WILTED | SEOKSOO FF

PART 04

The apartment was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, each second stretching into an eternity. Jisoo sat on the edge of the couch, his hands folded neatly in his lap, staring blankly at the table in front of him.

The once vibrant spark in his eyes had dulled, replaced by an emptiness so profound that even the warm afternoon sunlight streaming through the window couldn’t reach him. He had long stopped feeling the warmth of the sun; it was just another thing to remind him that he was still here, still breathing, yet not really alive.

The door slammed open, and Jisoo didn’t even flinch. He knew who it was, knew that the storm had returned. Seokmin’s presence filled the room like a weight, suffocating the fragile air between them.

“Did you clean the kitchen?” Seokmin’s voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness with precision.

Jisoo’s response was automatic, lifeless. “Yes.”

“And the laundry?”

“Folded and put away.”

Seokmin clicked his tongue, his shoes crashing to the floor with a careless thud. His eyes scanned the room like a predator sizing up its prey, each gaze an accusation. “The windows are still smudged. Didn’t I tell you to take care of that?”

Jisoo didn’t respond. There was no point in explaining that the smudges didn’t matter, that nothing mattered anymore.

He stood, as if on autopilot, and grabbed the cleaning supplies. His movements were mechanical, devoid of thought or feeling.

The act of wiping the windows, of erasing the smudges, seemed to mirror what he’d been doing to himself for so long—wiping away everything that once made him whole.

As he cleaned, his reflection stared back at him—pale, tired, a hollow shell of the person he used to be. His eyes, once full of dreams, now looked like they were staring into a void. He didn’t linger on the reflection, didn’t give himself the luxury of even a moment’s pity.

“You’re like a doll,” Seokmin’s voice broke through the silence, his words dripping with contempt. “Quiet, obedient... exactly how I want you.”

Jisoo didn’t respond. He had long since learned that silence was his only defense. Words only made the storm come faster, words only made Seokmin’s fury burn hotter. And Jisoo had no energy left to endure the aftermath of that.

When he finished, he turned to Seokmin, his body stiff, his heart heavy with dread. “What now?” he wondered silently.

“Good,” Seokmin said with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, go make me something to eat. And don’t screw it up this time.”

Jisoo nodded and walked to the kitchen, each step feeling like it took him further from himself. The knife in his hand felt like a foreign object, something that belonged to someone else. He chopped the vegetables with mechanical precision, his mind an empty void.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt joy in cooking—back when food wasn’t just something to keep Seokmin quiet, but something he made with love, with passion.

But that Jisoo was gone now.

He plated the food and set it in front of Seokmin, who barely glanced at him before digging in, as if Jisoo was invisible. As if he was nothing more than a shadow in the corner of the room.

Jisoo stood silently, his hands clasped tightly together, waiting for the dismissal he knew was coming.

“Sit down,” Seokmin ordered abruptly, his voice as cold as ever.

Jisoo obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from Seokmin. His heart was in his throat, but he kept his face blank, as always. He couldn’t afford to show anything, not even the slightest crack in his carefully constructed façade.

Seokmin continued, his words laced with venom. “You know, you’ve become so much easier to deal with. No more whining, no more arguing. Just the way I like it.”

Jisoo stared at the table, his face expressionless, but inside, something was breaking. His mind screamed at him to say something, anything, to stop this madness, but the words never came. He couldn’t make them. He had forgotten how to fight.

“You’re perfect now,” Seokmin continued, leaning back in his chair. The words fell from his lips like a twisted compliment, but they felt more like a curse. “My perfect little doll.”

A chill ran down Jisoo’s spine at those words. “Perfect little doll.” The words felt like a trap, like something meant to keep him small, to keep him confined.

He wanted to scream, to throw everything at Seokmin, but the anger that should have flared in his chest was gone. He had nothing left.

Instead, something inside him twisted painfully. A small, almost imperceptible ache spread through his chest, but he buried it, shoved it down deeper, where it couldn’t escape. The cracks in his armor were growing, but he refused to let them show.

He had learned to be numb. To pretend. To become invisible. It was the only way to survive.

But late at night, when Seokmin’s snores filled the quiet apartment, Jisoo would lie awake, staring at the ceiling. His mind would replay the same painful thoughts, over and over again:

This isn’t living. This isn’t you.

And in those moments, when the darkness was the only thing that could hear him, the voice inside him would whisper faintly,

You deserve more than this. You are more than this.

But Jisoo would close his eyes tightly, willing the voice to go away. He didn’t want to hear it. It was easier to pretend it didn’t exist. Easier to believe that this life—this suffocating, empty life—was all he deserved.

And so, he let the silence consume him. He let it swallow the voice, the anger, the hope, until there was nothing left but the hollow shell that Seokmin had molded him into.

But deep down, the cracks were still there. Deep down, the voice lingered, quiet but persistent—a small spark of defiance waiting for the moment it could finally ignite.