The apartment was cold.
Not in the way of temperature — the heater buzzed faintly, doing its best — but in the way empty places were cold. Clean, quiet, barely lived-in.
Jisoo dropped his bag by the door and slipped off his shoes, shoulders aching from holding them tense all day.
He moved through the space like muscle memory, not thought. Left turn. Kitchen. Water. Right turn. Bedroom. Don't look at the photos. Don't—
"Did you eat?"
His brother's voice, low and rough, came from the living room. The only light in the apartment was the flicker of the TV, washing Haejin's face in shifting shadows.
"Yeah," Jisoo lied.
"Eat something anyway."
Jisoo didn't argue. There was no point. He opened the fridge, pulled out half a triangle of kimbap, and chewed it slowly, eyes staring through the countertop.
Haejin didn't speak again.
He rarely did.
Once, Jisoo remembered, his brother had laughed easily. Danced in the kitchen. Promised they'd travel the world together.
Now he just worked. Came home late. Paid the bills. Slept on the couch most nights.
They didn't talk about what happened before the move.
They didn't talk about their parents. Or the bruises. Or the other school.
But sometimes Jisoo dreamed of it. The shouting. The blood. The door that wouldn't lock.
He gripped the counter harder.
"School okay?" Haejin asked suddenly.
Jisoo shrugged. "Same as the last one."
"You making friends?"
Another shrug.
There was a pause. Then:
"No more fighting, Jisoo."
"I'm not."
"You were last time."
Jisoo turned toward him. "I didn't start it."
"You finished it."
Another silence stretched between them. Not angry — just tired.
Jisoo dropped his uneaten food in the sink and went to his room.
He sat on his bed in the dark, phone glowing in his hands. No new notifications. No messages.
Just a blank screen staring back.
Except...
He opened his notes app and scrolled to something he hadn't meant to keep.
> "It's okay to write in the margins. Even if it's messy."
Sera's voice echoed in his head again — clear, soft, annoyingly honest.
She wasn't like the others.
He didn't know what to do with that.
She looked at him like he wasn't a disaster waiting to happen. Like she saw something worth keeping. And that scared him more than anything.
Jisoo closed his eyes, dropped the phone, and leaned back.
The walls felt too close. The ceiling too low.
He hated this city.
He hated this life.
But somewhere between her pencil tapping and her eyes that didn't flinch—
He thought, maybe,
just maybe—
he didn't hate her.