Areum didn't ask for permission.
She didn't sit at the dining table rehearsing her words.
She didn't weigh the consequences or prepare for protest.
She simply called her mother, her voice steadier than she felt, warm but resolute, like someone who had walked through fire and chosen to stand in the smoke anyway.
"I'm staying with him. You don't need to worry."
"I'm exactly where I need to be."
On the other end of the line, her mother inhaled softly.
There was no lecture, no doubt, no warning.
Only a quiet, knowing sentence:
"Then love him well."
It was both a blessing and a burden,
and Areum held it like a vow.
And she did love him.
In the small ways first, then in the endless ways.
Love became her new rhythm.
Her new duty.
Her new home.
Areum moved into the hospital room the way one moves into a shared life.
She didn't ask the nurses what she was allowed to bring.
She simply brought what made his world softer.
A thick gray blanket he once wrapped around her during thunderstorms.
A tiny diffuser filled with lavender oil, the scent that had always calmed him on his restless nights.
His favorite mug, chipped along the rim, faded blue, the handle shaped like a question mark.
She wanted him to look around and see pieces of himself, reminders that he was more than the hollow ache inside him.
More than a diagnosis.
More than the loneliness that had swallowed months of his life.
She read to him when his voice was too tired to form syllables.
She played soft music when his silence grew too loud.
She massaged his shoulders when the tension curled beneath his skin like a trapped storm.
Sometimes he winced, eyes glassy, breath uneven, the kind of pain that wasn't physical but deeper, older, fierce.
And Areum held his hand through every wave of it.
She didn't cry in front of him.
She cried in the hallwa, face buried in her palms, shoulders trembling, then came back inside with gentle eyes and a small smile.
Because love, in its truest form, isn't a grand gesture.
It is the decision to stay after every exhaustion.
The quiet promise whispered into the cracks
"I'm not leaving."
________________
On the ninth morning, sunlight streamed across the floor in soft shards, lighting up the corners of the room as though someone had opened a door to heaven.
Joon-ha woke up blinking, dazed, fragile.
Areum stood near the window, already dressed, holding his coat.
"We're going out."
His brows knitted. "Out?"
She nodded, stepping closer.
"Just for a few hours. Fresh air. A little shopping. The doctor approved it."
It took him several seconds to respond,
not because he didn't want to go,
but because part of him didn't trust that he was allowed to live normally, even for a moment.
She knelt beside him, her hands warm around his.
"You don't have to be strong," she murmured.
"Just come with me."
He swallowed, voice soft.
"I'll try."
That was enough.
They walked slowly through the quiet district near the hospital, a place of bookstores, old cafés, and families pushing strollers. Ordinary life, existing without apology.
Areum held his arm when he stumbled.
He felt embarrassed, but she never reacted like he was a burden.
Instead she said things like
"Careful,"
"One step at a time,"
"I've got you."
And she did.
They bought warm pastries from a corner bakery, steam rising into the cool air.
Areum tore hers in half and fed him a piece, laughing when he pretended to sulk.
They wandered into a tiny boutique filled with scarves in every color.
She wrapped a soft maroon one around his neck.
"You look handsome," she said.
He blushed.
She bought it.
They sat on a park bench and watched the world move around them, teenagers running, dogs tugging on leashes, old men feeding pigeons. Life didn't slow down for their pain. It didn't wait for sorrow to pass.
But in that moment, it didn't need to.
Joon-ha looked at her, eyes softening like thawing winter.
"You make this feel normal."
She leaned against him.
"It is. It's our normal."
Back at the hospital, she helped him change into fresh clothes.
The movement was routine, almost sacred.
She brushed his hair gently, pushing back the strands that fell into his eyes.
He whispered, embarrassed:
"I can do it—"
She shook her head.
"Let me do it today."
Later, she massaged his hands, hands that trembled from medication and fatigue.
Every touch was patient, warm, steady.
He told her jokes that barely made sense, and she laughed so hard the nurse peeked in to check on them.
At night, they watched old movies on her laptop, curled under one blanket, their breaths syncing unconsciously.
She kissed his forehead before sleep every night, the same way she used to.
One night, half-asleep, he confessed
"I thought I'd die alone."
Her answer came immediately, fierce and quiet:
"Not while I'm breathing."
Areum's strength wasn't effortless.
She carried her own invisible wounds.
The fear each time he closed his eyes too long.
The anxiety when he slept without moving.
The flashbacks of the night he pushed her away, not because he stopped loving her, but because he loved her too much to let her drown with him.
People think love is endurance.
But Areum had learned a harsher truth:
Love is choosing someone again, even when they're wrapped in darkness.
Some nights she lay on the small hospital couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was strong enough to stay forever.
But every morning, when he opened his eyes and looked for her
she realized she already had her answer.
One evening, they sat by the wide window, the city lights flickering below them like fallen stars.
Cars moved like slow rivers.
Voices drifted up from the street.
The world outside was alive and oblivious.
Joon-ha leaned his head on her shoulder with a worn-out sigh.
"I don't know how long I have."
Not meaning life, but stability.
The good days.
The peace.
The version of himself that could hold her without hurting her.
Areum placed a kiss on his temple, soft as a vow.
"Then let's make every day feel like forever."
His eyes closed, trembling.
And for the first time in weeks
no machines, no nurses, no medication defined him.
He wasn't a patient.
He wasn't broken.
He wasn't a burden.
He was simply a man.
A man in love.
A man held, seen, chosen.
Areum tightened her hold on him.
And he breathed, not with fear, not with regret
but with quiet relief.
Because sometimes forever isn't a lifetime.
Sometimes forever is a moment where someone looks at you and says
"Stay. I'm here."
And sometimes,
that's enough.
Author's Note: seriously this chapter gives me the vibes of the song (everything is beautiful, fall in love again and again).🥲❤️🩹
Chapter 44 / 47
My new novel "velvet devotion" is coming out on 17th November 2025
It's not the book 2 of this novel but it includes some characters from this novel which are, Kim Ara and Detective Choi.