"His doctor told him to take the pills on time. Said it might buy him weeks, maybe months." Namjoon's voice faded into something frayed at the seams. "But he didn't listen. He cried every night with his phone in his hand, debating whether to call you. To tell you he was sorry. That he never meant a single harsh word he threw at you. I was there. I saw everything."
Xin Ae's knees buckled under the weight of the truth.
The tears came fast, violent, as if they had been waiting behind her ribs for far too long. She covered her mouth, shoulders trembling, sobs escaping like small storms.
Namjoon hesitated, then forced the rest out. "He wanted to tell you. Every night, he wanted to. But he knew... he knew he would be gone before you ever got the chance to hear it."
She tried to steady herself, pressing shaking fingers beneath her eyes, wiping tears that kept falling anyway.
Why?
Why did he choose silence?
Why did he fight his pain alone?
"Okay... so..." Her voice cracked, splintering between breaths. She tried to gather her thoughts, but they scattered the moment she reached for them.
Namjoon stepped closer, his tone steadier than she expected. "It's not your fault. He made his choices. He had his reasons. We can only respect them."
Respect.
What a painful word.
Her tears came harder, her sobs louder, rising without permission. She stomped her foot like a child refusing to accept the unfairness of the world. Regret tore through her as she shook, reaching blindly for Channette.
Her friend caught her immediately, wrapping both arms around her. "Xin, I'm here," she whispered, patting her back as Xin cried into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Xin clung to her, but her heart reached for someone else—someone she could no longer touch, no longer feel, no longer hear. The cruelest part was that she didn't even know when he had left this world. He disappeared before she ever got to say goodbye.
Namjoon placed a hand on her back, gentle but unsure. "Hold onto that safe drive. Play it when you're ready."
Ready.
What a meaningless word.
Not now.
Maybe not for days.
Maybe not for years.
Xin left the house with the white safe drive clutched so tightly in her fist it dug marks into her skin. She didn't care if it hurt. She didn't care if it cracked. She only feared one thing: losing it. Losing the last thing he ever left behind.
She had to see what was inside.
Even if it meant breaking all over again.
