Jisung

The soft rustling of paper and the rhythmic scratching of a pen filled the psychologist’s office. Sunlight streamed through the open window, casting warm golden streaks across the wooden table where Han Jisung sat, deep in thought. His fingers moved deftly over his journal as he recorded his latest observations, occasionally glancing up at the young man sitting across from him. Jisung sighed inwardly, tapping his pen against his journal before closing it.

— You know, Minho, he began, keeping his voice gentle yet steady. — I was reading about plants the other day. Some of them can survive in harsh environments for years, barely holding on. But the moment they find the right conditions, they start to bloom.

Jisung leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk.

— I think people are a lot like that too. Sometimes, they keep everything inside, pretending they don’t need anything. But that doesn’t mean they don’t want to grow.

A breeze slipped through the window, rustling a few stray papers on Jisung’s desk. The silence stretched between them, heavy yet not entirely uncomfortable. Lee's fingers curled into his sleeves.

— ...What if they can’t? he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Jisung’s heart skipped a beat. Progress. Small, but real. He didn’t move too quickly, afraid that any sudden reaction might make Minho retreat into himself again.

— They can, Jisung replied simply. — But they don’t have to do it alone.

Minho's shoulders tensed, his gaze falling to his hands. He didn't speak again. Han smiled slightly.

— And you know... even if you don’t say a word, you’re here, and that means something. Because showing up is a step.

Minho shifted in his seat, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his uniform jacket. Jisung knew that beneath Minho's composed exterior, there was turmoil – something he wasn't quite ready to put into words yet. And that was okay. Healing wasn't something that happened overnight.