But tonight, for the first time in years, I don’t care about the “maybe.”

I care that it exists.

That I exist.

That we all do. Fragile, imperfect, and alive,
together beneath the slow golden rise of morning.

Chapter Text

The night begins the way most of them do. With hesitation. My shoes feel too heavy for the hallway, my heartbeat too loud for something as harmless as stepping outside. Jisung stands by the door, one hand holding his jacket, the other outstretched toward me like he’s offering a lifeline.

“Come on,” he says softly. “The world won’t bite. Not tonight.”

Soonie’s curled on the couch, a little loaf of trust and warmth, her breathing steady. She barely lifts her head as I tie my shoelaces. For a moment, I envy her. Content, unmoving, perfectly at home in her small universe. Then Jisung’s fingers brush mine, and the envy dissolves into something gentler.

We step into the hallway, and it feels like crossing a threshold. The air outside the apartment smells faintly of rain and old paint. My pulse thrums in my throat as we take the elevator down, the hum of the cables echoing like a heartbeat. I haven’t stepped outside ever since the layoff. Ever since the….

The city greets us quietly. It’s past midnight, and the streets glimmer in that in-between way. Half asleep, half alive. Streetlamps cast soft halos on the pavement, and the air hums with the residue of daytime noise now faded to whispers.

Jisung tugs me toward the nearest crosswalk. “Let’s go nowhere,” he says.

“Nowhere?”

“Nowhere important.”

That sounds safe. Safe and miraculous.

We walk without purpose. The city’s usual chaos feels subdued tonight, like it’s caught in a dream it doesn’t want to end. The neon signs blink lazily, puddles mirror the sky’s faint glow, and in a small alley, someone’s forgotten string lights flicker over crates and bottles, making the ground shimmer as if scattered with stars.

“This feels fake,” I whisper.

Jisung glances over, the corner of his mouth curving. “So what if it is?”

I think about that as we keep walking. Maybe it doesn’t matter whether something is real, as long as it feels alive.

We pass a convenience store where a lone cat sits on the counter, staring regally through the glass. Jisung waves at it. The cat ignores him. “Soonie’s cousin,” he says.

“Richer cousin,” I reply.

He laughs, and the sound breaks through the quiet like a bell. I realize I’ve missed that sound in the open air.

We stop at a vending machine on the corner, its lights flickering blue and white. Jisung presses a few buttons, pretending it’s a game console. When the can of coffee drops, it startles me. A sharp sound, sudden and alive. He hands it to me without a word. The metal is cold against my palm.

“Drink it,” he says.

“It’s almost 1 a.m.”

He grins. “Exactly. It’s a night for bad decisions.”

So I take a sip. It’s bitter, metallic, and weirdly comforting. The caffeine burns a slow path down my throat, reminding me that I’m still here, still breathing, still part of something that stretches beyond the walls of our apartment.

We wander farther. At one intersection, the traffic lights are broken. All three stuck on yellow. The whole world paused between stop and go. We stand there in the middle of the empty street, bathed in gold, and for a fleeting second I think: this must be what limbo feels like. Beautiful, quiet, safe.

Jisung pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. “You look like you belong here,” he says.

“In a malfunctioning traffic light?”

“In the light that doesn’t know if it should stop or move,” he says, and his voice is so gentle that I can’t tell if he’s teasing or confessing something.

We keep walking until we reach a small park. The grass is damp, the benches glisten with dew, and the air smells faintly of jasmine from somewhere unseen. A fountain trickles lazily, its water reflecting the moon in shards.

Jisung sits on the edge of the fountain, tugging me down beside him. “Tell me what you see,” he says.

“Concrete,” I answer automatically.

He nudges me. “Try again.”

I take a breath. The city hums around us, slow and low. “I see… the reflection of the streetlight in the water. The way it bends when the ripples move. I see the shape of your shadow on the tiles. I see how the air feels thicker when it touches my skin.”

He nods, smiling faintly. “See? You don’t have to stay inside to notice beauty.”

I watch the water ripple again, tiny waves glinting like fragments of gold leaf. The world is soft tonight. Softer than I deserve, maybe. But it’s here.

After a while, we lie back on the grass. The ground is damp and cold, but Jisung’s hand finds mine, and the discomfort fades. Above us, the city’s light drowns most of the stars, but a few remain. Faint, stubborn, refusing to disappear.

“Do you ever think,” I say quietly, “that happiness isn’t supposed to last? That maybe we’re only borrowing it?”

Jisung’s thumb strokes the back of my hand. “Maybe,” he says. “But maybe the trick is to borrow it forever.”

The simplicity of that settles deep in me. It’s not the kind of answer I’d write down or analyze later. It’s just… right.

We lie there until the first threads of dawn begin to fray the night. The city starts to wake again. Distant cars, the faint clatter of someone opening a café, the buzz of lights shifting from gold to gray.

On the walk home, Jisung hums under his breath. I recognize the tune. It’s one he plays sometimes while washing dishes. Domestic, human, grounding. The kind of song that means nothing and everything at once.

When we reach the apartment, Soonie is still asleep, curled in a sunbeam that doesn’t exist yet. I kneel to pet her, my hand brushing her fur as softly as if touching the night itself.

Jisung sets the empty coffee can on the counter and turns to me with a sleepy grin. “Tiny adventure complete.”

“Tiny?” I ask. “It felt huge.”

He laughs. “That’s the point.”

And for once, I understand.

As the dawn light spills into the room, I look out the window. The same one I’ve stared through so many sleepless nights; and this time, the world beyond it feels less like a threat, more like an invitation.

The city glows pale and new, and somewhere deep inside, I feel something shift; quiet but irreversible.

Hope, small and luminous, like a streetlight waiting for night to fall again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 – Trembling Trust
The world feels different when the day begins with laughter.
Not the kind that rattles windows but the quiet kind, the one that lingers in the air like steam and warms everything it touches.
I wake to the smell of garlic and oil. Not exactly poetic, but it’s Jisung’s version of comfort: fried rice with too much sesame and zero restraint.
I drag myself out of bed, hair a disaster, eyes half-lidded. He’s at the stove, wearing one of my shirts again with sleeves rolled up, humming something I almost recognize. Soonie’s tail is flicking at his feet like a metronome, waiting for her share that she’ll never get.
“You’re gonna burn it,” I mutter, voice still gravelly from sleep.
“I’ve never burned anything in my life,” he says, confident as always, which would be more convincing if I didn’t remember the time he turned instant noodles into carbon.
I lean against the doorway, watching him. My chest aches, but not the kind of ache that drags me under. It’s a softer one, the kind that comes from loving someone so much that even the way they stir food looks cinematic.
He turns, catches me staring. “What?” he asks, smiling.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re loud in the morning.”
“Gotta wake the ghosts.”
“...Right.”
We eat at the counter, knees touching. Soonie prowls below, her eyes locked on the fried egg like it’s prey. I sigh. “You’re not getting that.”
She meows, offended.
Jisung laughs, full, bright, and infectious . “She’s totally getting that. You’re too soft.”
Maybe I am. But softness doesn’t scare me the way it used to.

By afternoon, he’s flitting around the apartment in one of his rare bursts of energy.
“Chan and Hyunjin are coming tonight,” he announces.
I pause mid-step. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. They said they missed you. And Soonie. Apparently she’s gained weight, and it’s a crisis.”
Something in me twists and it’s not quite dread, just the echo of it. I haven’t seen them in weeks. Maybe months. I’m not sure I remember how to talk about anything that isn’t exhaustion.
But Jisung’s excitement is contagious. “It’ll be good,” he says. “Normal.”
Normal. God, that sounds nice.

Evening drifts in with soft light and the smell of takeout because none of us had the patience to cook.
Chan shows up first, grinning big enough to fill the whole room. Hyunjin follows, all perfume and sarcasm.
Soonie greets them like a queen accepting tribute. Chan crouches to pet her. “Still got that CEO energy, huh?”
Hyunjin looks around. “You redecorated?”
“Not really,” Jisung says, handing him a drink. “Minho just moved things until it felt right.”
I shrug. “It was either that or spiral.”
They laugh but we all know what sits beneath it.

The night unfolds soft and slow. Drinks, half-eaten snacks, stories looping in lazy circles.
Chan eventually asks about the layoff. His voice is gentle, like he’s afraid to touch the bruise.
“It’s weird,” I admit. “Days feel longer now. But also slower. Like they’re trying to teach me something I keep forgetting.”
Hyunjin hums. “That’s poetic for unemployment.”
Jisung smirks. “Depression makes you an artist. Trust me.”
This time, we laugh for real. A sound that fills the cracks in the room.
The conversation shifts to Chan’s job. His endless meetings, his team that apparently doesn’t believe in time zones. He complains, but it’s charming; even when he’s annoyed, he makes it sound like music.
“You work too much,” Hyunjin says, stealing my chips.
“I have to,” Chan answers, glancing at me. “Someone’s gotta fund Hyunjin’s lavish lifestyle.”
“Unbelievable,” I mumble, but I can’t stop smiling.
They talk about old things. Hyunjin’s blue hair disaster, Chan’s gym obsession, the time Jisung accidentally set off a smoke alarm making pancakes. The room feels alive again, glowing with that old, easy warmth.
My anxiety lingers at the edges, but it’s quiet now. Like a ghost learning to live with me. It doesn’t strangle anymore. It just exists. And somehow, that’s okay.

By midnight, the laughter fades into yawns.
Chan hugs me. Firm and wordless. Hyunjin waves from the doorway, eyes half-shut.
When the door clicks closed, the silence that follows feels... kind.
Jisung looks at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Actually, yeah.”
We clean up slowly, moving in sync. Soonie supervises from the counter, unimpressed. When we’re done, Jisung leans against the counter and watches me with that soft gaze. The one that feels like sunlight trapped in a body.
“You did good today,” he says.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. You let it be good.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just kiss him. Gentle. Steady. Grateful.

Later, we’re curled on the couch, Soonie wedged between us like a tiny, furry wall.
The city hums faintly through the windows. The fridge buzzes. Everything feels... light. Not empty, just light. Like there’s finally space for something new to grow.
“Do you ever think this could last?” I whisper.
Jisung’s voice is sleepy against my shoulder. “I think things last as long as we stop waiting for them to break.”
I think about that. About how long I’ve spent bracing for the crash.
Maybe happiness isn’t something you hold onto with both hands.
Maybe it’s something you fall into, again and again, until you realize you’ve stopped trying to land safely.

Chapter Text

I wake up to the smell of vanilla. Not the faint kind from scented candles or detergent, no. The real kind, heavy and warm, like someone’s been baking their heart out since dawn.
The first thing I see is Soonie sitting on my chest, her tail flicking with a purpose that says you’re late for something important, human. The second thing I see is Jisung, standing in the doorway wearing an apron that says “kiss the cook (he’s unstable).”
“What’s happening,” I mumble. My voice sounds like it’s been buried under a blanket of sleep.
He grins, flour streaked across his cheek like war paint. “You’re officially twenty-eight and domestically held hostage. Happy birthday.”
I blink. “You remembered?”
“I literally put it in my phone with three alarms,” he says, walking over. “Also, Soonie reminded me. She’s been acting suspiciously sentimental all morning.”
Soonie meows like she agrees. Jisung hands me a paper crown. It’s bright pink, store-bought, slightly bent. “Put it on or you’re banned from cake privileges.”
“You made cake?”
“I attempted cake,” he corrects. “Come see before it collapses out of embarrassment.”

The kitchen looks like a war zone. There’s flour in the air, on the counter, somehow on the ceiling. A single egg shell sits in the sink like a monument to chaos. And in the middle of it all is one small chocolate cake, uneven but miraculously holding shape.
“You baked this?” I ask, astonished.
“With love and an unhealthy level of overconfidence,” he says, placing a candle right in the center. “Now, don’t laugh.”
I don’t laugh. I smile so hard my face hurts.
When he lights the candle, the flame flickers gold across his face. He starts to sing. It’s off-key and too loud, but I don’t stop him. Soonie yowls halfway through, trying to harmonize. I don’t make a wish, not because I don’t believe in them, but because right now, I can’t think of a single thing I’m missing.
I blow out the candle. Smoke curls into the air, soft and sweet.
Jisung claps like I just performed a miracle. “Congratulations! You’ve officially survived another year of existing in this mess with me.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Barely.”
“Barely’s still surviving,” he says, handing me a fork. “Now, eat before I drop it.”

The cake tastes like sugar, coffee, and triumph. Too sweet, a little burnt on the edges, but perfect in the way imperfect things are when they’re made with real hands.
We end up sitting on the kitchen floor, legs tangled, Soonie pacing around like she’s guarding state secrets. There’s frosting on Jisung’s nose, so naturally I reach over and swipe it off.
“Smooth,” he says.
“I try.”
He looks at me quietly for a long time, like he’s memorizing this version of me. Not the tired one, or the anxious one, or the version that flinches at his own heartbeat. Just me.
“What are you thinking?” he asks softly.
“That this feels... too easy,” I admit. “Like I should be suspicious of how happy I am.”
He leans closer, forehead against mine. “You don’t have to earn good days, you know. They’re allowed to just happen.”
I close my eyes and breathe in the moment: the smell of cake, the hum of the fridge, the warmth of his skin against mine. It feels almost cinematic. Unreal. But I let it be.

Later, we move to the living room. He puts on a ridiculous song. Something upbeat and stupidly cheerful and insists we dance. I protest until he grabs my hands and drags me into motion.
It’s clumsy and chaotic. Soonie darts between our feet, Jisung nearly trips over a pillow, and I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
He spins me once, twice, both of us dizzy with sugar and light. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, steady and sure.
When the song ends, we collapse onto the couch, breathless. The world feels rounder somehow, fuller. Like everything has softened at the edges.
Jisung rests his head on my shoulder. “You’re smiling a lot today.”
“Maybe I finally remembered how.”
He hums. “Keep remembering.”
I nod.
The night closes in gently. The city outside glows faintly through the curtains, all the streetlights and window flickers blending into something that almost looks like stars.
I look at him. The boy who turned my insomnia into laughter, who turned fear into a slow, sweet ache of being alive and I think: this is what it means to stay.
My birthday used to be just another day to survive.
But this one feels like a beginning.
And when Jisung looks up, grinning, and kisses me a slow cake-sweet, warm, alive kiss and I believe it might actually last.

Chapter Text

The morning arrives soft and golden, the kind of light that spills rather than shines. It leaks through the blinds in thin ribbons, painting pale stripes across Jisung’s back as he sleeps. His hair’s a wild halo, his breath slow and steady. Soonie’s curled in the gap between our legs, purring like a faint motor. For once, I don’t move. I just lie there, listening to the rhythm of our tiny, perfect world breathing around me.

It should be enough.

I make breakfast while Jisung hums in the shower. The eggs burn a little; Soonie meows like she’s disappointed in me. Jisung comes out wearing my shirt and laughing, and for a heartbeat, it feels cinematic, like we’re the kind of couple people envy. He teases me about the eggs, kisses my cheek, steals a bite anyway.

“Still edible,” he says through a mouthful, grinning.

I laugh. It feels almost natural.

After breakfast, we go for a walk. The city has a strange glow in the late morning, like everything’s been polished overnight. Even the cracks in the pavement catch the sun just right. Jisung tells me stories about his coworkers and makes voices for each one. I laugh at all the right places. Sometimes I even mean it.

Soonie watches from the window when we get home, tail flicking like a metronome of judgment. The kettle whistles; the smell of chamomile fills the kitchen.

It’s perfect. Almost painfully so.

And that’s the problem.

Because in the quiet, between Jisung’s laughter and the rustle of Soonie’s fur, there’s still that faint, persistent hum inside my chest. the one that says this can’t last.

It’s not loud anymore. It’s background noise. But it’s there.

That night, the rain starts without warning. Gentle, hesitant drops against the window. I light the small candle Jisung bought me for “ambiance.” The label says Morning Fog. I guess that’s supposed to smell like peace.

Jisung sits cross-legged on the couch, sketching something on his tablet. He looks so at ease that it makes me ache. He glances up and smiles. “You okay, love?”

I nod automatically. Too fast.

He watches me for a second longer than usual, as if he’s reading the static in the air. Then he hums and looks back down, trusting me. That trust hurts more than any accusation could.

Because I’m not okay. I haven’t been.

I’ve been better, yes. lighter, softer, maybe even brighter on good days. But there’s still something in me that won’t unclench.

And tonight, I feel it returning.

It starts small. A flicker of dizziness, maybe from too much tea, maybe from nothing at all. The lights seem too bright, the air too thin. I look at Jisung, at the curve of his neck and the calmness in his posture, and the thought arrives uninvited: One day, he’ll realize he deserves better than this.

Better than a man who flinches when the power flickers.
Better than someone who spends entire nights waiting for disaster.

I take a deep breath. Smile. “I’m fine,” I say when he looks at me again.

He believes me.

The next few days blur together, dreamlike again, but not in the good way. The softness of the world starts to feel heavy, like I’m moving through water.

Jisung keeps noticing little things: my silence at dinner, how I stare too long at the floor.

“Minho,” he says one night, voice low and careful, “you’ve been quiet again.”

I tell him I’m just tired.
He nods, kisses my forehead, and lets it go.

And that terrifies me, because each time he does, I love him more and fear him more. Love him for his patience, fear the moment it runs out.

That fear becomes a routine.

I start forcing smiles that don’t reach anywhere real. I say “good morning” like I’m auditioning for it. I kiss him when I’m supposed to, laugh when I need to, hold him when he’s drifting to sleep. I do everything right.

Soonie curls beside me each night, her purrs filling the spaces I can’t.

Sometimes I whisper to her, “Don’t tell him, okay?”

She never answers, which I’m grateful for.

One afternoon, while Jisung’s working from home, I decide to “clean the apartment.” It’s a lie, everything’s already spotless, but pretending to organize makes me feel like I’m doing something useful, something visible. I rearrange the books, wipe the counter three times, fold the laundry by color.

Jisung pokes his head out of the study, smiling. “You’re nesting again.”

“Just keeping busy,” I say.

He walks over, wraps his arms around me from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of him seeping through. “You don’t have to keep proving you’re okay,” he murmurs.

The words nearly undo me.

I open my mouth to respond, to confess how scared I am of not being enough, but the fear hits first: If I tell him, he’ll worry. If he worries, he’ll get tired. If he gets tired…

So instead, I say, “I know. I’m fine.”

He squeezes me gently and lets go.

That night, I sit by the window long after he’s asleep. The city hums below. cars, neon, rain-soaked laughter. It’s a quiet chaos that I used to find unbearable, but tonight it feels almost like company.

I open my sketchbook and draw aimlessly: lines, circles, shapes that mean nothing. I press too hard with the pencil, tearing the paper. My hands tremble.

I whisper to the darkness, “I’m trying.”

The words sound small. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe effort doesn’t have to be loud to count.

Soonie hops onto the windowsill, tail flicking. She meows softly, as if to say, I know.

I reach out and scratch behind her ear. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say, voice shaking. “I’m fine.”

She purrs anyway.

Morning again.

Sunlight pools on the floor, turning the dust motes into constellations. Jisung’s humming in the kitchen, half-awake, making coffee. He calls out, “You’re up early, miracle of miracles.”

I smile. For real this time. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Again?” He frowns. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I cross the room, wrap my arms around him, and bury my face in his neck. He smells like coffee and warmth and home. “I just wanted to see you.”

He laughs softly. “You see me every day.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t push further. Just keeps making coffee with one hand while holding me with the other.

And for a second, I think maybe this is enough. Maybe it’s okay to still be afraid, as long as I keep choosing the light anyway.

But then his phone buzzes. A work message. He sighs and pulls away. “I have to take this,” he says, smiling apologetically.

I nod. “Go ahead.”

The warmth in the room fades with him.

I spend the rest of the day pretending not to notice how quiet the apartment feels when he’s busy.

I cook lunch that I don't eat. Feed Soonie twice by mistake. Rearrange the couch pillows. It’s the same loop as before, the same gentle spiral of nothing.

By evening, I’ve convinced myself this is fine. That pretending to be okay is okay if it keeps the peace.

When Jisung finally finishes work, he stretches, groans, and flops dramatically onto the couch beside me. “Survived another day,” he declares.

“Barely,” I tease.

He grins, eyes sparkling. “You love me though.”

I do. So much that it hurts.

I kiss him before I can think too much about it. He laughs into the kiss, surprised but happy. “What was that for?”

“For existing,” I whisper.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re weird.”

“I know.”

We sit there like that for a long time, wrapped in a silence that feels fragile but real.

Maybe I’ll always have that dull ache of fear under my ribs. Maybe I’ll always be waiting for something to shatter. But for now, with Jisung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on my wrist and Soonie curled at our feet, I can almost believe the world won’t collapse.

Maybe this is what living with fear looks like. Not defeating it, but holding it gently, teaching it how to coexist with the light.

Later that night, when the apartment is dark and still, I whisper again. more a confession than a prayer:

“I’m trying.”

And this time, it doesn’t sound like a lie.

It sounds like a promise.

Chapter Text

The city has stopped feeling like an enemy.

I still wake early, before the alarm, before the noise. Dawn presses through the curtains like diluted gold, turning the air pale and forgiving. Jisung’s still asleep beside me. Mouth slightly open, one arm over his head, the other thrown across the sheets like he’s claiming territory. Soonie sleeps at his feet, tail twitching to some secret rhythm.

I watch them both and think, This is it. This is the life everyone talks about when they say it gets better.

And somehow, it really has.

My new job isn’t glamorous. A small print shop a few blocks away. It’s the kind of place that smells like ink and cardboard and long hours. But I like it. The steady hum of the machines. The way the owner calls me Minho-ya like we’ve known each other forever.

I don’t mind the quiet tasks. The cutting, folding, stacking. There’s something grounding about it, the clean geometry of routine.

Sometimes, around lunch, Jisung texts me stupid things like our cat just sneezed and I think it was holy or please stop working and come home so I can be annoying.

It’s simple. It’s soft.

It’s more than enough.

Nights are better too.

We’ve started a new ritual: late dinners with the TV low, Jisung stretched across the couch, Soonie asleep between us. He’s been experimenting with cooking again. Last night he made something with way too much garlic and declared it “culinary innovation.” I teased him until he threw a napkin at my face, then kissed me mid-laughter.

It’s strange how happiness can sneak up on you after you’ve forgotten what it feels like.

The walls don’t seem to hum anymore. The air doesn’t pulse with static. I even sleep through the night sometimes.

Everything is quiet. Everything is good.

Almost too good.

It starts with the barista.

I go to the corner café before work, the one that knows my order by heart. The girl behind the counter smiles, the same way she always does, but today she says, “The usual?”

I blink. “Yes. Thank you”

She nods, unfazed, already turning to make the coffee.
But after a few minutes she just hands me one cup of coffee. I say nothing as I pay for it and leave the café confused.

When I bring the cup home, Jisung’s on the couch, scrolling through his phone. I hand him his usual Americano, and he grins like always.
Except the cup feels cold when he takes it.

I don’t mention it.

A few days later, the phone rings while I’m making dinner. I answer without checking the screen.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause, then a man’s voice. Hesitant and polite. “Ah, is this Lee Minho?”
“Yes.”
“I’m calling from the hospital records office. We’re finalizing patient archives from last winter, and there’s a personal item listed under your name. Just wanted to let you know we will have it forwarded to your address. You'll receive it in a few days.”
I frown. “Patient archives?”
“Yes, sir. For Han Jisung.”
“I think you have the wrong...” I start, but the line clicks dead before I finish.
I stare at the phone, the smell of burnt garlic filling the kitchen. My reflection stares back at me from the black screen, and for a long moment, I can’t tell if my hands are shaking from heat or memory.
From the living room, Jisung calls, “You okay in there?”
I force a smile he can’t see. “Yeah. Just… overcooked something.”
He laughs, soft and unbothered. “That’s unusual for you.”

The third sign comes from Soonie.

She’s been acting strange. Sitting by the empty chair across from me at breakfast, meowing into nothing. Sometimes she even paws at the air, like something invisible’s brushing past her.

Jisung laughs it off. “She’s getting weird in her old age,” he says, scratching her head.

But the thing is, he never touches the chair himself.
Never sits there.

That night, I can’t sleep.

Jisung’s already out, body warm against mine. The clock hums faintly, the city muffled under layers of distance.

I stare at the ceiling and feel the same familiar ache blooming in my chest. That feeling from the old days, when I couldn’t tell if I was awake or dreaming.

Only now it’s worse, because I want this to be real. I need it to be.

I turn to Jisung, watching the way his chest rises and falls. He looks peaceful. Too peaceful.

My hand hovers over his but before I can touch him, the faintest flicker passes through the room. Like a change in gravity. Like the air remembering something I don’t.

And for half a second, his body blurs.

Then everything’s fine again.

The next morning, I pretend nothing happened. I feed Soonie, get dressed, kiss Jisung goodbye before work.

He kisses me back. “Don’t forget your lunch, old man.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m twenty-seven.”

“Ancient.”

He laughs, and for a while, the sound holds the world together.

Days pass. The unease grows like static under wallpaper. It’s subtle, everywhere.
A word misheard, a reflection that doesn’t match perfectly, a second coffee mug missing from the sink.

It’s nothing, I tell myself. You’re just tired.

But the truth hums louder with each day.

I feel it when I walk into the print shop and the owner says, “You live alone, right?” and i say no.
I feel it when Soonie curls on my lap, purring, and my eyes catch the faint shimmer of dust where Jisung should be sitting.
I feel it when I realize I haven’t left the apartment with him in weeks. Every outing has been me alone, remembering his voice, not hearing it.

The world begins to tilt.

One Sunday, I start cleaning to quiet my head.

The drawer by the bed sticks a little like always and when it finally gives, a small stack of photos slides out.

I recognize them immediately. My birthday.
The day we baked the cake for too long. Jisung’s frosting disaster. Soonie trying to lick the candles.

But in the photo—
it’s just me.

No Jisung.
No second shadow.
Just me, holding the cake.

For a long time, I just stare.

The air feels thin, the edges of the room too bright.

Soonie meows softly, brushing against my leg.

And then, without meaning to, I laugh. Quiet, hollow, almost relieved.

“Of course,” I whisper.

The sound of my own voice feels strange in the room. It’s not sad, not shocked. Just… understanding.

The truth lands gently, like dust settling after a long storm:
Jisung’s gone.

Maybe he’s been gone since before the story even began.
And all of this laughter, the tea, the long nights with Soonie between us… was just my mind’s way of keeping him close enough to survive the silence.

I sit down, the photo still in my hands.

“Of course,” I say again, softer. “You were too good to stay.”

The window light shivers across the floor.

And then….
a voice.

“You’re up early.”

I look up, and there he is.

Jisung, leaning against the doorway, hair messy, eyes half-lidded with sleep. The same sleepy grin. The same curve of warmth that made the world feel safe.

He looks exactly like he always does.

I could ask him why he’s here, how long he’s been standing there, whether he’s real.
But instead, I just smile.

“I didn’t want to waste the light,” I say.

He walks closer, barefoot, light pooling around him. When he reaches me, he presses a kiss to my temple. His lips are warm. Real.

“Good,” he whispers. “Keep it.”

The day moves gently after that.

I feed Soonie. She purrs and doesn’t meow at empty chairs anymore.
I make breakfast. Jisung hums somewhere behind me, or maybe it’s just the echo of memory. It doesn’t matter.

Outside, the city hums. The muted cars, low laughter, wind against glass.
The world keeps moving.
So do I.

Maybe Jisung is gone.
Maybe he’s not.

Maybe this is grief learning how to breathe.
Maybe this is love refusing to die.

All I know is that I’ve stopped fighting it.

If the mind builds dreams to keep itself alive,
then let this be mine.

The city hums quietly below. I close my eyes and feel the sunlight on my face.

“You’re here,” I whisper.

And even if I’m wrong. Even if I’ve been wrong all along….

it’s enough.

The End.