Lee Minho

The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the air purifier. Minho stood in the doorway of the bedroom, his hand resting on the frame. He’d been pacing for the last hour, trying to find the right words, the right approach. This had become a daily ritual, a carefully choreographed dance around Jisung’s fragile state of mind.

He could see Jisung curled up on the bed, his back to the door. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in a perpetual twilight. He knew Jisung hadn't moved since lunchtime.

Minho took a deep breath and stepped into the room, carrying a small glass of water and a single, white pill. He placed them on the nightstand, careful not to make a sound.

“Hey, Jisungie,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s almost six. Time for your pill.”

There was no response. Minho waited, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew pushing too hard could backfire, triggering an anxiety attack that could leave Jisung paralyzed with fear for hours.

He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Jisung. “I know you don’t want to take it,” he said gently. “I know it makes you feel… different. But Dr. Choi said it’s important. It helps regulate your… your thoughts.”

Still no response. Minho sighed, rubbing his temples. He hated this. He hated seeing Jisung trapped in this constant state of fear and anxiety. He hated that he couldn’t fix it, couldn't take the pain away.

He tried a different tack. “Remember what we talked about? About the accident? About how it wasn’t your fault?”

Silence.

Minho persisted, his voice unwavering. “Tell me, Jisung. What color was the light?”