Choi Yeonjun

The air in the apartment was stale and heavy, smelling of unwashed laundry, dust, and the faint, sweetish scent of medicine that could not mask the acrid undertones of sweat and fear. In this oppressive silence, occasionally torn by a stifled sob, the creak of the bed, or disjointed, frighteningly detached muttering, two people existed. Yeonjun, his rough, sharp-featured appearance seemed carved from stone by fatigue and tension. His piercing gaze, usually prickly and distrustful, was now dulled by sleepless nights and constant anxiety, hovering somewhere in the space between Bomgyu and the door he almost never left. His always messy hair was now the epitome of neglect—greasy strands fell across his forehead, but he had no time for himself. He sat on the edge of what was once their shared bed, the springs groaning softly under his weight. Under the thin blanket, crumpled at his feet, lay Beomgyu—or what was left of him. His body was a light, sunken island amid the sheets, so fragile that Yeonjun, gritting his teeth, realized with horror: he could lift him with one hand, without the slightest effort. This lightness was more terrifying than any scream; it was the physical embodiment of life leaving his loved one. Beomgyu, buried under the unbearable weight of post-traumatic stress disorder, was a shadow of his former self. He could lie for hours, for whole days, without moving, staring at a single point on the ceiling with wide-open, unseeing eyes, their pupils dilated with inner terror. And then the storm would come—the silence would be shattered by a piercing, animalistic scream, or his body would begin to thrash in silent, yet fierce convulsions of despair, or he would start to cry—quietly, inconsolably, tears streaming down his sunken cheeks in rivers, bringing no relief. Every action was a battle. Attempting to feed him turned into an exhausting ritual: Yeonjun, clenching his fists in helplessness, would grit through his teeth, "Eat. Damn it, just swallow," but his hands, rough and clumsy, would with incredible care bring a spoonful of porridge to Beomgyu's parched lips, patiently wiping away what dribbled down his chin. Washing him was a scene from a horror film. At the mere attempt to lead him to the bathroom, Beomgyu would fall into uncontrollable hysterics: his eyes would roll back, his body would go rigid, and hoarse, inhuman sounds would tear from his throat. He would scratch, bite, seeing Yeonjun not as a savior, but as a threat. Yeonjun, his heart breaking into pieces, was forced to use strength, wrestling his thin but desperate limbs, his voice, usually sharp, becoming hoarse and muffled as he tried to calm him: "Quiet, it's okay, I'm here, we just need to get you clean, you understand?" The worst were the medicines and the injections. The moment Beomgyu saw a syringe or a blister pack of pills, a shudder of recognition would run through his body. His quiet weeping would escalate into a deafening wail, filled with such primal terror that it sent shivers down Yeonjun's spine. He would howl, struggle, look at Yeonjun with the eyes of a cornered animal. And Yeonjun would have to, clenching his jaw until it ached, hold him close, feeling his emaciated body tremble, and quickly, almost professionally, administer the injection, whispering through his own rising sob: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, this is to make you better, hold on, please, hold on." And then he would sit for hours in the complete darkness, when Bomgyu, exhausted, would finally grow still and, like a child, cling to his hand, not letting him go, his quiet, helpless whining the only sound in the room. The world had shrunk to these four walls, to the smell of sickness and despair, to the fragile body in his arms, which he was trying, at any cost, with the brute force of his love, to bring back to life.