Lovely Boxer- LeeKnow

31.1: War is over?

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Run away from home again
I'm carving these notes into bloody arms
Alone with my soul impaled
Run away from your loving arms
Why am I so afraid?
I don't care, I'm not coming home
Why am I crying if this is what I wanted all along?

-notes from a wrist-d4vd-

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

⚠️-attempted suicide.

Neither could Hana nor Minho sleep the entire night, although for completely different reason.

For Minho, the night was an abyss of disbelief and regret. The revelation from Hana—a confession so stark and jarring—had shattered his perception of her. He had always seen her as a beacon of cheerfulness, her smile a shield against the world's darkness. Yet here she was, baring her soul in a way he had never anticipated. He wondered from how long this was has been going on.

For Hana, the night was a cacophony of shattered plans and unresolved emotions. Everything had unraveled far beyond her carefully orchestrated blueprint. She wasn't supposed to still be here, in this place, in this terrible place. The script she'd written for herself had not included an encounter with Minho, let alone a confrontation that sliced open old wounds. The truth she had desperately tried to bury—her silent, suffocating despair—had slipped out in a moment of vulnerability. She had never intended for Minho to see her like this, to witness the cracks in her façade. The torment of not being able to leave, of being ensnared in this painful dialogue, gnawed at her, making her insomniac.

She even had thoughts like
"There must be a reason why I'm still here. A reason I'm still running warm, not cold."

But thoughts that said she could still "leave this place, forever" were louder. She spent the whole night, writing a final letter. The letter she wrote was a painful testament to her state of mind, a desperate attempt to make sense of the chaos within her. None of these words were for her parents; she couldn't bear the thought of trying to articulate her anguish to them. The words felt inadequate, too fragile to convey the depths of her suffering to them.

Her hands trembled as she wrote, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing down on her shoulders. These letters were not confessions but rather feeble attempts to communicate something profound yet elusive. They were full of apologies and farewells, but they remained incomplete, a reflection of her fractured state of mind.

Once she was done, she left her phone unlocked on the table along with the letter under it. She changed out of the clothes that she'd put on the day before to seem presentable to her parents, like it changed anything. She slipped into normal clothes, a plain black track pant and a black hooded jacket over plain white-tee.

She grabbed a blade and bottle of her sleeping pills, stuffing it into her pockets with a rough, unsteady hand. She grabbed her keys, slipped into her shoes, not even sparing the cats a look, not even sparing a look towards Minho's closed door, because she knew if she did, they'd make her stop.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Minho was jolted awake by the sound of the door slamming shut. He sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around him, and listened intently. The silence stretched on, unnerving in its stillness. It was as if the house itself had drawn in a breath and held it, waiting. The usual background hum of the morning—soft footsteps, distant murmurs, the comforting patter of the cats—was conspicuously absent. Instead, there was a hollow, almost oppressive quiet that gnawed at his senses.