༺Masterpiece༻

XLII :: Chamber

The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the day, casting long shadows that danced gently on the walls. Our conversation had left a lingering weight in the air, a quiet heaviness that was neither uncomfortable nor entirely welcome—just a shared understanding of truths that had been spoken and emotions that had been laid bare. Jimin and I sat in the stillness, the echoes of our words settling into the corners of the room.

Just as I was beginning to lose myself in the tranquil aftermath of our exchange, a light knock on the door broke the silence. The woman from earlier, the one who had first greeted me, stepped in with a polite nod. Her presence was as unobtrusive as it was efficient, a quality that seemed almost innate to her.

“Dr. Park,” she addressed Jimin in a professional tone, “Mrs. Shin and her mother are here.”

Jimin looked up at her and gave a slight nod, his expression shifting seamlessly into one of calm professionalism. “Thank you, please call them in,” he replied, his voice steady and composed, as though the emotional depth we had just explored had never happened.

The woman nodded once more and quietly exited the room, leaving the door ajar behind her. As the door clicked softly into place, I turned to Jimin, curiosity sparking in my mind.

“Who is she?” I asked, a simple enough question but one that carried the weight of my newfound interest in the minutiae of his life.

Jimin glanced at me, a small smile playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “My secretary,” he replied casually, as if that explained everything.

I raised an eyebrow, unsatisfied with his vague response. “What’s her name?” I pressed, expecting a straightforward answer.

But to my surprise, Jimin shrugged lightly, his expression unbothered. “I don’t know,” he said, almost nonchalantly.

I blinked at him, momentarily taken aback. “You’ve been working here for a while now,” I pointed out, my voice tinged with incredulity. “How do you not know her name?”

Jimin chuckled softly, a sound that was both amused and self-aware. “I meet so many people, Jk. I can’t possibly remember everyone’s names,” he said, his tone light, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

I couldn’t help but smile at his response, shaking my head slightly at the absurdity of it. “You remember med stuff, though, right?” I asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Jimin’s grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes. “No, I don’t,” he said, his voice full of mischief, as if daring me to challenge him.

I laughed, the sound easing the tension that had lingered in my chest. It was impossible to stay serious around Jimin for too long—he had a way of turning even the most somber moments into something lighter, something that reminded me that life, despite its complexities, could still be simple and full of joy.

Our conversation drifted into a comfortable silence, the earlier heaviness now replaced with a sense of ease.

"But I seriously don't remember everything. Once in a while I need to revise them."

In that moment, I realized that despite everything—despite the unanswered questions, the lingering doubts, and the unspoken truths—there was a beauty in the simplicity of our connection. It was a reminder that not every story needed to be grand or filled with drama. Sometimes, the quiet moments, the lighthearted banter, and the shared silences were enough.

"Okay, anyways, brace yourself, let's see how you do."

"But I didn't read any patient history."

"You'll have to pick on everything in time. They are all here for mental ailment not some revised physical problems. You can never have enough of information."