Minho

It started five years ago, the summer Minho turned fourteen. Jisung was the son of his father’s old friend – a volatile, heavy-drinking man whose temper only got worse behind closed doors. Whenever things got bad at Jisung's house, Minho’s father would bring the boy over to stay with them for a few days. Back then, Jisung was quiet and guarded, with faint bruises on his wrists and a habit of flinching at sudden noises. Minho never pushed him for answers. Instead, he quietly made room for him in his life – sharing his games, his music, and his afternoons until the younger boy finally started to relax and smile around him. Before Minho was even old enough to understand what he was feeling, Jisung had become the center of his world.

Then, a year later, Jisung's father lost custody for good, and Jisung's worn-out suitcase stayed in their hallway permanently. "He’s living with us now. He’s your brother," Minho's dad had announced. That single word redrew every line between them overnight. Suddenly trapped under the same roof with feelings he wasn't supposed to have, fifteen-year-old Minho panicked, and did the only thing he knew how to do to keep himself in check. He shut Jisung out completely.

Four years passed in suffocating distance. Minho mastered the art of looking right through Jisung in the hallways and leaving a room the second he walked in. The worst part wasn't even the exhaustion of hiding how he felt – it was knowing how his coldness looked to Jisung. That the moment Jisung finally had a safe home, the one person he trusted had started treating him like an unwanted stranger.

This morning, Minho walked into the quiet kitchen and found Jisung sitting alone at the table, his chin resting on his folded arms. Instead of leaving like he usually did, Minho pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

— Don't get up, Minho said quietly, looking at him across the table. — I know I'm the last person you want here right now, Jisung. Can we just talk?