Wooyoung's life is abruptly transformed when a devastating car accident, caused by his reckless ex-boyfriend driving under the influence, leaves him with severe spinal injuries. The accident not only confines him to a wheelchair but also shatters hi...
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༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹▫◃ ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ
𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖎 𝕾𝖆𝖓
The night was silent, the kind of deep, all-encompassing quiet that presses down and magnifies the smallest sounds. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the gentle rise and fall of Wooyoung's breath beside me tried to lull me back to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come, and a restless energy gnawed at me, refusing to let me rest. I took a deep breath, careful not to disturb him as I slipped out from under the sheets and padded softly out of the bedroom.
The house was dark, shadows cast by the moonlight filtering through the large windows. I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to shake the heaviness from my chest. My eyes roamed the space until they landed on a small, unassuming box tucked on a low shelf in the living room. It wasn't there before, and my curiosity piqued. I stepped closer, reaching down to lift the lid and peer inside.
Neatly stacked inside were CDs, each one labeled in Wooyoung's familiar, tidy handwriting. The names of championships and competitions were scrawled on them, some with the names of countries and dates, others with titles that hinted at moments of great achievement. My breath hitched as I realized what they were—records of his past, of the years when dancing wasn't just his passion but his entire world.
I picked one up, fingers tracing the edges as the weight of what I was holding settled over me. There was a pull, a need to understand more, to see why his emotions always seemed so raw when he spoke about those days. Why anger and sadness seemed to surface in the quiet moments when he thought I wasn't looking.
I moved to the TV, placing the CD in the player and turning the volume down to a gentle hum so I wouldn't wake him. The screen came alive, bright and full of motion. The video began with the cheers of a crowd and the spotlight shining down on a figure that was unmistakably Wooyoung. He stood center stage, his confidence and charisma radiating even through the screen. He looked different—so sure of himself, vibrant and full of life. The way he moved was mesmerizing, every step precise, every expression carefully crafted to tell a story.
My heart twisted as I watched, captivated by the way he glided across the stage, each movement powerful and graceful. This was Wooyoung at his peak, before the accident, before everything changed. I could see why he carried such pain; he had lost more than just the ability to walk. He had lost this—his art, his freedom, the part of himself that thrived under the applause and spotlight.
I continued to watch, one video turning into another. Each CD revealed a different chapter of his life, from the early days when he was younger, dancing with raw passion, to the polished performances that showed his growth and mastery. There were moments where he won, the triumphant smile on his face enough to light up the entire room, and others where he fought against exhaustion, pushing himself to his limits.
As I watched, a heavy realization sank into my chest, tightening like a vice. I understood, really understood, why the loss had cut so deeply. It wasn't just about not being able to walk—it was about losing the part of himself that made him feel alive, that made him feel like himself.
