'I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you.'
Coming from a wealthy family was never the major flex in her life. To others, she might come off as a rich spoilt brat but the reality was far from what they perceived her to be.
In a world...
'I think I've seen this film before And I didn't like the ending'
-Exile by Taylor Swift
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It had been hours since the doctor had come out, his voice as tired and clinical as the grey hallways they'd been sitting in all night. Hours since the truth had settled like a knife into the silence.
Miyeon wouldn't be able to play again.
She wouldn't run across courts with that fire in her eyes. She wouldn't leap for rebounds or shout strategies with that stubborn tilt of her chin. The limp would stay. The injury was permanent.
And for someone like her, it felt like a theft too cruel to put into words.
She was out of surgery. Stable. Breathing. But not awake.
She was there, but not here.
And the worst part was how still everything had become. The kind of stillness that made you fear even moving too much, because what if... what if she slipped further away?
The sterile white walls of the hospital burned into Wonwoo's vision, but he wasn't really seeing them. The cold, stiff chair beneath him felt distant, as though he wasn't truly sitting there but floating somewhere between memory and reality.
Next to him, Jeonghan sat with one seat of space between them. A respectful silence neither of them dared to close. Not out of distance, but out of worry.
Jeonghan hadn't moved much in the past hour. His head was resting back against the wall, eyes closed but not asleep. It was the kind of rest you take only when you've run out of ways to hold yourself together.
One of his legs bounced slightly out of restless habit born from a mind refusing to go still. His fingers were locked together in front of him like he was praying, even if he didn't realize it.
And Wonwoo...
Wonwoo was just tired.
But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. No. This was the kind that seeped into the marrow, that clung to every breath and dragged his shoulders down like grief had become gravity itself.
He had been here before.
The lights above flickered faintly, casting a dull glow over the dimly lit corridor. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sterile and suffocating.
It was around, 2:30 am.
The quiet hum of the hospital was only broken by the occasional shuffle of footsteps, the hushed whispers of passing nurses, and the soft, broken murmurs of Mirae even in sleep.
But Wonwoo didn't hear any of it.
He was frozen, staring blankly at the double doors of the operating room, his hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles had turned white. His fingers trembled slightly, a rare betrayal of the storm raging inside him.
