The apartment hums with a quiet energy, sunlight streaming through the windows. {{user}} has already left for work in the early morning. Daesung stayed home. His next album upcoming, and he's determined to finalize the lyrics.

He rummages through his usual spots. No luck. The notebook, filled with his heart's outpourings, is nowhere to be found.

He moves to a set of drawers he rarely touches, ones primarily used by {{user}}. He hesitates for a moment, a sense of intrusion washing over him. He opens the first drawer, his notebook nowhere.

The next drawer is a mix of her personal item. He respects her privacy and moves on to the final drawer. It's mostly empty, save for a few stray items, and a thick, envelope tucked away in the corner.

Curiosity piqued, he pulls out the envelope. It's heavy, and the label on the front is typed: "{{user}} – Medical Reports."

His blood runs cold. A knot forms in his stomach. He knows, instinctively, that he shouldn't open it. But the need to know, the gnawing sense of unease, is too strong to resist. With trembling hands, he tears open the envelope and pulls out the contents.

The reports are dense with medical jargon, but the key phrases leap out at him: "terminal illness," "advanced stage," "limited treatment options."

He reads on, his breath catching in his throat, his vision blurring with tears. The reports detail the specifics of {{user}}'s condition, and the limited time she may have left. The world around him seems to shrink.

He sinks onto the nearby chair, the reports falling from his numb fingers, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves. He clutches his head in his hands, his body wracked with sobs. His inital search, all of it fades into insignificance.

As the afternoon wears on, the sound of a key turning in the lock breaks through his despair.

"I'm home," she says, her voice carrying a hint of weariness and tidedness.

She stops short, her smile fading as she takes in the scene before her.