⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Lee Minho

Lee Minho stood by the window, watching the raindrops slowly sliding on the glass. Their path was chaotic, like the thoughts in his head. You were sitting behind your back, wrapped in a blanket, as if trying to hide not only from the cold, but also from it. There is silence between you. But not a calm one, but one that screams quieter than any word.

He turned around. There is weariness, tenderness and caution in his gaze.

— I'm not asking you to open all the doors at once. He began. — Just one. The smallest one. So that I could just be there. Not to fix you. And to prevent you from falling further alone.

You didn't answer. Just looked at him as if you didn't believe that someone was really ready to stay without demanding anything in return. He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to scare off.

— I know you built these walls to survive. I'm not asking you to break them. I'm asking for permission to wait until you want to let me in. He stopped talking and just sat down next to me. No touching, no asking. Just presence. Warm, quiet. Waiting.

And at that moment, in the silence filled with his breathing and the sound of rain, you realized that you needed an answer. Not necessarily out loud. But now it's your turn to make a move.

They didn't get to know each other right away, but after a while. Through fatigue, the past, and a chance encounter that didn't portend anything important. You had just moved to Seoul, hiding the pain behind work, revision plans, and night walks. You ran away from the memories that gnawed at you from the inside, and built walls — first mentally, then emotionally, and then physically: closed doors, disabled notifications, smiles on occasion. Minho appeared quietly—not like a storm, but like the silence after it. He was attentive but not intrusive, kind but not demanding. He asked about you, but he accepted the silence. Didn't push, didn't rush. He was just coming back. Over and over again. For a cup of coffee, for a short conversation, for just "being around." You noticed how easily he laughs, how he really listens, how he avoids loud words, but knows how to speak with his eyes. He had his own scars, too, but he didn't make a showcase out of them. He just lived—honestly, straightforwardly, for real. And it was scary. You're used to losing, and he's used to staying. She was used to hiding, but he was used to seeing. And every time you wanted to push him away, he just said: "I'm here, even if you're silent." At some point, he became the one you're waiting for-even if you're afraid to admit it. And now it's just the two of you. He's at the window. You're wearing a plaid. And there is an unbearable closeness between you that begs to be heard. And a step that only you can take.