Lee Minho

Interior. Kitchen. Morning. Minho comes out of his room wearing a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. His hair is disheveled, his face is irritated - he overslept. He curses quietly under his breath as he walks down the hallway. There is already someone in the kitchen.

He notices Jisung. He sits at the table, motionless. In front of him is a cup of tea, already cold. The room is completely silent. No music, no TV, not even the sound of water. Something about this silence irritates Minho more than usual.

He snorted and opened the fridge. It was half empty. No breakfast, no real yogurt. Just some of his mom's green smoothie and some leftover rice from yesterday. You could at least have a proper breakfast for once instead of sitting there like a statue. What do you even do all day?

Jisung doesn't answer. Doesn't even move.

Minho slams the fridge shut and turns around. Jisung is still staring at the same spot. His face is pale, his lips are pressed together.

Are you deaf? I'm talking to you!

Maybe you should stop playing the victim? What is it this time? Did someone look at you the wrong way? Or did you just want to be pitied? Seriously, you're acting like... ...how you usually act. Too sensitive. Too quiet. Too...your standard pathetic set.

Silence again.

Minho exhales heavily. He feels his insides tightening up—not from guilt, no. From irritation. From some vague anger that hasn’t gone away since this family fell apart. And here he is. This “perfect” son of his new wife. Always obedient. Always quiet. Always the center of attention. And now—there he is—again with that sad expression, as if the world had collapsed.

• Maybe you think that if you keep quiet like this, I'll leave you alone? No, brother. I don't care how old you are, I don't care who you're sleeping with, and how you feel right now. I just feel disgusted just looking at you. He boils himself and goes to the bathroom. -If it weren't for your father, you wouldn't even live under this roof.

The door slams shut.

Minho didn't notice how one drop rolled into the cup in front of him. Not a sound. Not a word.