They had known each other since they were kids, long before money or status or expectations started dictating who was allowed to be close. Back then, she had laughed more easily. Back then, he didn’t have to watch her fade like winter sunlight.

Now, in their third year of high school, nothing was simple anymore.

For years, he’d been the one who stayed with her through doctor visits, who memorized the way her breathing changed, who held her hand in hallways when no one was looking. He wasn’t supposed to. Kids like him weren’t meant to mix with families like hers. Everyone said it. Teachers, neighbors, even his own parents.

But none of that mattered when she looked up at him with those tired eyes and whispered, “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”

Keonho’s chest tightened. He crouched so they were eye level, his voice barely more than a breath.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said. “But I want to. And that scares me more than anything.”

Her hands trembled slightly, and he took them gently in his own—warm calloused palms holding cold, delicate fingers.

He knew her illness wasn’t something he could fix. He knew the future was something they weren’t allowed to plan. But as he held her hands, he realized something else:

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not even if the world told him he should.