Hae-Min waited until the apartment was asleep.
Not quiet, asleep.
There was a difference. Quiet still listened. Sleep surrendered.
Ye-Joon's door was slightly open, the soft rhythm of his breathing drifting into the hallway. Ha-Yoon lay curled on her side in their bedroom, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her other resting instinctively on the space beside her where Hae-Min usually lay.
Tonight, he did not join her.
He sat alone at the small desk near the living room window, a single lamp turned on, its light spilling softly over a notebook he had bought weeks ago and hidden beneath old training schedules.
The notebook was plain. No label. No decoration.
He opened it carefully, as though sound itself might undo his resolve.
For a long moment, he didn't write.
His hands rested on the page, fingers flexing slowly. He stared at the blankness, realizing how much harder it was to plan a future you weren't sure you'd be present for.
Finally, he began.
'Ye-Joon,
If you're reading this, then I couldn't say all of this out loud.'
The pen paused.
He exhaled and continued.
'I hope you don't think this means I left you.
I hope you know I stayed as long as I could.'
His handwriting was neat but tense, like someone trying to keep control over something that wanted to slip.
He wrote about small things first.
How Ye-Joon liked his eggs slightly overcooked.
How he cried easily but laughed harder.
How he always pretended not to be afraid, even when he was.
Then bigger things.
'Don't rush to become strong.
Strength isn't speed. It's patience.
It's knowing when to sit down without feeling ashamed.'
Hae-Min stopped there.
He pressed the pen harder than necessary, knuckles whitening.
The doctor's words echoed again, unwanted and persistent.
There will come a point where it won't be safe.
He swallowed.
'If one day you see me slower than before,
don't look away.
Don't feel sorry for me.
Just walk beside me.'
His vision blurred.
He leaned back in the chair, lifting his free hand to his face, rubbing his eyes roughly as if that might erase the ache.
"I'm not gone," he whispered to the empty room.
"Not yet."
But fear crept in anyway.
The fear of needing help to stand.
The fear of Ye-Joon learning what it meant to carry someone else's weight too early.
The fear of Ha-Yoon waking one day and realizing love had turned into responsibility.
That fear hurt more than any diagnosis.
Ha-Yoon woke sometime past midnight.
She reached out instinctively, and found nothing.
Her eyes opened.
The apartment was dim, but she could see the faint glow from the living room. She sat up slowly, listening.
There it was.
The scratch of a pen.
She stood quietly, pulling her cardigan around herself as she padded toward the sound. She stopped just before the corner, unseen.
Hae-Min sat at the desk, shoulders slightly hunched, head bowed in concentration. The lamplight softened his face, tracing lines she didn't remember being there before.
He looked… smaller.
Not weaker. Just quieter.
Her eyes drifted to the notebook.
Her heart stuttered.
Something about the scene told her this was not a letter she was meant to read, not yet, maybe not ever.
She took a step forward.
The floor creaked.
Hae-Min startled, lifting his head quickly. "Ha-Yoon?"
She froze.
"Sorry," she said softly. "I woke up and you weren't there."
He smiled immediately, too quickly. "Couldn't sleep."
She walked closer, her gaze lingering on the notebook before lifting to his face. "You've been writing a lot lately."
He closed the notebook gently, deliberately. "Just… thoughts."
She nodded.
There was a question waiting on her tongue. She felt it. Heavy. Demanding.
What are you afraid of?
Why do you look like you're preparing to disappear?
But she didn't ask.
Instead, she reached out and touched his shoulder.
"Come back to bed," she said. "You don't have to carry everything tonight."
For a moment, he almost told her.
She could see it, something breaking loose behind his eyes.
Then he smiled again, softer this time. "Okay."
She stepped back, giving him space to stand, to close the notebook and slide it into the drawer.
As she turned away, her chest ached, not from ignorance, but from choice.
Some truths weren't meant to be dragged into the light.
Some were offered when the person holding them was ready.
And tonight, love meant trust.
__________________
Across the city, in a small living room that smelled faintly of tea and old books, Seon-Woo stood frozen in place.
The television flickered quietly in front of him, replaying the footage from earlier that evening. He hadn't realized it was still on.
His mother sat on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
She wasn't speaking.
She was crying.
Not quietly. Not dramatically.
Just… steadily.
Tears slid down her face as she watched her son on the screen, older, surer, standing beneath lights that did not intimidate him.
Seon-Woo had never seen her cry like this.
Not when they left Yeonhwa Street.
Not when money was tight.
Not even when she'd worked double shifts without complaint.
"Mom," he said gently, moving toward her. "Why are you crying?"
She laughed softly through her tears, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I didn't think I'd live to see this."
He frowned. "See what?"
She looked at him then, really looked at him, as if aligning the boy she raised with the man he had become.
"You choosing yourself," she said. "And not losing your kindness in the process."
His throat tightened.
She reached for his hand. "You stayed quiet for so long, Seon-Woo. I worried you thought your dreams weren't allowed to exist."
He sat beside her, squeezing her fingers. "I was afraid to want things again."
She nodded. "I know."
They sat in silence after that, the television finally going dark.
For the first time, Seon-Woo understood something clearly:
Moving forward didn't mean forgetting.
It meant carrying the past without letting it bend your spine.
__________________
Back in the apartment, Hae-Min lay awake beside Ha-Yoon.
She slept peacefully, unaware of the calculations unfolding inside him.
He watched the rise and fall of her breathing, memorizing it.
'If I become someone she has to take care of…'
The thought felt cruel.
He imagined Ye-Joon years from now, slowing his steps to match his father's. Imagined Ha-Yoon standing half a pace behind him, always watching, always ready.
He didn't want to be the center of their worry.
He wanted to be their shelter.
Slowly, subtly, he began to step back.
Not leaving. Never leaving.
Just… making space.
Less weight on her shoulders.
Less reliance on their routines.
More silence where noise once lived.
He told himself it was love.
And maybe it was.
But even love, he was learning, could be shaped by fear.
Hae-Min closed his eyes and whispered into the dark, "Let me stay useful. Let me stay gentle."
The future did not answer.
But the present, warm, breathing, fragile, held him just a little longer.