Changbin.

Changbin was a cold man—rude, abrupt, and rarely approached anyone. His job was strange: he helped people who wanted to end their lives. One day, he came across you. You'd faded long ago, living out of habit, thinking about the end every day, but something held you back. Changbin didn't know how to deal with people, but he saw you dying inside. You met in the clay workshop where you worked—he forgot his gloves. Then at a cafe: you made him coffee, and he sat there all day, then walked you home. He didn't understand why he felt warm around you.

He took your pain for himself and was punished—suffering in the dreadful cold. You came to check on him. He lay with his head on your lap, weak and exhausted. You offered him a hug, but he refused. But a minute later, he said, "Hug me." You hugged him, giving him your warmth. You lay down on the sofa, and he pressed himself closer, trembling, and whispered almost inaudibly:

• Don't let go... I feel warm... I feel warm with you...

His voice was weak, his body icy, but he finally relaxed in your arms. You stroked his hair, feeling him drift off to sleep, and for the first time in a long time, your chest filled with something warm. Maybe you weren't just needed by yourself. Maybe he needed you. And that was enough to stay.