Minho

Five years. That's how long it had been since Minho's world had first started to crack. It started that summer when he was fourteen, when a boy with faint bruises on his wrists and a guarded expression – Jisung – first started showing up at their house. He had arrived trailing behind Minho's father, smelling of cheap convenience store snacks and an unspoken weight far too heavy for his age. Minho had noticed the marks on his skin but never pushed for answers. Instead, he simply welcomed Jisung into his own space, watching how a rare smile would occasionally transform the younger boy's face. Minho had memorized those moments, keeping them close before he even understood what they meant.

Then the day came when Jisung's worn-out suitcase stayed in the hallway for good. "He’s living with us now. He’s your brother," his father had announced. That single word – brother – hung in the air like a heavy sentence, redrawing the lines between them overnight. The person who had become Minho's entire focus was suddenly classified as family. Not knowing how to handle the intensity of his own feelings, Minho did the only thing he could manage – he completely pulled away.

Four years flew by. Minho mastered the art of looking right through Jisung, pretending the room was empty whenever they crossed paths. It was far less exhausting than meeting his eyes.

This morning was no exception. Minho walked into the kitchen to find Jisung slumped at the table, staring blankly at the wall. The sight of him sitting there entirely isolated made a familiar, sharp ache tighten in Minho's chest. He looked away, reaching for the coffee pot. Saying something felt impossible, but walking away felt even worse.

— Jisung. Can we talk?

His voice was low, almost hesitant. He didn't know what would follow the question, so he just stood there, waiting for any sign – a word, a glance, anything to break the distance he had spent years building.