Unmatched

Part 9

Stuck in torturous limbo, Minho feels like he hasn't taken a breath for days.

He's never wished for time to pass quickly, yet lately, all he finds himself doing is watching the clock, grimacing with each empty minute that passes.

By some form of miracle that he knows he'll never take for granted, her condition turned out to be ultimately manageable. With a fractured wrist and minor concussion, her outward appearance—the bruising and cuts—suggested injuries far worse than she actually suffered, which came as a small relief.

In light of that, her hospital recovery was fairly routine. She'd regained consciousness hours after being admitted, yet on advice from the doctors was kept in for observation for fear her condition could worsen.

And a good thing, too, for it quickly became clear that the damage she'd suffered to her head had affected more than just her sense of balance. It had left her dazed, confused, unable to recall the immediate events of the incident, drawing blanks when asked by staff or Minho himself. Indeed, though it had given him cause to despair, he considered it a blessing that her memory of that night failed her. Anything to rid her of the trauma.

And all while her wellbeing remained precarious, uncertain, Minho suffered under the weight of his own guilt. He had yet to tell her of his role in the whole thing, of anything that might assuage his conscience. For despite how clueless he knew he could be at the best of times, he remained aware enough to recognise that dumping everything on her in her fragile condition wouldn't help anything, let alone himself.

And so, his admission of guilt still lingers on the tip of his tongue, leaves Minho stewing in tepid anxiety that makes it all the more difficult to summon the courage he'll need to tell her.

Eventually, her patience with hospital confinement ran too thin to maintain, and so she opted to self-discharge on her own insistence that she was fine, she could manage.

"I can't breathe in here, Minho," she'd complained, one dusky afternoon cooped up on the ward.

Minho couldn't have refused her, after everything.

And now, sitting in the comfort of his own home amongst the familiar surroundings of the life he's built with her, Minho finds no excuse or reason to procrastinate any longer.

He glances over his phone, at his wife strewn out on the opposite two-seater sofa, a book in her hands and plush pillow beneath her head. It's a habit he's developed over the few days she's been home; stealing small chances to check on her, though he can't be entirely sure what he's even checking for.

Her breaths, perhaps? Her slow blinks, her gentle hums? Her presence itself, here with him in this house? It's all arbitrary, Minho supposes, for as long as he can see her, he feels a measure of ease. And if she smiles, that's just an undeserved bonus, though Minho recognises the infrequency of those now.

She's void of the usual glow she carries, the stunning simplicity to her demeanour now essentially non-existent, instead wrapped in bouts of fatigue and defeat.

And Minho believes he's to blame in part enough for it to matter.

"You're staring again," she sighs, closes the book on her lap.

Her gaze finds his across the living room, the connection brings with it the usual pang of guilt and mixed adoration. It's yet another reminder of the looming truths he has yet to divulge.

"Just checking in," Minho forces his best smile.

"Minho," she props herself up on her elbows. "I'm fine, honestly. I'd tell you if I wasn't. You know me, I'm not one to suffer in silence."