It started with silence. Not the cold kind—the empty, echoing kind Shin was used to—but the kind that came soft. Present. Waiting. Like she knew he needed to speak but didn’t want to force the words out of him.

They were on the floor again, backs against the couch, the city blinking through the window like distant stars. Her head rested against his shoulder, knees pulled to her chest, warmth bleeding between them like shared gravity.

“You ever think about your mom?” she asked, gently. No judgment. Just curiosity, spoken in that careful way of hers.

Shin’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away. Not because he was angry.

Because he didn’t know if the truth deserved to be said out loud.

“…She called me once. When I was thirteen.”

The girl’s breath hitched beside him, but she didn’t interrupt.

“She didn’t say hi. Just asked if I’d seen her necklace. Gold chain. Some guy probably took it, but she figured maybe I had it. Like I’d steal from her.”

He laughed, bitter and soft. “That was the only time she used my name in years. Not even to ask if I was eating. Or okay. Just… for a necklace.”

The silence settled heavier this time.

“I kept the voicemail,” he said after a while. “Played it sometimes when I couldn’t sleep. Just to hear her voice, even if she was accusing me of shit I didn’t do. Pathetic, right?”

Her hand slipped into his then, fingers curling tight. “No. It’s not.”

He looked at her, and for once—really looked—he let her see him raw. Unshielded.

“I wanted her to love me,” he whispered, almost like a confession. “Even if she didn’t know how. I told myself I didn’t care. But I did. I still do.” She leaned into him, her forehead against his temple.

“You deserved better,” she said. “You still do.”

He didn’t cry. He never did.

But that night, he let himself fall asleep with her arms around him—her heartbeat steady against his back—and for once, the weight didn’t crush him.

It held him up.