BLOSSOMED | SEOKSOO FF ✔️

PART 34

The clang of the cell door echoed in Seokmin’s ears, a grim reminder of where his choices had led him. The gray walls, the cold concrete, and the rigid routine of prison life were a stark contrast to the chaos of his mind. But Seokmin welcomed it. Here, there was no hiding from himself, no distractions to drown out the guilt that consumed him.

The first few weeks were the hardest. Sleep eluded him, the silence of the night broken only by his own nightmares.

Faces haunted him—his father, his grandfather, Seongwoo, the cashier, and most of all, Jisoo. Each face carried the weight of his sins, and every day felt like an unrelenting storm.

But Seokmin didn’t resist it. He let himself feel everything: the guilt, the shame, the overwhelming grief for the boy he had once been and the monster he had become.

His therapist, Dr. Wonwoo. Their sessions were mandatory, but Seokmin attended willingly.

“You’ve done terrible things, Seokmin,” Dr. Wonwoo said in one of their sessions. His voice was steady, devoid of judgment. “But healing doesn’t start with forgiveness from others. It starts with understanding why you did what you did.”

Seokmin looked at her, his eyes hollow. “I know why,” he said hoarsely. “Because I’m broken.”

Dr. Wonwoo didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “We’re all broken, Seokmin. The question is, are you willing to put yourself back together?”

The first few sessions were grueling. Dr. Wonwoo made him confront memories he had buried deep, peeling back layers of trauma and pain. They talked about his childhood, the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father, and the suffocating fear that had ruled his life.

“They trying killing the only thing I ever asked for,” Seokmin admitted one day, his voice trembling. “Dandelion was... he was all I had. And when they trued poisoning him, it was like they killed the part of me that could feel anything good.”

Dr. Wonwoo nodded, his expression softening. “And instead of mourning, you acted out of anger. You took control in the only way you knew how. But that anger, Seokmin, it’s not who you are. It’s what was done to you.”

Slowly, Seokmin began to open up. He talked about Jisoo, about the twisted love that had driven his obsession. “I thought I was protecting him,” he said, his voice cracking. “But all I did was hurt him. I destroyed everything good about him, and for what? To feel in control?”

Dr. Wonwoo didn’t offer easy absolution. Instead, he guided him toward understanding, helping him see how his actions were rooted in his unresolved trauma.

“You can’t undo what you’ve done,” he said. “But you can choose what kind of person you want to be moving forward.”

Seokmin clung to those words like a lifeline.

In the prison yard, Seokmin kept to himself. He wasn’t looking for friends, but he wasn’t looking for trouble, either. He spent hours reading books Dr. Wonwoo recommended, writing letters he never sent, and reflecting on the person he wanted to become.

One day, he found himself in the flipping through a book on art therapy that Wonwoo gave him. The pages were filled with stories of people who had turned their pain into something beautiful.

Inspired, he began sketching in his free time, drawing images that captured his emotions—his guilt, his longing for redemption, and his fragile hope for the future.

His art became a way to communicate what words couldn’t express. When Dr. Wonwoo saw his sketches, she encouraged him to keep going.

“Art is a form of healing,” he said. “It’s a way to give voice to the parts of yourself that feel too broken to speak.”

Every week, Seokmin wrote a letter to Jisoo, pouring his heart onto the page. He never expected Jisoo to read them, let alone respond. But the act of writing was cathartic, a way for him to confront his feelings and take responsibility for the pain he had caused.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he wrote in one letter. “But I hope that one day, you can see that I’m trying to be better—not for you, but because it’s the only way I can live with myself and hope for you to live, actually live.”

He never mailed the letters, keeping them tucked away in a journal he hoped to share with Jisoo someday.

By the end of his first year, Seokmin was no longer the man who had entered the prison. He was still burdened by guilt, but he was learning to carry it differently. Therapy had given him tools to confront his demons, and his art had become a window into his soul.

Dr. Wonwoo noticed the change. “You’re beginning to see yourself as more than your mistakes,” he said. “That’s the first step toward redemption.”

Seokmin nodded, his expression somber but resolute. “I have a long way to go,” he admitted.

“Yes,” Dr. Wonwoo said, his voice gentle. “But you’ve taken the first step. And that’s what matters.”

As Seokmin sat in his cell that night, sketching a portrait of Dandelion, he felt a faint glimmer of hope. He would never erase his past, but he could build a future—one step, one day, one choice at a time.