The argument wasn’t loud—it never was with you and Baekhyun. It was the kind of fight where silence did most of the damage, where every word was careful but edged with exhaustion.
You sat across from him on the couch, your hands twisted tightly in your lap. “We can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, your voice trembling though you tried to sound firm.
Baekhyun leaned back, his jaw tight, eyes heavy with something unspoken. “I know.” His tone was flat, but beneath it was a weight that said he’d been thinking about this for a long time.
“So… this is it?” you asked, barely audible.
He swallowed, then nodded once. “Yeah. Maybe it’s better this way.”
The words cut deeper than you expected. You stood slowly, grabbing your bag from the armrest. Your fingers trembled as you slipped on your shoes by the door. “Take care of yourself, Baek.”
The soft click of the door closing behind you sounded louder than any slam.
That night, the house was suffocatingly quiet. Baekhyun sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, dragging his hands down his face. He replayed the moment over and over—the way your voice cracked, the hesitation in your eyes before you left.
The creak of his bedroom door pulled him back. He looked up to see a small figure hovering by the doorway. Minho, his little brother, shuffled in clutching his stuffed toy.
“Hyung,” Minho said, blinking sleepily, “where’s noona?”
The question landed like a stone in Baekhyun’s chest. He forced a weak smile that faltered instantly. “She’s… not here anymore.”
Minho frowned, tilting his head. “But she said she’d watch cartoons with me tomorrow. Did she forget?”
Baekhyun shook his head, his throat tight. “She didn’t forget. She just… can’t come anymore.”
“Why? Did you make her mad?”
Baekhyun shut his eyes, the words striking deeper than he’d admit. He pulled Minho into his arms, holding him tight.
“She always made pancakes with me… and she told me I draw good,” Minho mumbled, his voice muffled against Baekhyun’s chest. “I want her back.”
Baekhyun’s eyes burned, and he buried his face into his little brother’s hair. His whisper cracked as he said, “Me too, Minho.”
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains, but Minho felt the house was colder than before. While Baekhyun was still asleep, Minho quietly slipped out of bed. His small footsteps padded across the floor as he tiptoed into the living room.
He remembered once seeing you write your number on a scrap of paper for emergencies. Heart pounding, he climbed onto a chair and pulled open the drawer. Pens, receipts, and loose papers cluttered inside—until he spotted it. Your name, written neatly, with your number below.
Clutching it like a treasure, Minho hurried back to his room and shut the door. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he dialed the number with shaky fingers.
The phone rang once, twice—then your voice, soft and familiar.
“Hello?”
“Noona?” he whispered.
You froze. “Minho?”
There was silence, then a small sniffle. “Can you come back? I miss you… Hyung misses you too, even if he doesn’t say it.”
Your heart clenched. Tears stung your eyes as you pressed the phone tighter to your ear. “Minho…”
You wanted to promise him everything, to tell him you’d run back that very moment. But all you could manage was a soft, trembling whisper: “I miss you too.”
Minho sniffled again, then brightened slightly. “Then… maybe you’ll come see me? Just once? Please?”
You closed your eyes, torn between longing and the reminder of why you left. “I’ll try, Minho. I promise.”
On the other end, the boy smiled through his tears, clinging to your words.