Alive

Through the Locked Door

The phone had rung, slicing through the fragile warmth that had just begun to gather between you and Jaebeom. You had watched him stiffen, jaw locking tight, every line of his face hardening as he pressed the phone to his ear. He hadn't said much—just two words, clipped and sharp, then silence, then the flat beep of the call ending.

And when his eyes finally lifted to yours, you knew.

He didn't need to speak. His gaze—dark, steady, but trembling beneath the surface—said all the words he refused to give air to. From the outside, he almost looked indifferent, as if the news hadn't landed at all. But you knew. You knew because you had seen that same look once in the mirror, years ago, the night the police told you your parents weren't coming home.

Your breath hitched. You wanted to say something, anything that would break the silence threatening to crush the both of you. But the words tangled in your throat. Instead, when Jaebeom leaned in as if to kiss you, your body moved first—you wrapped your arms tightly around him.

His chest was rigid beneath your embrace, like stone refusing to crack. "What are you—" he began, voice low, confused. But you said nothing. You only held him tighter, as though your arms alone could shield him from the weight of his loss.

At first, he stood there unmoving, arms hovering as though unsure whether to push you away or surrender. Then, after a minute that stretched like eternity, you felt him exhale. His hands came around you—hesitant at first, then desperate, crushing you against him as if he had finally allowed himself to fall.

"He died," Jaebeom whispered, the words trembling against your hair.

You closed your eyes. His voice was soft, so soft you might have missed it if you weren't pressed against his chest. And yet those two syllables carried a lifetime of unsaid things.

You tilted your head up, looking at him through the blur of your own tears. "I know it hurts," you murmured, forcing your lips into a small, fragile smile. "But it will get better."

Your voice shook. You hated that it did. You had promised yourself you would be strong for him, but the truth was—this cut too close to your own wounds.

For a moment, something like relief flickered across Jaebeom's face. He even smiled, faintly, as if your words had managed to slip through the cracks. But then it faded, the light extinguished as quickly as it came. A tear, stubborn and unwilling, broke free and traced a path down his cheek.

"As much as I hated him..." His voice was ragged now, raw in a way you had rarely heard. "I wanted him to meet his first grandchild."

Your own tears fell then, unbidden. "I know how it feels," you whispered, reaching up to wipe his face. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, warmer than you expected. You guided his hand to your stomach, pressing it gently against the life you carried. "But if you believe it, he'll still be here with us. Maybe not in the way you wanted. But he'll be here."

The words trembled out of you, and for a moment you wondered if you were saying them for him—or for yourself.

Because you knew this pain.

You knew it too well.

Your brain began to fog, the edges of the room fading until it felt like you were sinking, slipping into a place you didn't want to revisit. The sound came first—the sharp wail of sirens, urgent and unrelenting. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances. You could hear them even now, years later, echoing through your skull like they had never stopped.

And then the phone call. The one that shattered your world. You could still hear the officer's voice, calm and professional, as though that would make it hurt less. "We're sorry to inform you..."