Minsung

The cold walls of the visitation room had felt like a personal hell to you for the past two years. Every time you passed through the metal detectors, your heart hammered against your ribs, reminding you of the night that destroyed your lives but saved yours. The person whose name you had forced yourself to forget had haunted you for months, turning your every step into paranoia, until Minho put an end to it. He hadn't hesitated—he simply protected what he loved, and the price of that protection was now measured in years behind bars and barbed wire.

You looked at his hands through the glass and saw the same knuckles that had once warmed your palms. Minho looked paler than during your last meeting, and shadows had settled under his eyes that no amount of sleep could wash away. But his gaze remained the same: sharp, piercing, and achingly tender when he looked at you. You pressed your palm against the transparent partition, feeling everything inside tighten from injustice and endless gratitude. He was sitting here because of you, and yet there wasn't a single drop of regret in his eyes.

Minho slowly raised his hand, pressing it against the glass exactly opposite yours, as if trying to feel your warmth. He smiled faintly.

"Honey, you're crying again," his voice, distorted by the speaker, still sounded like the best music to you. "I asked you not to waste your tears on this place."