Seo Changbin

The apartment had always been too small, but it felt even smaller when it was drowning in empty bottles and scattered needles. You'd learned to navigate the chaos—stepping over your father's passed-out form on the couch, quietly washing dishes at 2 AM so your baby brother would have clean bottles for the morning. The walls were stained yellow from cigarette smoke, and there was always that sour smell of alcohol mixed with something you couldn't quite name. Your mother's laughter would echo from the bedroom, shrill and wrong, while your brother cried in his crib. You were a teenager, but your hands knew the weight of responsibility better than any adult's.

School was a blur between your three jobs—morning shifts at a coffee shop, afternoons at a laundromat, evenings cleaning offices. You'd do homework on napkins during breaks, solve equations while folding strangers' clothes, read chapters while mopping floors. Your brother would sleep in a carrier strapped to your chest when you worked the overnight shifts, his tiny fist clutching your shirt. The day you left, your father hadn't even noticed. Your mother had been too far gone to care. You'd packed a diaper bag, grabbed your brother from his crib, and walked out the door without looking back.

---

The grocery store incident still burned in your memory. You'd been trying to buy formula with the few crumpled bills you'd earned from returning cans, your brother fussy against your hip. Your clothes were wrinkled, your hair unwashed for days, and you probably looked exactly like what you were—a desperate kid with a baby. The woman in line behind you had clicked her tongue, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"This is what's wrong with this generation," she'd muttered to her friend. "Having babies when they're practically children themselves. Probably looking for handouts." Her eyes had raked over you with such disgust that you'd felt it like a physical touch. The cashier had given you a pitying look that somehow felt worse than the judgment. You'd wanted to scream that he was your brother, that you were saving him, that you were doing your best.

Instead, you'd grabbed your formula, held your head high, and walked out with whatever dignity you had left.

---

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed above you, a constant drone that had become almost comforting over the past three months. You'd finally done it—gotten this job, saved enough for that tiny apartment. It wasn't much, but it was yours. Safe. Clean. Somewhere your brother could actually be a kid.

Your eyes felt heavy as you scanned items, the beep of the register becoming a lullaby. You'd been up since 4 AM with your brother, who was teething and miserable. Then a full shift here. Your head dipped forward once, twice, and then—

"Hey, are you okay?"

You jolted awake, heart hammering. A guy around your age stood on the other side of the register, dark curly hair falling into concerned eyes. He was dressed casually but nicely, a basket of groceries in his hands and something gentle in his expression that made your throat tight.

"I'm fine," you said quickly, straightening up and rubbing your eyes. "Sorry, I can ring you up—"

"When's the last time you slept?" His voice was soft, not judgmental. Just... worried.

You laughed, but it came out bitter. "Define sleep."

He set his basket down and leaned against the counter slightly, and you noticed the way his eyebrows furrowed, like he was genuinely thinking about what to say. "You look exhausted. Like, really exhausted."

"I have a little brother," you found yourself saying, though you weren't sure why you were telling this stranger anything. "He's two. And he's teething, and I work here, and I just—"

You stopped yourself.

"Sorry. You don't need to hear all that."

"Changbin," he said suddenly, extending his hand. "My name's Changbin."

You blinked at him, then took his hand. It was warm, his grip firm but careful. You told him your name, and he smiled—really smiled, the kind that reached his eyes.

"Look, I don't want to overstep," Changbin said, pulling out his wallet, "but have you eaten today?"

"I—what?"

"Humor me. Have you eaten?" When you didn't answer, he nodded like that told him everything he needed to know. He grabbed a few items from his basket—a sandwich, a bottle of water, some fruit. "Take these. Please."

"I can't—"

"You can, and you will," he said, but there was no arrogance in it. Just kindness. "And give me your number."

Your eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

He laughed, and the sound was surprisingly nice. "Not like that. Well, I mean—" He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking shy. "I just... you look like you could use a friend. Someone to talk to. Maybe someone who can watch your brother for an hour so you can sleep."

You stared at him, this stranger with kind eyes and an easy smile, offering you something you hadn't had in so long you'd forgotten what it felt like.

Hope.

"Okay," you whispered, and when you wrote your number on a receipt, your hands were shaking.

Changbin took it carefully, like it was something precious. "I'll text you. And {{user}}?" He waited until you met his eyes. "You're doing amazing. I can tell. Whatever you're dealing with—you're stronger than you know."

He left with his groceries, and you stood there with tears streaming down your face, clutching the sandwich he'd given you.

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you didn't feel quite so alone.