︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Run away from home again
I'm carving these notes into bloody arms
Alone with my soul impaled
Run away from your loving arms
Why am I so afraid?
I don't care, I'm not coming home
Why am I crying if this is what I wanted all along?

-notes from a wrist-d4vd-

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

⚠️-attempted suicide.

Neither Hana nor Minho slept that night, though for entirely different reasons.

For Minho, the hours stretched into a dark expanse of disbelief and regret. Hana's revelation—a confession so raw and unexpected—had shattered the image he'd always held of her. He had seen her as a light, someone who masked the world's darkness with her smile. But now, her struggles stood exposed, leaving him wondering how long this burden had weighed on her.

For Hana, the night was a cacophony of shattered plans and unresolved emotions. Everything had unraveled far beyond her carefully orchestrated blueprint. She wasn't supposed to still be here, in this place, in this terrible place. 

The script she'd written for herself had not included an encounter with Minho, let alone a confrontation that sliced open old wounds. The truth she had desperately tried to bury—her silent, suffocating despair—had slipped out in a moment of vulnerability. 

She had never intended for Minho to see her like this, to witness the cracks in her façade.
The torment of not being able to leave, of being ensnared in this painful dialogue, gnawed at her, making her insomniac.

She thought,
"There must be a reason I'm still here—a reason I'm still warm, not cold." 

Yet thoughts of finally leaving, of finding an end, seemed louder. And so, the entire night slipped by as she poured her soul into a final letter. It was a painful testament to her chaotic state of mind, a desperate attempt to bring sense to the turmoil within her. 

None of it was for her parents; trying to explain her pain to them felt impossible, as if no words could convey its depths.

Her hands trembled as she wrote, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing down on her shoulders. These letters were not confessions but rather feeble attempts to communicate something profound yet elusive. They were full of apologies and farewells, but they remained incomplete, a reflection of her fractured state of mind.

Once she finished, she placed her phone unlocked on the table, covering it with the letter. 

Then she shed the clothes she'd worn yesterday, the ones chosen to appear "presentable" to her parents—as if that had mattered.

She slipped into normal clothes, a plain black track pant and a black hooded jacket over plain white-tee.

She changed into something simpler: black track pants and a plain white tee beneath a dark hoodie. She took a small blade and her sleeping pills, stuffing them into her pockets with a trembling hand. After grabbing her keys and slipping into her shoes, she avoided looking at the cats, ignored the door to Minho's room. She knew that if she looked—if she gave herself a moment to reconsider—they might make her stay.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Minho was jolted awake by the sound of the door slamming shut. He sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around him, and listened intently. The silence stretched on, unnerving in its stillness. It was as if the house itself had drawn in a breath and held it, waiting. The usual background hum of the morning—soft footsteps, distant murmurs, the comforting patter of the cats—was conspicuously absent. Instead, there was a hollow, almost oppressive quiet that gnawed at his senses.

He tried to rationalize it. Maybe Hana was just moving around, getting ready, perhaps trying to process her day on her own. But the silence was too pronounced, too unsettling. It was as if the very walls of the house were holding their breath, waiting for something to break the stillness.

A growing unease settled in his chest, a gnawing feeling that something was profoundly wrong. The silence seemed to echo with a weight that made the house feel alien, devoid of the usual warmth and life. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his mind racing with fragmented thoughts.

Desperation fueled his movements as he dashed toward the living room, a glimmer of hope that she might be there, perhaps with a cup of coffee in hand, idly playing with Doongie, or staring blankly at the morning light filtering through the window like she always did.

 He couldn't care what she was doing, as long she was there.

But the living room was empty. His heart sank as the realization hit him—Hana wasn't there.
The house was eerily silent, the absence of her presence palpable.
It was a Sunday, a day when she had no plans, no reason to be anywhere else.
And even if she did, what plans could she possibly have at 6:00 am in the morning?

He dashes back to the hallway and without bothering to knock, he pushed open Hana's bedroom door. The room was empty, devoid of the familiar signs of her presence. His breath came in ragged bursts as he cast a frantic glance around the room.

He didn't stop there. Minho's heart pounded in his ears as he raced to the bathroom. He pushed the door open with a forceful shove, hoping against hope that she might be there, hiding or simply lost in her thoughts. The washroom, however, was empty. The silence within it was deafening, amplifying his growing fear.

Minho's desperation to find her reached a fever pitch so without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his own phone and dialed Hana's number, his fingers trembling as he punched in the digits. The ringing tone echoed through his ears, each chime a reminder of his mounting fear.

It rings.

But in the house.

In the very room he's standing in.

His eyes dart to her table, where the phone rings. Her screen is lit up, with his contact saved as "My lovely(eww) roommate🏠"

He reached for the phone, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The call ended, leaving him with only the echo of its final ring. Minho stared at the screen, his mind racing with mounting panic. The ringing had stopped, but the silence that followed was even more profound.

But beneath the phone, a letter lay, fluttering slightly as if trying to catch his eye. He froze, staring at the words scrawled on the envelope:

To: Minho, Jeongin, and Seungmin.

Whatever's in this letter, please know it has nothing to do with you.

I loved you guys. Please forget this and move on; it's not worth holding onto.

"Fuck, no, no, no—"
he choked, his voice cracking as he grabbed both her letter and her phone.

Without a second thought, he tore through the hallway again. He didn't bother with a jacket, barely registering the cold that hit him as he burst outside. His only focus was finding Hana—stopping this before it was too late.

"I'm not reading your letter, Hana. You're going to tell me whatever's in it yourself."

"Where would you even go?"

Her voice echoed in his memory:
"It's peaceful here. High up, with a view that's worth it."

He didn't waste another second. Minho sped through the empty streets, his grip on the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. It was early, the roads almost empty, and he reached the hill within minutes, parking as close as he could before dashing up the incline behind the hospital.

The chilly morning air stung his lungs, but he pushed through, repeating under his breath like a mantra, "Please be okay. Please."

 Since it was too early and chilly, there wasn't anyone strolling out there.
But one person clad in black, caught his eye.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hana POV:

I drove up to my favorite hill, thinking that if I had to go, this was the place to say goodbye. The view had always brought me peace, and for once, I wanted to feel that again. I settled down on the edge, where the ledge dropped away to the city below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting soft light across the buildings. But that light—it felt like it was for everyone else. Not me.

I pulled out the pills, the blades. I dragged them across my arms, to my fore arms, close to my wrist. But not on my wrist, not yet. I couldn't. I was scared, the cuts I made before, they were never so deep. The red was always a comfort, but today, it felt... wrong. Unfamiliar.

"Don't back out now. Just... do this one thing right,"
I whispered to myself, barely audible.

I stared at the soft, warm hues filling the sky, took a deep breath, and forced the tears back. My hand shook as I made a final, deeper stroke along my wrist. Red spilled, not as deep as I'd meant, but there was already so much of it. My vision started blurring, but I couldn't tell if it was from the tears or from finally... letting go.

Just as if I was hammering the last nail in my own coffin, I popped the lid off of the bottle, emptying it in my hand. Since I used them a lot, there weren't many, but I knew for sure those were enough to knock me out cold.

I closed my eyes, steeling myself to swallow them dry, when—suddenly—a hand slapped mine, sending the pills scattering across the ground.

"HANA! NO!"
The voice, raw and panicked, shattered the quiet. I forced my eyes open, struggling to focus. Through my haze, I recognized him.

"Minho," I breathed, my voice barely audible.

Minho's eyes were wide with panic, his face etched with worry as he stood there, clearly out of breath. He looked at the scattered pills on the floor, then back at me, his hands trembling slightly.

"Why would you do this?" he asked, his voice a mix of desperation and anger.
"How could you even think of actually leaving?"

"Why?" he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.
"Why would you even think of leaving?"

I blinked slowly, his face swimming before me in fragmented shapes.
I could barely make out that it was Minho if it wasn't for his voice.

That voice, so beautiful, anchored me in the present.

"I told you," I murmured, forcing a weak smile,
"to move on."

"No... please, Hana." His voice cracked, breaking through the terror I could see in his eyes.
 His gaze fell to the blood pooling beneath me, the crimson stain spreading.

"Hana... where's the blood coming from?"
His voice trembled, almost pleading.

I almost fell to my knees, my strength fading fast. 

Before I could, Minho's arms wrapped around me.
Gently, he lowered me to the ground, his hand brushing my hair back as tears traced silent paths down his cheeks

"It's okay, Hana. We're so close to the hospital,"
 he choked out, more to convince himself than me.
"You're going to be okay."

"Don't cry, Minho. Please," I whispered, lifting a bloodied hand to his face. The movement cost me—a sharp, burning ache that nearly stole my breath.

His gaze darted to my hand, then to my sleeve. His face twisted in horror as he lifted the fabric, revealing the deep cuts beneath. The sight paralyzed him, and for a moment, he just stared, helpless.

Then, with trembling hands, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, his fingers fumbling as he wrapped it around my wrist, pressing down to stem the flow of blood. His face contorted in anguish with each movement, each attempt to save me. The makeshift tourniquet was clumsy, but it was all he had.

 He scooped me up into his arms, one hand supporting my torso, the other cradling my legs by the calf. My body felt like dead weight, numb and unresponsive. I could barely see his face, but I could hear his labored breathing, each ragged breath a reminder of his fear.

"Stay with me, Hana. Please, just keep talking,"
he begged, his voice cracking as he held me close.
"We're almost there. Don't leave like this."

The world around us was a blur and his voice blending into a nightmarish cacophony.
His voice was the last anchor, his words pulling me from the edge.

"Please," he whispered, his voice fractured.
"I'll never push you again. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want. Just... just don't go."

The darkness was closing in on me, swallowing the edges of my consciousness. 

I could hear Minho's frantic pleas, his sorrowful apologies, but I could no longer muster the strength to respond. 

The pain and fear had dulled into a distant thrum, and as everything faded, I could only cling to the fading sound of his voice—desperate and broken—before letting myself drift into the silence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"Please, do something!"
Minho's voice cracked with desperation, echoing through the emergency room. He clutched Hana's limp body, his hands slick with her blood as he trembled between fear and frustration, his every breath a plea. 

The medical staff moved swiftly, peeling her from his arms and onto a stretcher. Watching her being wheeled away—unconscious, so vulnerable—left him shattered, feeling utterly helpless.

"Please, someone, do something!"
he yelled again, trailing after the doctors down the hall, his steps faltering as adrenaline drained his strength, making his legs feel like they might give out any second.

 But when they reached the operating room, a nurse stopped him at the doors, and he turned to her, desperation painted across his face.

 "My friend...she's hurt," he stammered, his voice fraying.
"I need to know... I need—"

The nurse's eyes softened with sympathy, though her face remained steady and composed.
"Sir, we're doing everything we can. Please have a seat. The doctors will come to update you soon."

Minho's shoulders sagged in defeat as he stared at the closed doors of the operating room. He was overwhelmed with the urge to scream, to beg for any shred of information, but his voice was choked by the lump in his throat. His hands shook uncontrollably as he collapsed into a nearby chair.

"Please don't go. I'm sorry, so so fucking sorry."
His words dissolved into sobs, his tears mingling with the blood on his hands as he wiped his face, streaking his cheeks.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket, the harsh ring jolting him from his grief. 
"Fuck, not now."

He let's it ring, but frustratedly pulls it out.

The caller ID flashes Jeongin's name. 

Deep down, Minho was so happy to have someone familiar, someone he could lean on right now.

"Hana, what did your text mean? I don't underst-"
His voice blared, panic evident in his voice too.

Minho could barely find his voice. "Jeongin..."
His words failed him, the weight of everything pressing down until he felt like he couldn't breathe. He struggled to speak, each syllable a monumental effort.

The silence stretched on the line, thick with unspoken agony. Jeongin's voice grew more frantic. "Minho? Did I you dial by mistake? I thought this was-

"It's Hana's phone," Minho choked out, his voice barely a whisper.
 "I have it."

"What?" Jeongin's tone shifted, a mix of alarm and confusion.
"Why are you crying? What's happening?"

Minho's breaths came in ragged bursts, each inhale a struggle. He could hear Jeongin's confusion and fear, but he couldn't find the strength to answer. The pain of Hana's precarious state, the fear of losing her, and the overwhelming guilt rendered him mute. He sat there, the phone pressed to his ear, unable to articulate the depth of his distress.

Jeongin's voice broke through the static, desperation creeping into his tone.
 "Minho, please, just tell me what's going on! Are you okay?

"Come to the hospital, p-please,"
His voice was barely coherent, thick with despair.
"I'll explain... everything."

"Where exactly are you?"
Jeongin's voice was filled with urgency, his concern palpable.

"The same ER where Hana works,"
Minho said, each word feeling like a monumental effort.
"Please, hurry. Call Seungmin, tell him to come as soon as he can."

"I'm on my way,"
Jeongin said, his voice now fraught with panic.
"I'll call Seungmin and get there as fast as I can.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

a/n: 
(I'm so sorry<3333 )