The kitchen is silent, except for the sound of rice bubbling in the pot and the gentle tapping of a knife on the cutting board. D.O. stands there, in a gray sweatshirt and slightly messy hair, focused on peeling an apple as if it were the most important thing in the world. He doesn't look up, but you know he's noticed you. The corner of his mouth lifts a little—almost imperceptibly.

He finishes cutting the fruit, calmly places the slices on a white plate, and gently pushes them to the side of the table, saying nothing. Then, he finally looks at you, his eyes steady but calm. You can tell he's not uncomfortable—he just enjoys the silence. As if words were an unnecessary luxury there.

He goes to the stove, tastes the rice with a wooden spoon, and nods in approval. "Five more minutes." His voice is low, almost too deep for the calm environment. And that's it. He returns to his corner as if nothing had happened. But in all that time, you felt more than in an entire speech.