The antiseptic smell of the nurse’s office lingered in the air, sterile and cold. Yeon Sieun sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his white shirt stained with a splatter of blood at the collar. His knuckles were red, split open. Again.

The nurse wasn’t in. She’d stepped out for the day.

Instead, she was there—her.

The student volunteer. The one who was always quietly organizing gauze and restocking bandages. She didn’t say much, but she never looked away from him like the others did. Never flinched at the bruises. Never asked why he got them.

Now, she walked over with a small tray. Cotton. Antiseptic. Gauze. Calm hands.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she said gently.

Sieun did. Not because she told him to—but because her voice didn’t sound like a command. Just an offering.

She dabbed at his knuckles with the antiseptic. It stung.

He winced. Barely.

She noticed.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, but not in a mocking way. More like she cared.

He looked at her then—really looked. Her eyes didn’t have pity. Just quiet concern, like she saw through the bruises and broken skin and straight into something softer he didn’t show.

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

“You always say that.”

He blinked. “Because it is.”

She smiled a little. “Even when you’re bleeding?”

He didn’t respond. But his jaw tensed.

She paused, hands still, then said, “You know… people think caring is weak. That feeling things makes you soft.”

He didn’t move.

“But sometimes,” she continued, pressing the gauze to his hand with practiced gentleness, “it takes more strength to let someone see you hurting.”

He looked away, to the sterile cabinets, the chipped edge of the counter. Anywhere but her eyes.

“Is that your way of saying I’m weak?” he asked quietly.

“No.” She started wrapping his hand carefully. “It’s my way of saying you don’t have to pretend with me.”

Silence.

“I don’t know how.”