The world came back in pieces.
First, the sound—soft beeping, like a slow metronome. Then, the smell—cleaner, disinfectant, and something faintly metallic. Then came the ache. It wasn’t sharp. It was everywhere. A dull, hollow weight that pressed into his bones, like gravity had tripled while he was sleeping.
He blinked. The lights were too white. The ceiling was unfamiliar. Everything was unfamiliar.
Panic swelled in his chest for a second. Where—? Why—?
Then a voice. Soft. Familiar.
“Hey… Su-ho?”
His head turned, slowly, like it took more effort than it should’ve. His vision was blurry, but it cleared just enough to see a silhouette slumped in the chair beside his bed—head resting on folded arms. A face he’d seen a thousand times in passing. In the restaurant. In school hallways. In his memories.
Their eyes met.
And he saw it—relief. Shaky, quiet, but real. The kind that doesn’t burst out in sobs but leaks from the corners of your eyes when no one’s looking.
They didn’t say anything at first. Just reached for the nurse call button with one hand, the other gripping the edge of the bed like if they let go, he’d vanish again.
Su-ho’s voice didn’t work yet. His throat was dry, lips cracked, and his brain felt like it was moving through fog. He wanted to ask how long he’d been out. He wanted to ask what happened. But all he could manage was:
“…You’re here.”
Days passed like that. Slow. Detached.
He hated the way he couldn’t move without help. Hated how weak he felt. The nurses were polite, professional, but it was their presence that made it bearable.
They brought warmth into the sterile white of the hospital. Told him stories like nothing had changed, like his world hadn’t gone completely off-track. They sat with him during checkups, peeled oranges by his bedside, snuck him ramen once and told the nurse it was “medicinal.”
But mostly, they stayed. That’s what got him. Not the stories. Not the food.
The staying.
When he tried to stand and nearly collapsed, they caught him under the arm. When his frustration boiled over and he shoved the walker aside, they didn’t flinch. Just picked it back up, handed it to him again, and said, “You’re allowed to be angry. But don’t give up.”
Sometimes they read to him when his head hurt too much to look at the TV. Sometimes they sat in silence and let the IV drip be the only sound between them.
And every time he woke up from the dream where Woo-young was kicking him again, or Beom-seok’s face twisted in that final, haunting glare, it was their hand that reached out first. Calmed him.
Anchored him.
One afternoon, the sunlight through the hospital window made everything feel hazy. Warm. Soft around the edges.
He was doing better. Still thin, still sore, but standing on his own now—mostly. He was sitting up, legs hanging off the bed, toes grazing the cool tile floor.
They were next to him, tying their hoodie around their waist, prepping to leave. Visiting hours were almost over.
Su-ho looked down at his hand. Then at theirs. Then, without saying anything, he reached out—fingers brushing against theirs. Slowly. Almost unsure.
They stilled.
He gripped their hand gently. Held it like it was breakable. Like they were something fragile, even though he knew they weren’t.
“You were here…” His voice cracked. He didn’t care. “Even when I wasn’t.”
And for the first time since he’d opened his eyes in this white-walled cage, Su-ho felt something stronger than pain.
He felt safe.