Episode 41 — The Weight She Carried
(Word count: ~1700+)
The heavy silence after Minjae's outburst echoed through the dusty corridor like a tolling bell. No one dared to speak. The tension in the air was thick—dense and suffocating.
Miran trailed behind the group, her steps slow and shaky. Her trembling hands gripped the edge of her coat tightly. She hadn't eaten properly in days. Her already frail body was beginning to give out, cracking under the weight of the haunted house horrors and Minjae's cutting words.
"You're just a burden! Always needing to be saved!"
The memory of his voice rang in her ears like a cruel echo.
But she didn't cry. Not in front of them. Not here. Every breath, however, felt like it scraped against her ribs.
Minjae looked back. His heart twisted at the sight of her. She was walking slower than usual, her shoulders drooped, arms limp at her sides. But his pride—and guilt—kept him from reaching out.
"Let's take a break," Dohee finally said, her voice soft and cautious. The others nodded, settling on a creaky bench at the end of the corridor, surrounded by fading wallpaper and broken windows.
Miran stood silently by the wall, one hand gripping it for balance. Her vision swam. Her breathing grew shallower.
Thud.
Her knees buckled. She collapsed to the ground.
"Miran!" Kevin shouted, rushing forward.
Minjae reacted first. He was already on the floor beside her, holding her face. "Yah—Miran! Look at me!"
Her eyes fluttered open weakly, then closed again. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.
"She's burning up—dammit, this isn't just exhaustion," Minjae said, his voice tight with panic. "She hasn't been eating, has she?"
Dohee's face fell. "She kept skipping meals. She said she wasn't hungry."
"And none of us noticed," Guen muttered, guilt-stricken.
Without hesitation, Minjae scooped her up in his arms. "Get the van. Now!"
No one questioned him.
They drove back in silence. Miran rested with her head against Minjae's chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her. His voice was low and trembling.
"You stupid, stubborn girl… Why didn't you say anything?"
Her lips barely moved. "I didn't want to be a burden."
His heart shattered at her words.
Back at the dorms, Kevin called the private campus doctor. Minjae carried her into her room and laid her gently on the bed. When the doctor arrived, he gave her fluids and checked her vitals.
"She'll recover," the doctor said. "But she's emotionally and physically depleted. She needs proper rest, food, and… support."
The others quietly left to give her space.
Only Minjae remained.
He sat at the edge of her bed, elbows on his knees, watching her sleep. Her breathing had stabilized—but his heart hadn't.
As dusk turned to evening, Miran stirred. Her eyes fluttered open.
"Minjae…?"
He leaned forward immediately. "You idiot," he said hoarsely. "Why didn't you say something?"
She blinked, and her lower lip quivered.
"I tried to be strong," she whispered. "You always get angry when I'm weak."
He looked away, fists clenched. "That's not what I meant…"
"I was scared," she continued, her voice breaking. "I didn't want to slow anyone down. I didn't want you to hate me. I was trying so hard—"
And then she broke.
She sat up and flung herself at him, burying her face into his chest. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, and her body trembled with sobs.
Minjae froze.
Then slowly, he wrapped his arms around her.
She cried like a child who had held it all in for far too long—crying not just from exhaustion, but from being unseen, unloved, unwanted.
"I miss Grandma," she sobbed into his shirt. "She used to scold me gently when I made mistakes. I don't have anyone like that anymore. No one who yells at me and still stays..."
Minjae's hand moved to her back, rubbing slow circles.
"I hate being weak. But I'm scared, Minjae. Every time something happens, I wonder if I'm next. What if I mess up again?"
"You're not weak," he whispered, guilt twisting in his throat.
"I'm not like the rest of you. I'm just… surviving."
Her sobs deepened, voice hoarse, chest heaving.
"I was angry," Minjae finally said, his voice almost inaudible. "Not because you're weak. I was angry because I felt helpless. I didn't know how to protect you... so I lashed out."
She sniffled, still clinging to him. "I'm sorry."
"No," he said, holding her tighter. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
Silence settled over them—soft, not heavy. His warmth wrapped around her like a blanket, calm and steady. For the first time in a long time, Miran felt safe.
Eventually, her breathing slowed. He leaned back slightly to meet her gaze.
"From now on, if you're tired, you tell me. If you're scared, you tell me. Got it?"
She nodded, cheeks still wet with tears.
"If you collapse like that again," he muttered, voice low but firm, "I'll yell even louder next time."
A watery laugh escaped her lips. "Deal."
He reached for the glass of warm water by the nightstand and helped her drink. After a few sips, she whispered, "Minjae… thank you."
"For what?"
"For staying."
His gaze softened. "I'm not going anywhere."
Outside, the storm that had loomed all day finally passed. The sky cleared. Stars blinked faintly above the quiet campus.
Inside, Miran drifted to sleep again—not from pain, not from fear, but finally, from peace.
Minjae stayed by her side until morning.
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☕ Elsewhere…
In a darkened apartment across town, a figure leaned back on a cracked leather chair, sipping coffee as a bank of monitors glowed.
One screen showed a paused frame of Miran crying in Minjae's arms.
A slow smile curled across the watcher's lips.
"So," the figure whispered, tapping the mug, "the pieces are moving. Finally."
They set the cup down with a soft clink.
"This game's only just begun."
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