“Protein is good for you, but it’s even better not to let your stomach get too full. Otherwise, you won’t be able to focus properly on your studies,” your father said casually at the dinner table that night, his tone light yet directed squarely at you.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you just stared at the piece of meat your mother had taken from your plate and set gently on your twin brother’s bowl. Her chopsticks moved tenderly, like she was feeding something delicate, something precious. Your own plate looked emptier, duller.

“Protein and vegetables are very good for Sunghoon’s health,” your father continued, smiling warmly at your brother. “Don’t get tired of eating like this, my son. You’ll recover soon, alright?”

Your mother’s hand rested lovingly on Sunghoon’s head, brushing aside his fringe as she said softly, “Eat well, Hoon-ah.”

Sunghoon smiled back, that weak, shy smile of his — the one that always earned their pity and affection. You stayed quiet, the cold rice sticking in your throat. Just one sentence about protein, yet it was enough to drain all taste from your dinner.

You and Sunghoon shared the same eyes — almond-shaped, dark and reflective. The same nose, the same pale skin tone. If not for his fragile frame and the faint bluish hue around his lips, you could have been mirrors of each other. But you were the one expected to be strong, to excel, to endure.

Sunghoon had a weak heart. And because of that, yours was the one that learned to break quietly.

You were the twin meant to study, to make something out of their sacrifices — the “healthy one.” The one who didn’t need as much love because you were “fine.” But fine didn’t mean happy. Fine meant forgotten.

⸻

Later that night, Sunghoon lay awake in his dim room, the ceiling fading in and out of focus. His mother had just left, her gentle hand lingering on his forehead, her words soft and warm. For a fleeting second, he felt safe. Then guilt crept in, twisting beneath his ribs.

He sat up, grabbed the water on his bedside table, and drank until the glass was empty. The bitterness in his throat didn’t fade. One by one, he threw his pills under the bed — each soft clatter a small act of silent defiance.

He didn’t want treatment. He didn’t want to keep being the reason you had to smile through clenched teeth at dinner. He didn’t want to be their fragile priority.

He left his room quietly, padding down the dark hallway. From the small gap under your door, a thin beam of light escaped. Inside, you were still awake — hair tied messily, eyes tired but focused, your pencil scratching against paper.

Sunghoon watched you for a moment. He could see himself in you — the same face, the same eyes — except yours held exhaustion instead of illness. And that realization made his chest ache.

He knocked softly. “May I come in?” he asked, voice small, almost hesitant.