Night returned with a quiet weight that seemed heavier than the nights before. It pressed itself over the neighborhood like a dark blanket that had forgotten how to warm anyone. The moon was thin and pale above the apartment building, and the only sound along the narrow street was the soft murmur of a bicycle passing by.
Inside his small room, Ha Jun sat on the floor with his back against the bed. His knees were drawn close to his chest. The world around him felt muted, like it had been washed in grey water. His phone screen flickered beside him without sound. He had turned the volume off because even the smallest notification felt too loud for the state he was in.
He had come home late. Ji Hye had walked with him halfway but sensed his silence and let him go without questions. She had simply touched his sleeve and told him to rest well. He had nodded even though he knew the night would be long.
The apartment walls were thin. He could hear the soft laughter of his younger sister across the hall, the one who was seven years younger than him. She was watching a late night comedy show with their father. Their happiness traveled through the walls like a gentle reminder that other people breathed differently than he did.
Ha Jun closed his eyes.
He knew this feeling too well. It came like a tide that returned even when he begged the sea to stay still. Tonight it rose slowly. It did not roar. It whispered. And sometimes whispers were more frightening than screams.
He felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Not the painful kind that sent him to the doctor when he was sixteen, but the quiet kind that crawled under his ribs and stayed there like a hidden guest. His fingers trembled slightly. He pressed them into his palms.
A soft knock touched his door.
His mother's voice followed.
"Jun ah. Are you awake?"
He swallowed.
"Yes."
The door opened a little. His mother peeked inside. Her eyes were gentle but tired. She was always tired. She carried the entire family like a basket she refused to set down.
"I made soup. Are you hungry?"
He almost said yes. He almost stood up.
He wanted to make her happy.
He wanted to make her believe he was alright.
But his throat closed around the words.
"I am not hungry," he whispered.
She paused for a moment. Her gaze remained soft but searching, like she could see the shadows gathering around him even though he sat in the dim part of the room.
"Alright. I will leave it in the kitchen. Make sure you eat if you feel weak."
He nodded.
She closed the door slowly, as if the door itself might shatter if she moved too fast.
When she left, silence settled again.
Ha Jun hugged his knees closer and lowered his forehead against them. His breath became shallow. His mind drifted toward memories he tried to avoid. Memories of a birthday that turned into a storm. Memories of a sister whose name still slipped into his dreams. Memories of a place that smelled like antiseptic and quiet sorrow. Eight months of learning how to breathe again. Eight months of pretending he was healed.
But the truth was here in his chest.
The truth was in the tremble of his hands.
His voice cracked as he spoke into the darkness.
"Why am I like this?"
He was twenty one. People told him he was young and had time. People told him he had a bright smile. People told him he was strong. Yet every night he felt like a boy sitting alone in a room too big for his heart.
A sound interrupted his thoughts. A soft tap on the window.
He lifted his head.
A pale moth rested on the glass. Its wings quivered as if it were shivering in the cold. It stayed there for a long moment, touching the glass gently like it wanted to come in.
Ha Jun stared at it. Something about the small creature made his chest ache. It looked lost. It looked fragile. It looked exactly how he felt.
He whispered,
"You are in the wrong place."
But the moth remained, clinging to the cold surface with trembling wings.
His phone suddenly lit up. A message.
From Ji Hye.
Are you home now
I just wanted to check on you
You looked tired today
He stared at the screen for a long time before typing slowly.
I am home
I am fine
Thank you for asking
He knew she would not believe the last sentence. Ji Hye understood him too well. She always had. There was a silence for a few seconds before another message arrived.
If you cannot sleep, I can stay on a call with you.
I do not have to talk.
I can just stay there.
You do not have to be alone.
The words warmed something inside him.
He glanced at the moth again.
Still trembling.
Still holding on.
He pressed call.
When Ji Hye answered, she did not speak.
She breathed softly through the speaker.
A presence without demand.
A warmth without pressure.
Ha Jun did not speak either.
He let her breathing fill the room.
Minutes passed.
Then she whispered quietly,
"I am here."
His eyes stung. He rested his forehead on his knees again, but this time the feeling was different. Not lighter. But less lonely.
"Thank you," he whispered.
They stayed like that for a long time.
The thin walls softened.
The night held its breath.
The moth remained on the glass like a small guardian of fragile things.
And in that quiet season of his life, something shifted, just a little.
Not enough to save him.
But enough to keep him standing.
The chapter ends with a soft unresolved breath.
The darkness is still there.
The struggle is still deep.
But the world has given him one more thread to hold.
Night returned with a quiet weight that seemed heavier than the nights before. It pressed itself over the neighborhood like a dark blanket that had forgotten how to warm anyone. The moon was thin and pale above the apartment building, and the only sound along the narrow street was the soft murmur of a bicycle passing by.
Inside his small room, Ha Jun sat on the floor with his back against the bed. His knees were drawn close to his chest. The world around him felt muted, like it had been washed in grey water. His phone screen flickered beside him without sound. He had turned the volume off because even the smallest notification felt too loud for the state he was in.
He had come home late. Ji Hye had walked with him halfway but sensed his silence and let him go without questions. She had simply touched his sleeve and told him to rest well. He had nodded even though he knew the night would be long.
The apartment walls were thin. He could hear the soft laughter of his younger sister across the hall, the one who was seven years younger than him. She was watching a late night comedy show with their father. Their happiness traveled through the walls like a gentle reminder that other people breathed differently than he did.
Ha Jun closed his eyes.
He knew this feeling too well. It came like a tide that returned even when he begged the sea to stay still. Tonight it rose slowly. It did not roar. It whispered. And sometimes whispers were more frightening than screams.
He felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Not the painful kind that sent him to the doctor when he was sixteen, but the quiet kind that crawled under his ribs and stayed there like a hidden guest. His fingers trembled slightly. He pressed them into his palms.
A soft knock touched his door.
His mother's voice followed.
"Jun ah. Are you awake?"
He swallowed.
"Yes."
The door opened a little. His mother peeked inside. Her eyes were gentle but tired. She was always tired. She carried the entire family like a basket she refused to set down.
"I made soup. Are you hungry?"
He almost said yes. He almost stood up.
He wanted to make her happy.
He wanted to make her believe he was alright.
But his throat closed around the words.
"I am not hungry," he whispered.
She paused for a moment. Her gaze remained soft but searching, like she could see the shadows gathering around him even though he sat in the dim part of the room.
"Alright. I will leave it in the kitchen. Make sure you eat if you feel weak."
He nodded.
She closed the door slowly, as if the door itself might shatter if she moved too fast.
When she left, silence settled again.
Ha Jun hugged his knees closer and lowered his forehead against them. His breath became shallow. His mind drifted toward memories he tried to avoid. Memories of a birthday that turned into a storm. Memories of a sister whose name still slipped into his dreams. Memories of a place that smelled like antiseptic and quiet sorrow. Eight months of learning how to breathe again. Eight months of pretending he was healed.
But the truth was here in his chest.
The truth was in the tremble of his hands.
His voice cracked as he spoke into the darkness.
"Why am I like this?"
He was twenty one. People told him he was young and had time. People told him he had a bright smile. People told him he was strong. Yet every night he felt like a boy sitting alone in a room too big for his heart.
A sound interrupted his thoughts. A soft tap on the window.
He lifted his head.
A pale moth rested on the glass. Its wings quivered as if it were shivering in the cold. It stayed there for a long moment, touching the glass gently like it wanted to come in.
Ha Jun stared at it. Something about the small creature made his chest ache. It looked lost. It looked fragile. It looked exactly how he felt.
He whispered,
"You are in the wrong place."
But the moth remained, clinging to the cold surface with trembling wings.
His phone suddenly lit up. A message.
From Ji Hye.
Are you home now
I just wanted to check on you
You looked tired today
He stared at the screen for a long time before typing slowly.
I am home
I am fine
Thank you for asking
He knew she would not believe the last sentence. Ji Hye understood him too well. She always had. There was a silence for a few seconds before another message arrived.
If you cannot sleep, I can stay on a call with you.
I do not have to talk.
I can just stay there.
You do not have to be alone.
The words warmed something inside him.
He glanced at the moth again.
Still trembling.
Still holding on.
He pressed call.
When Ji Hye answered, she did not speak.
She breathed softly through the speaker.
A presence without demand.
A warmth without pressure.
Ha Jun did not speak either.
He let her breathing fill the room.
Minutes passed.
Then she whispered quietly,
"I am here."
His eyes stung. He rested his forehead on his knees again, but this time the feeling was different. Not lighter. But less lonely.
"Thank you," he whispered.
They stayed like that for a long time.
The thin walls softened.
The night held its breath.
The moth remained on the glass like a small guardian of fragile things.
And in that quiet season of his life, something shifted, just a little.
Not enough to save him.
But enough to keep him standing.
The chapter ends with a soft unresolved breath.
The darkness is still there.
The struggle is still deep.
But the world has given him one more thread to hold.