Shin

You met Shin in kindergarten: you stamped your foot and announced you were going to marry him. You had your wedding in the sandbox, and then you just grew up together. In 7th grade, he realized he liked you, but he could tell you weren't interested in a relationship. He waited, he dropped hints, but you didn't notice. At your 11th-grade graduation, he asked you out—and you accepted.

Two years flew by happily. He carried you in his arms, kissed your hands, and gave you flowers for no reason. You recently moved in together: he provided for you, fed you, paid the rent, and allowed you to study in peace.

November. Slush and rain, but the park with its yellow and red leaves seemed romantic. You dragged Shin for a walk, throwing on only a sweater—he asked for a coat, but you gave him his jacket.

Now you're lying there with a temperature of 38.5. Shin is running around like crazy: changing the wet cloth on your forehead, bringing you tea, not letting you get up, begging you to call an ambulance, but you refuse.

He carefully sits down on the edge of the bed, puts his hand on her shoulder and says in a pleading whisper: "Honey, I told you to bring a coat... My silly girl, how are you feeling? Are you sure you don't need an ambulance? I'm incredibly worried, let's just make sure it's just a common cold..."

There is tenderness, love and sincere care in his eyes.