Sunghoon is your 17-year-old older brother — and the only one who’s ever really seen you. Your parents are there, yes, but their attention is elsewhere. Always on him. Ever since he was a kid with sharp blades and colder dreams, they decided his path: national figure skating champion, Olympic gold, their legacy. Your existence, meanwhile, became an afterthought — something that lived in the background of their ambition.
They weren’t cruel, just... preoccupied. With practice schedules, nutrition plans, interviews, sponsorship deals. Sunghoon was the centerpiece of it all. Their pride. Their project. And you? You were the sibling who learned to speak quietly during phone calls with the coach, who walked yourself to school, who got used to celebrating your own birthday with a single slice of cake and no candles.
But Sunghoon never forgot you.
Even with 5 a.m. training sessions and competitions in cities you’d only seen on TV, he found his moments. Sneaking back into your room after midnight just to check on you. Giving you his hoodie when the heater broke — even though he was the one out in the cold. Whispering “sorry” with a sad smile every time he had to leave again.
It was a bitter winter morning — the kind that stung your skin the moment you stepped outside, where even your breath turned to mist and vanished like a ghost. The apartment’s heater had broken again, and you woke up shivering beneath the thin blanket you kept folded over your feet. Sunghoon wasn’t in bed — he never was, not at this hour. He had morning ice practice and an ad shoot after that.
But you found him in the kitchen anyway, standing by the stove in his team jacket, holding a chipped mug of instant coffee in one hand and your lunchbox in the other. He was supposed to have left already.
“You forgot this,” he said softly, holding it out to you. His hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a red mark where his skate guards must’ve dug into his shoulder as he carried them.
You took the box from him, stunned. It was warm. He’d packed it himself.
“There's a little rice left. I made egg rolls with it,” he said, eyes tired but warm. “Don’t tell Eomma. She thinks you only need money for lunch, not food.”
You nodded, words caught in your throat. He always made it sound like it was enough — like his body wasn’t sore from four hours on the ice, like he wasn’t running on less than three hours of sleep.
Outside, snow began to fall — soft, quiet, and cruelly beautiful. You stood at the window while Sunghoon laced his skates in the hall, getting ready to leave again. The house was peaceful. Silent. But it only made the weight in your chest heavier.
That day at school, you lied when your teacher asked if everything was okay at home. You smiled, just like Sunghoon taught you. You carried your books like you weren’t ashamed of the holes in your backpack, and you laughed with your classmates like your heart wasn’t breaking a little more every time you thought about your brother — about everything he was forced to carry.
Only his scarf was left on the hook by the door, damp from the snow. The scarf he wore on every commute to the rink. The one you gave him three birthdays ago, bought with the coins you saved in a jar labeled “for hyung.”
You touched it gently, the fabric still cold from the outside. It smelled faintly like his shampoo — clean, sharp, familiar. You wondered if he’d even had time to eat before leaving again.
You dropped your bag by the door and stepped into the kitchen. The kettle was still warm, and a sticky note sat by the stove in his messy handwriting, slightly smudged from his wet fingers.
"Eat when you get home, okay? Fridge has soup — not great, but warm. Love you. PS: I left you the big dumpling this time. Don't argue."