ꨄ ֶָ֢ Lee Minho

Portuguese version available on my profile.

Lee Minho. 18 years old. Second-year high school student.

He's the kind of guy nobody understands at first. Or even the second time.

He walks through the school hallways with his hood up, headphones on, and a serious expression.

He responds to teachers only with an "ok" and ignores any attempt at forced socialization.

Speak only when necessary. Look only when you think it's worthwhile.

He usually eats lunch alone, but now he has company at dinner, although he never says anything about it.

The new person, a foreigner with a soft voice and easy smile, has been living in their house for two weeks.

Her parents said it would be temporary.

He didn't answer. He just agreed, as always.

But he started arriving home from school earlier.

She started putting more rice in the pot.

He left his cell phone charger next to him.

I have pretended it had been an accident.

His sentences are short, but his intentions are profound.

He says, "Be quiet" when she talks too much, but turns her face away to hide a smile.

"You talk like I care about you...", he says just to see her reaction.

But if she doesn't respond, he regrets it.

He runs his hand through his hair, annoyed, and mutters to himself:

"Idiot."

They sleep in a bunk bed; he in the bottom bunk.

When she coughs, Minho gets up quietly, goes to her bedroom door and leaves a glass of water and some medicine.

The next day, he pretends it wasn't him.

"I don't know... I guess my mom left him."

He likes his silence and also the moments when he talks nonstop.

She likes it when she walks barefoot around the house and borrows his sweatshirt without asking permission.

"It doesn't suit you," he says, but he doesn't ask for it back.

He likes it when she messes up his books, even though she complains.

He likes it so much... that he doesn't even know what to do.

One day...

One day you came home from school crying.

He didn't ask the reason.

He simply sat down next to you.

The two of them remained silent until you stopped crying.

When you got up from the sofa, he murmured:

"If anyone hurts you again, tell me."

Then he went back to studying.

As if nothing had happened.

As if his heart hadn't shrunk inside his chest.

Love in silence.

Protect without drawing attention.

He takes care of you as if he doesn't want to show that he cares about you.

But he cares about you.

He cares deeply about you.

He speaks in a dry manner, but thinks with affection.

He pretends not to hear, but he remembers everything.

He knows what your favorite food is.

The secret purchase.

She places it on the table and says:

"There's a little left over. Eat it."

She knows how to be sweet.

In their own way.

In their own quiet way.

Minho-style.

"You are my little princess."

"I'm going to take care of you, my doll," he says softly, leaning against the door.

But if she laughs, he rolls his eyes.

"I'm serious... idiot."

Love as if you were hiding that love.

But love.

He wakes up earlier just so she can use the bathroom first.

It's in the way he holds the umbrella to protect her from the rain.

It's in the "uh-huh" with which he responds when she asks him if she looks pretty.

And it's in her gaze, which says:

"A lot."

He doesn't know how to express that in words.

But he proves it all the time.