𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. pretty when you cry

A WEEK BEFORE YUNHO PASSED AWAY, Yumi whisked him away to the beach. It had been his idea initially, mentioned offhandedly during one of their quieter moments.

He had stared out the window, watching the wind sway the trees, and said, "You know what I miss? The sound of the ocean. Let's go. Just you and me."

The drive to the beach was quiet, save for the hum of the car engine and the rhythmic lapping of waves in the distance as they approached. Yunho dozed in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, the gentle rise and fall of his breath barely audible over the wind rushing past. Yumi stole glances at him whenever she could, her knuckles tight around the steering wheel. His frame seemed smaller, diminished somehow, as though the weight of the illness had begun to shrink him from the inside out.

When they arrived, she parked the car near the shore, helping Yunho out carefully, her arm steady beneath his as he adjusted to the uneven sand beneath their feet. The beach stretched out before them, vast and empty, save for a few distant figures: surfers silhouetted against the horizon, waiting for waves that rolled in endlessly, cresting and collapsing in a cycle as ancient as time.

The two siblings walked slowly along the shore, their footprints trailing behind them in the damp sand. Yunho's pace was deliberate, each step measured, as if he were counting the grains beneath his feet. Every so often, he'd pause to catch his breath, leaning lightly on Yumi's shoulder, and they'd exchange a silent look — hers filled with worry, his with quiet reassurance.

Yumi stayed close to his side, her arm hovering near his for support without intruding. She knew better than to make him feel weak.

Yunho's pride was one of the few things his illness hadn't managed to erode.

But it was during one of these pauses that Yunho turned to her, his face brightened by the sun that hung lazily in the afternoon sky. "Have you ever tried to bully a wave?" he asked, the corners of his mouth lifting in a sly grin. "Punch it? Kick it? Hit it? Beat it to death with a stick?"

Yumi blinked at him, caught off guard by the strange question. But Yunho's expression was earnest, almost philosophical, as though he were imparting some profound truth.

"Bully a wave?" Yumi repeated. She folded her arms, cocking her head at him. "No. Of course not."

They found a spot to rest soon after, settling into a companionable silence as they indulged in onigiri and chocolate, small morsels that felt like a feast in the simplicity of the moment. Yunho perched himself on a petite wooden bench that overlooked the water, while Yumi reclined in the warm sand at his feet. The sun cast its radiant glow upon them, the light refracting off the waves in dazzling arcs.

Yunho had wrapped a damp white hand towel around his head, an old habit from childhood that he'd never abandoned, and it made him look oddly serene, almost monk-like. His grey bathing suit hung loosely on his frame, the cool tones a stark contrast to the sweat and restlessness that clung to Yumi as she fidgeted in the heat. Despite the temptation of the water, she couldn't bring herself to swim.

But Yunho had other plans.

He held out a stick, long and sturdy, the kind they had picked up during their earlier stroll. "Go on," he said. "Try it. Wait for the biggest wave and give it a punch. Give it a good kick. Hit it with this."

Yumi hesitated, unsure if he was serious, but the twinkle in his eye told her he was. With no one else in sight except the distant surfers, she grasped the stick tightly in her hand and rose to her feet.

The sand shifted beneath her toes as she marched toward the water's edge, her determination building with each step. By the time she reached the shoreline, the waves rolling in with a steady rhythm, she broke into a run, brandishing the stick above her head like a sword.

The waves were enormous, rolling toward the shore with relentless energy. She charged at the first one that came her way, swinging the stick like a sword. The water erupted around her as the stick sliced through the wave, but it kept coming, undeterred by her efforts. The force of it slapped against her shins, soaking the hem of her pants and nearly sweeping her off her feet.

Undeterred, she retreated up the beach, her laughter mingling with the ocean's roar. She waited for another wave, larger this time, and charged again, striking it with the stick as though she could tame it. The wave retaliated, knocking her off her feet and grinding her against the wet sand. She emerged drenched and breathless, her hair plastered to her face, but there was a thrill coursing through her veins, an exhilaration she hadn't felt in years.

Again and again, she attacked. Each time, the waves seemed stronger, more relentless, their icy coldness a shock to her overheated skin. The salt burned her eyes and stung her nose, but she welcomed it, savoring the bitterness like a harsh, cleansing balm.

The violence of the water was comforting in its honesty. It didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was: powerful, uncontrollable, indifferent. And in the midst of it, Yumi felt something crack open inside her, a rawness that she hadn't allowed herself to feel.

From his perch on the bench, Yunho watched her with a soft smile, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He didn't call out to her or interrupt, simply letting her wage her battle with the sea.

Over and over, she ran at the sea, relentless in her assault. Each charge felt like a small rebellion, an act of defiance against the vast, indifferent force of the ocean. Her stick cut through the air and water alike, meeting each wave with a fury that seemed almost laughable in its futility. The waves didn't care — they rose and fell in perfect rhythm, undeterred by her presence, her shouts, her wild, splashing strikes.

The sharp cold of the water numbed her legs, but she didn't stop. She kept running at the surf, her feet slipping on wet sand, her breath coming in gasps as saltwater stung her eyes and clung to her skin. It was absurd, but she didn't care. Her laughter bubbled up between her shouts, a raw, unrestrained sound that felt alien in her throat. It had been so long since she'd laughed like that — since she'd felt anything that wasn't muted by the looming shadow of Yunho's illness.

But the ocean was winning.

The stick grew heavier in her hands with each pass, her swings losing their strength as exhaustion set in. She stumbled more often, falling to her knees as the waves crashed over her, soaking her to the bone. Her muscles ached, her arms trembling from the effort of holding the stick aloft, and yet she kept going.

The next wave hit her with such force that it knocked her flat, the air driven from her lungs as she hit the sand. The water swirled around her, cold and insistent, pulling at her limbs as though urging her to surrender. She lay there, motionless, the stick still clutched in her hand as the waves washed over her again and again.

She wondered what would happen if she didn't get back up.

If she just let herself go, let the water take her.

The thought was both terrifying and strangely soothing. She imagined her body being carried out to sea, her limbs growing heavy as the ocean claimed her. Sharks would come first, tearing into her flesh, their teeth sharp and merciless. Then the smaller fish, nibbling away at the remnants, until there was nothing left but her bones.

Her beautiful bones.

She pictured them sinking to the ocean floor, resting there in the dark, undisturbed by the chaos above. Anemones would grow upon them, their delicate tendrils swaying gently in the current. Flowers of the sea. Pearls would form in her empty eye sockets, treasures hidden in the depths.

The image was hauntingly beautiful, and for a moment, she almost let herself believe it.

But then she thought of Yunho, sitting on his bench, watching her with that quiet smile of his. She thought of his towel-wrapped head, his gentle teasing, his unwavering presence. She thought of the rice balls and chocolate they'd shared, the way his laughter had sounded like music against the crash of the waves.

She couldn't leave him. Not yet.

With a groan, Yumi pushed herself to her feet, the stick falling from her grasp as she stumbled back toward the shore. Her legs felt like lead, each step an effort, but she kept moving, her eyes fixed on the small figure waiting for her in the distance.

When she finally reached him, Yunho looked up, his eyes crinkling with amusement. He pulled the small towel from his head and handed it to her without a word.

"Damn," Yumi muttered, collapsing into the sand at his feet. She wiped her face with the towel, smearing salt and sand across her cheeks. "I lost. The ocean won."

Yunho smiled, his expression serene as ever. "Was it a good feeling?"

She considered this for a moment, the towel resting in her lap. Her body ached, her skin burned from the salt and sun, and her hair was a tangled mess. But there was something exhilarating about it all, something that made her feel alive in a way she hadn't in months.

"Mm," she declared finally, leaning back against the bench.

"That's good," he said simply, reaching into the bag beside him. "Have another?"

She took one without protest, her fingers brushing against his as he handed it to her. The onigiri was slightly warm from the sun, the seaweed crisp against her tongue, and she chewed in silence, savoring the simple pleasure of food after the chaos of the waves.

They lingered there for a while longer, their bathing suits drying under the sun's warm embrace. The horizon stretched out endlessly before them, the sky a brilliant shade of blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real.

In the distance, down the beach, the surfers continued their attempts to tame the waves. Yumi watched them with mild interest, her gaze following their movements as they paddled out, rose to their feet, and inevitably fell back into the water.

"The waves keep beating them up, too," she said, pointing toward a figure in the distance.

Yunho squinted, his hand shading his eyes as he tried to follow her line of sight.

"There," she said again, her finger tracing the outline of a lone surfer struggling to stand on his board. "See that one? He's just standing up... he's up... he's up... oh, he's down."

She laughed, the sound light and carefree, and Yunho nodded, his gaze distant but thoughtful.

"Up, down, same thing," he said after a moment, his voice carrying the weight of one of his usual philosophical musings.

It was such a Yunho comment — pointing to what he called the "not-two nature of existence," a concept that always made Yumi roll her eyes. She wasn't in the mood for Zen koans or existential insights. She was just trying to watch some cute guys surfing.

Yumi understood better than to engage in an argument with Yunho — he always won. Not because he overpowered her with logic or facts, but because his arguments unfurled like soft waves, persistent and unrelenting, reshaping her objections until they dissolved into silence. Talking to Yunho was less like debating and more like participating in one of those knock-knock jokes where you had to play along just to let the other person get to their punchline.

So she indulged him. "No, it's not the same thing. Not for a surfer."

He tilted his head slightly, considering her words as though they carried profound weight. Then he said, "Hm. You're right. Not the same."

Yunho adjusted his position on the bench, crossing one leg over the other. His towel, slightly damp from the heat of his head, fell into his lap as he leaned forward with that familiar look of quiet contemplation. "But not different, either."

Yumi scoffed, brushing sand off her legs. "It is different. The whole point of surfing is to stand on top of the wave, not underneath it."

"Surfer, wave," Yunho said, his voice steady and calm, "same thing."

"Okay, now you're just messing with me. That's stupid." She narrowed her eyes at him. "A surfer's a person. A wave is a wave. How can they be the same?"

Yunho didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked out toward the ocean, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the water seemed to dissolve into the sky. He had a way of staring at things that made them seem infinitely larger, as though the waves and the sky and the cliffs behind them were part of some vast, interconnected web that only he could see.

"A wave," he began, his tone deliberate, "is born from deep conditions of the ocean. And a person is born from deep conditions of the world." Yumi tilted her head, waiting for him to continue. "A wave pokes up from the ocean and rolls along," Yunho said, his hand tracing an invisible arc in the air, "until it's time to sink back again. Up, down. Person, wave." He gestured toward the steep cliffs that framed the shoreline, jagged and dark against the bright blue sky. "That's all."

Yumi squinted at the cliffs, then back at Yunho. This was typical of the kind of conversations they had. He'd throw out some abstract idea that sounded just close enough to being true that she felt compelled to try and make sense of it, but not so close that it ever fully landed.

"That's all?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, a small, serene smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's all."

She shook her head, laughing softly to herself. "You make my head hurt, you know that?"

But deep down, Yumi didn't really mind. She liked that Yunho talked to her this way, weaving his strange, meandering thoughts into the fabric of their conversations. Even if she didn't always understand him, she appreciated the effort he made to share his world with her.

It was the kind of memory she wanted to hold onto forever — the two of them sitting there, surrounded by the vastness of the sea and sky, trading words that felt as ephemeral as the waves lapping at the shore. She could almost imagine bottling this moment, preserving it like the rice balls they'd brought in their cooler, keeping it fresh and whole to take out and savor whenever she needed it.

But life didn't work that way.

She glanced at Yunho, watching as the sunlight danced across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his jawline and the faint shadows under his eyes. His smile was still there, quiet and unwavering, but there was something fragile about it now, something that made her chest ache.

Yunho was the wave, she realized. Rising up from the deep, rolling forward with all the grace and inevitability of the tides. She didn't want to think about what would happen when it was time for him to sink back again, but the thought was there, persistent and unyielding, like the pull of the current.

The surfers in the distance were still struggling with the waves, their figures rising and falling like tiny specks against the vast blue canvas of the sea. Yumi watched as one of them managed to stay upright for a few glorious seconds before tumbling back into the water, his board spinning away in the surf.

"Up, down," Yunho said softly, as if reading her thoughts.

Yumi turned to him, her eyes searching his face for some kind of answer. "Is that really all there is?"

He met her gaze, his expression as calm and steady as the ocean. "What else could there be?"

She didn't know how to respond to that.

The question hung between them like mist, vaporous and impenetrable, dissolving into the rhythm of the waves and the cries of distant gulls. Yumi turned her gaze back to the ocean, her heart heavy with something she couldn't quite name. The words had felt so final — so absolute — that they left no room for argument, and yet, the human part of her, the part that craved meaning and permanence, refused to accept them.

"What else could there be?" she repeated softly, almost to herself. Her fingers traced idle patterns in the sand, looping and swirling like the tide's retreat. "There has to be something more. Something... bigger. Doesn't there?"

Yunho tilted his head slightly, studying her in that quiet, thoughtful way of his, as though he were trying to memorize her features or perhaps glimpse the answer hidden in her expression.

"What's bigger than this?" he asked, gesturing toward the expanse of ocean before them, the horizon where sky and sea kissed in a line so seamless it might have been drawn by the gods themselves. "What's bigger than the wave that rises and falls? Than the air in your lungs or the blood in your veins? What could be more than this moment?"

Yumi frowned, her hand pausing mid-pattern in the sand. "I don't know," she admitted. "But it feels like there should be. Like there has to be."

Yunho smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips that somehow made her feel both comforted and infuriated. "That's because you're thinking like a human."

"And how else am I supposed to think?" she shot back, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. "That's what I am, isn't it? A human. A person. I can't just... stop being that."

"No," he agreed, his voice as gentle as the breeze tugging at her hair. "You can't stop being human. But you can stop clinging to the idea that being human means there has to be more."

Yumi sighed, leaning back on her hands and letting her head fall toward the sky. The sun was beginning to dip lower, its light softening into hues of gold and amber that painted the world in a kind of surreal, fleeting beauty. It made her think of endings — of how the day would inevitably give way to night, just as the wave would always sink back into the sea.

"But doesn't it feel..." she hesitated, searching for the right word. "Lonely? To think that this is all there is?"

Yunho didn't answer right away. He reached down, picking up a small, smooth stone from the sand and turning it over in his hands. It was pale gray, worn down by years of tumbling in the surf, its edges softened to the point where it felt almost alive, like a polished bone or the shell of some ancient creature.

"This stone," he said finally, holding it up so the light glinted off its surface. "Do you think it's lonely?"

Yumi blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What? No. It's a rock. Rocks don't get lonely."

"Exactly," Yunho said, as though that proved his point. "It doesn't think about what it's missing. It doesn't wonder if there's something more. It just... is."

"But it's a rock," she argued. "It doesn't have feelings or thoughts or dreams. It doesn't have..." She trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward herself. "It doesn't have all of this."

"And maybe that's why it doesn't suffer," Yunho said, his voice so soft it almost got lost in the sound of the waves.

Yumi stared at him, her mind wrestling with the weight of his words. "Are you saying we should all just... be like rocks? Stop feeling? Stop dreaming?"

Yunho shook his head, his damp towel slipping slightly as he did. "No. I'm saying that maybe the reason we feel lonely — why we suffer — is because we keep fighting against what we already are. We want to be more. To mean more. But what if just being is enough?"

His words settled over her like a heavy blanket, warm and suffocating all at once. She wanted to reject them, to push them away and insist that he was wrong — that life had to mean more than just existing. But a part of her, a small, quiet part buried deep beneath the noise of her thoughts, couldn't help but wonder if he was right.

"What about love?" she asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she had time to second-guess it. "What about... connection? Isn't that something more?"

Yunho smiled again, that same infuriatingly serene smile that made her want to shake him and hug him all at once. "Love is the wave, too," he said simply. "It rises. It falls. It carries you for a while, and then it lets you go."

"That's depressing," Yumi muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Only if you think the wave has to last forever to be beautiful," Yunho replied.

She thought about Yunho's words, turning them over in her mind like the stone he still held in his hand. She didn't want to believe that life was as simple as a wave rising and falling, that everything she loved and cared about would inevitably sink back into the sea. But at the same time, there was something strangely comforting about the idea — that even in its impermanence, the wave was whole and complete, just as it was.

"Do you ever think about what happens after?" she asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"After what?" Yunho asked, though she could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew.

"After the wave sinks," she said. "After... everything."

Yunho was quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but steady, like the tide coming in.

"I think it's the same as before the wave rises," he said. "The same ocean. The same sky. Just... stillness."

Yumi felt a lump rise in her throat, and she swallowed hard, trying to push it down. "But doesn't that scare you?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"No," he said simply. "It doesn't."

"How can you say that?" she demanded, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "How can you be okay with just... disappearing?"

Yunho turned to her then, his eyes meeting hers with a calmness that took her breath away. "Because even when the wave sinks, the ocean is still there," he said. "And the ocean is everything."

THE FIRST THING YUMI NOTICED WAS THE smell — sharp, metallic, and overpowering. It clung to Myung-gi like a second skin, as if the essence of blood had seeped through his pores and become part of him. The air between them was thick with it, and she couldn't escape the acrid tang that lingered in her nose. Her chest tightened, the ache an almost physical pull as her gaze swept over him.

The blood was everywhere. It painted his face in uneven streaks, tracing the contours of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. Droplets clung to his eyelashes like morbid raindrops, and his lips, slightly parted as if he were trying to breathe through the weight of it all, were stained a deep crimson.

His hands — she couldn't stop staring at his hands. They were coated in a sticky sheen of red, fingers trembling ever so slightly, as though they couldn't quite reconcile what they had done. Each knuckle bore a story, raw and swollen, some split open to reveal fresh wounds beneath the drying gore. It was as if his entire body had become an altar to violence, each drop of blood a silent testimony to what had transpired.

He didn't meet her eyes. He didn't meet anyone's. He couldn't. Instead, he stood there, his shoulders hunched forward, the moment's weight bearing down on him. His chest rose and fell in uneven spurts, each breath jagged and shallow, as though he were teetering on the edge of suffocation. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as though he were somewhere else entirely, trapped in the labyrinth of his mind where the echoes of the fight reverberated endlessly.

Yumi's stomach churned. She had seen blood before, of course. It was impossible not to in a place like this, where survival often demanded the unthinkable. But this was different. This was personal.

This was Myung-gi, the man she had come to know in fragments, in fleeting glances and unspoken moments. And now he stood before her, splattered in another man's lifeblood, a ghost of himself.

She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, to wipe away the evidence of what had just occurred, but her hands remained at her sides. Her heart ached in ways she couldn't fully articulate, the pain radiating outward, filling the hollow spaces within her.

He began to move, his steps slow and aimless, like a man untethered from reality. His body moved, but his mind — she could tell — was still back there, in that bathroom, reliving every second.

She could almost see the scene playing out behind his eyes. The flash of rage that had driven him to act, the sickening crunch of bone beneath his fists, the spray of blood as the fork pierced flesh. He had fought like a man possessed, like someone who had nothing left to lose and everything to protect. But now, in the aftermath, he was unraveling.

The blood had soaked into the fabric of his clothes, darkening the threads in uneven patches. It clung to him, sticky and persistent, refusing to be ignored. She imagined he could still feel it, warm and viscous, sliding down his skin. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though he were trying to shake it off, but it wouldn't leave him. It had become part of him now, a permanent stain on his soul.

He stumbled slightly, his knees buckling for just a moment before he caught himself. She watched as he ran a hand through his hair, the gesture desperate, almost frantic. It left streaks of blood behind, the dark strands now matted and sticky. His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she thought he might collapse. But he didn't. He kept walking, though his steps were uneven, his body swaying slightly as though he were fighting against an invisible tide.

Yumi's chest tightened further, the ache spreading like a slow-burning fire. She wanted to call out to him, to say something, anything that might anchor him, but the words lodged in her throat. She was rooted to the spot, her feet refusing to move, her body betraying her. All she could do was watch as he drifted farther away, his form growing smaller, his presence slipping through her fingers like sand.

She imagined what it must have been like for him, standing in that bathroom, the tension thick and suffocating. She could almost hear the jeers, the taunts, the obscene words that had been hurled at him, each one a dagger aimed not at him. She could see the moment he had snapped, the moment the rage had taken over and he had decided that he wouldn't stand by and let them tear apart the fragile threads of his world.

But now, in the aftermath, that rage had been replaced by something far more insidious. Guilt. It clung to him just as the blood did, a weight that dragged him down, that threatened to consume him whole. She could see it in the way he moved, in the way his shoulders sagged, in the way his hands trembled even as he tried to steady them. It was written all over him, in every line of his body, in every unsteady breath he took.

The air in the dormitory felt heavier than before as if it carried the weight of everyone's collective dread. Conversations hummed low and tense, like the prelude to a storm. Yumi turned her back to the murmuring group nearby, her ears catching fragments of their grim planning.

"Once the lights go out..."

"...the ones who wanna stay are gonna try come for us. Killing us would mean they win the next vote and add more to each one of their shares...."

She couldn't block it out, no matter how hard she tried. Their whispers carried a razor-sharp inevitability that cut through her attempts to focus on anything else. Yumi dared a glance to her side, her gaze settling once again on Myung-gi.

He was seated on his bunk now, his shoulders hunched, his face a portrait of dissonance and isolation. His hands, slightly trembling, rested on his knees. His head was tilted downward, but his eyes stared out, unseeing. He looked like a man attempting to anchor himself to a shore that no longer existed.

She felt a hand on her shoulder then, firm but not unkind. She didn't flinch — she recognized the touch before the voice followed.

"I don't know why you're hesitating," Jun-hee said finally, her voice quiet but edged with something resolute.

Yumi didn't respond at first, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. "He hasn't made things right — not with you." Yumi finally replied, shaking her head. Her voice was low, her words clipped. "Why should I?"

Jun-hee's hand slid from Yumi's shoulder, though her presence remained steadfast. She took a step to Yumi's side, tilting her head slightly as if trying to meet Yumi's downcast eyes. "He tried," Jun-hee said, her voice measured. Yumi turned to her, her expression tight with disbelief. "I'm not saying it was a good apology," she admitted, her tone shifting, almost wistful. "I didn't forgive him. But that's not the point."

Yumi's brows furrowed, her lips parting slightly at the beginning of a protest, but Jun-hee cut her off gently.

She sighed, the weight of her words pressing against her ribs. "I used to think I'd never stop caring about him. I used to think he'd always have some claim on me, like this invisible thread tying us together. But you know what I learned? Love doesn't die in some big, dramatic way. It just... fades. One day, you wake up, and it's gone. And in its place, there's just this emptiness. Not even hate — just nothing."

Her hand dropped from Yumi's shoulder, and she stepped around to face her fully, forcing Yumi to meet her gaze. "I promised myself I wouldn't forgive him. Not because I hate him. Not even because of what he did. But because I don't care about him anymore. I don't care if he's sorry. I don't care if he's trying. I don't care about what he's feeling or thinking or wanting, because he doesn't matter. Not to me."

Her voice softened, but it didn't lose its edge. "You know what does matter? My child. My unborn baby. The only thing I care about now is bringing her into this world safe, alive, and loved. Everything else is noise, distractions. And that's what heis to me now — noise."

Her words hung in the air like a net, delicate but capable of holding weight. Yumi felt their impact settle over her, and though her lips pressed together in defiance, a flicker of doubt sparked in her chest.

"I made my choice. I chose myself. I chose my baby. And I'm not sorry for it. Not even a little. Because Myung-gi — whatever he was to me — is gone. And I'm not wasting another second of my life pretending he's not."

"Go to him," Jun-hee said softly, her voice barely louder than the hum of voices around them. "I mean it. Don't sit here thinking you're not allowed. That's what you're doing, isn't it? Trying to talk yourself out of caring because you think it's wrong, or messy, or because of me." She laughed, a bitter sound at first, but it softened into something almost kind. "You don't have to do that. You don't owe me that."

Yumi's chest ached as she looked down, her fingers twisting in her lap. She wasn't sure what she felt — relief, fear, hope. Perhaps all of it at once.

With that, Jun-hee stepped away, her presence receding like the tide, leaving Yumi alone with her thoughts. The ache in Yumi's chest deepened, spreading through her like ink in water. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped tightly together. Her knuckles whitened as her grip tightened, as though she could physically hold herself together against the pull of everything unraveling inside her.

Then, her body moved before her mind caught up, driven by something primal, something she couldn't name but couldn't resist. Yumi's fingers closed around his wrist, the coolness of his skin startling against her warmth, and she pulled him toward the girl's restroom without a word. He didn't resist. He didn't speak. His silence was heavy, weighted with something she couldn't fully understand but felt in the way his steps lagged behind hers. He was a hollow shell, each movement mechanical, and the sight of it made her chest tighten like a fist around her heart.

The bathroom door creaked as she pushed it open, its sound scraping against the tense air. The fluorescent light overhead flickered once, twice, before settling into a dim, uneven glow that cast long shadows across the tiled walls.

It wasn't a kind light; it was stark and unforgiving, highlighting the sharp planes of Myung-gi's face, the deep hollows under his eyes, the blood streaked across his cheeks like war paint. He looked like a man dragged through fire, and Yumi swallowed against the lump rising in her throat.

She pulled him toward the sink, the sound of water rushing from the faucet filling the room, a pale, tinny echo of the ocean waves she used to know. There was something almost sacred about the act of turning on the tap, the way the water caught the light and danced over the basin.

She let it run, the steam rising faintly as she reached up to shrug off her jacket. The fabric caught on her shoulders for a moment before she managed to peel it off, revealing the thin shirt beneath. The air was cool against her skin, but she hardly noticed, too focused on the task at hand.

She soaked the jacket under the running water, her movements precise, almost methodical. The heavy material darkened as it absorbed the liquid, droplets trailing down her arms and dripping onto the floor. Yumi wrung it out with steady hands, water splashing against the porcelain of the sink. When she finally turned back to face him, her breath caught in her throat.

Myung-gi was watching her. Not fully, not consciously, but his eyes followed her every move, dark and glassy and filled with a kind of quiet desperation that made her heart ache. He was still in shock, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, but there was something in the way he looked at her that made the world narrow to just this moment, just the two of them.

Yumi stepped closer, the wet jacket in her hands, her feet squeaking faintly against the tiled floor. She hesitated for the briefest of moments before reaching up, the damp fabric cool against her fingers as she brought it to his face. The first touch was tentative, almost featherlight, as if she feared he might shatter beneath her hands. She wiped at the blood on his cheek, the red smearing before it began to lift, the stark contrast fading with each gentle stroke.

The room was silent save for the drip of water and the hum of the light above them. Yumi's focus was absolute, her movements careful as she worked to clean him. She could feel his gaze on her, heavy and unwavering, but she didn't look up. Not yet. She couldn't. Her own emotions were too precarious, teetering on the edge of something she wasn't ready to name.

The blood was stubborn, clinging to his skin like a reminder of whatever horrors he'd faced, whatever acts he'd committed. But Yumi was patient. She worked slowly, her hands steady even as her chest tightened with each stroke. She moved to his jawline, the curve of it sharp under her touch, and then to his forehead, where the blood had dried in uneven streaks. Her thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth as she cleaned, and she felt his breath hitch, the smallest of reactions but enough to send a shiver down her spine.

She stepped back for a moment, wringing out the jacket again before returning to her task. This time, she tilted his chin up slightly, her fingers firm but gentle as she guided his face toward the light. The action brought her closer to him, close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones. She could see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the pain he carried like a second skin. And yet, there was a fragility there too, something raw and unguarded that made her chest ache in a way she couldn't explain.

As she wiped the blood from his face, her mind wandered back to Yunho, to the memory of his voice and the way he looked at the waves like they held all the answers. A wave rises. A wave falls. What else could there be?

She didn't know what Yunho would say if he could see her now. Maybe he'd tell her that Myung-gi was like the wave — born from deep conditions, shaped by forces beyond his control. Maybe he'd say that his actions were inevitable, that there was no use in trying to make sense of them.

The faucet gurgled faintly as water trickled down, pooling in the basin and circling the drain in lazy spirals. Myung-gi stood rigid, his chest rising and falling with a shallow, uneven rhythm. His hands trembled at his sides, faint quivers that betrayed the storm raging inside him. His fingers curled and uncurled, an involuntary motion as though they sought something to hold onto but found only the empty air.

She hadn't said a word, not since pulling him into the restroom and cleaning his face with deliberate, careful movements. But now, silence swelled between them, heavy and dense, a third presence in the room.

Myung-gi's head hung low, his chin nearly brushing his chest, but his eyes — those deep, sorrowful eyes — stayed fixed on her.

It was the look of someone grappling with the weight of his own actions, the gaze of a man haunted by something he couldn't undo. His pupils were blown wide, the whites streaked with red, as if his despair had bled into them. There was a yearning in his eyes too, a silent plea for understanding, for forgiveness, for something even he didn't know how to name. Yumi felt it like a physical force, the intensity of his stare making her heart lurch painfully in her chest.

His voice, when it came, was low and fractured, like a broken string struggling to hold a note. "I didn't mean to..." He trailed off, his words dissolving into the stagnant air. His hands lifted, trembling still, before falling uselessly back to his sides. "I — I didn't mean for it to happen like that."

Yumi remained still, her knuckles whitening against the damp fabric she held. She didn't respond, didn't push. She knew better. Myung-gi was a man teetering on the edge of himself, and to rush him now would be to shatter what little composure he had left.

He dragged a hand down his face, pausing when his fingertips brushed the fresh tenderness of a bruise on his cheek. A soft hiss of breath escaped him, and he looked away for the first time, his gaze finding the flickering fluorescent light above them. "He said things," he murmured, almost to himself. "About you."

Yumi's pulse quickened, but she stayed silent.

"He said... vile things," Myung-gi continued, his voice growing more ragged with each word. "I don't even know why it got to me like that. But the way he talked about you — like you were nothing, like you were something he could just... just..." His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw tightly, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in his throat.

Yumi inhaled slowly, her eyes softening as she took in the sight of him. His broad shoulders, usually squared with a quiet confidence, now slumped like a man burdened by the weight of the world. The raw vulnerability etched into his features made him look almost boyish, stripped of all pretense and defenses.

"I didn't think," he admitted, his words rushing out in a breathless tumble. "I just... saw red. I couldn't stop myself. It was like I wasn't even in control anymore. And when it was over, when he... when I..." He stopped, shaking his head as if the memory itself was too unbearable to hold onto. His hands rose again, and this time he looked down at them, palms up, as if he expected to see the blood still staining his skin.

"I keep replaying it," he confessed. "The sound, the way he looked at me before he fell. And then nothing. Just silence." His voice dropped to a whisper, trembling on the edge of breaking. "I don't even know who I am anymore."

Yumi took a hesitant step closer, her movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal. She placed the damp jacket on the counter and reached out, her fingers brushing against his wrist. He flinched at the contact, his head snapping up to meet her gaze.

Her touch was gentle, grounding, and his breathing hitched as he looked at her.

Her face bore an expression suspended between strength and vulnerability, like the first tremor of a storm threatening to break yet holding itself back, restrained and controlled. Her dark, luminous eyes, wide with a depth of unspoken feeling, seemed to search for resolve, as though trying to tether herself to the moment despite the overwhelming tide of emotion swirling within.

The furrow in her brow, subtle but insistent, added a layer of urgency, an unspoken plea that vibrated beneath her regal composure. Her lips, parted just slightly, quivered with the weight of words unsaid, as if an invisible thread tied her to silence, unwilling to let those emotions spill over.

Her presence was like a balm, soothing the frayed edges of his psyche.

Myung-gi's eyes searched hers, desperate and pleading, as if he were trying to decipher some unspoken truth hidden within their depths. Her gaze was unwavering, her dark eyes shimmering with a quiet strength that both comforted and unnerved him. There was something about the way she looked at him that made his chest ache — a mix of understanding and tenderness that he didn't think he deserved.

"I've ruined everything," he said finally, his voice barely audible.

Yumi's hand, small and steady, cupped the side of Myung-gi's face with a tenderness that felt almost surreal. Her thumb brushed against the edge of his cheekbone, soft and deliberate, as if she were trying to erase the bruises that marred his skin with her touch alone. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that broke the silence like the first note of a mournful song.

Her palm was warm against the coolness of his skin, and he leaned into it instinctively, as though her touch were the only anchor in a world that had become unmoored. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, the weight of her hand grounding him, tethering him to something he couldn't name but desperately needed.

"Look at me," she said softly, her voice low and steady, carrying the weight of oceans and storms.

He opened his eyes, and when their gazes met, Yumi felt her breath catch in her throat. His eyes were a storm — dark, turbulent, and full of a longing so profound it made her chest ache. There was despair there, yes, but also something raw and vulnerable, like the first bloom of a flower after a harsh winter. She felt her heart stutter, the rhythm uneven and loud, as though it were trying to match the cadence of his own.

"You know," she began, her voice soft but resolute, "guilt is like a heavy stone in your chest. It tricks you into thinking that carrying it will somehow make up for what's been done. But it doesn't. It just weighs you down until you can't move, can't breathe."

Her thumb moved in slow circles against his cheek, as if tracing invisible patterns, soothing the edges of his despair. "And the truth is, no amount of guilt will ever undo what's already happened. It won't bring back the moment before, and it won't erase the choices you've made. But that doesn't mean you're bound to it forever, Myung-gi. It doesn't mean you're irredeemable."

He trembled under her touch, his eyes wide and searching, as if trying to find something in her that could make sense of the storm inside him.

"You have to understand," she continued, her voice growing steadier, "that what you did wasn't out of cruelty or malice. It was survival. It was instinct. And maybe it wasn't clean or noble, but you're not a monster for fighting to protect what you care about."

Her words hung in the air, each one settling over him like a balm, gentle but unyielding. She saw the flicker of resistance in his eyes, the part of him that still clung to the weight of what he'd done, and she softened her tone further, as if coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding.

Yumi found herself thinking about the surfers again — the way they rose and fell, again and again, no matter how many times the waves knocked them down.

Up, down. The same, but not the same.

She wondered if that was what Yunho meant, if he'd been trying to tell her that life wasn't about avoiding the fall, but about finding the strength to rise again.

"You think you're defined by the worst thing you've done," she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. "But you're not. You're defined by what you do next — by how you carry yourself forward, even when it feels impossible."

Myung-gi's trembling hands moved as if they had a will of their own, slowly rising to cover hers where it rested against his face. His fingers were cold, the faint tremor in them betraying the turmoil he was too proud to fully show. As his hand settled over hers, something in him cracked open, fragile and raw, like a pane of glass on the verge of shattering.

A breath hitched in his throat as he nodded, his chin dipping slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to signal that he'd heard her. That he believed her, even if only for the smallest moment. His eyes glistened, the tears pooling there a reflection of the storm inside him.

Yumi didn't pull away. She didn't rush him. Instead, her other hand came up to rest on his, enveloping his trembling fingers with a warmth that steadied him. Her movements were deliberate, filled with a tenderness that seemed almost otherworldly in its calmness. Slowly, she lifted his hand from her face and cradled it between her own, as if it were something precious, something worth protecting.

And then, without hesitation, she brought his hand to her lips. The kiss she left there was feather-light, a mere brush of warmth against his battered knuckles, but it was enough to send a shockwave through him.

For a moment, Myung-gi forgot how to breathe.

The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever known — a quiet, searing kind of intimacy that reached into the very marrow of his being. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat a drum signaling his vulnerability, his unspoken longing. It wasn't the kiss itself that unraveled him, but the act of it: the deliberate gentleness, the way she seemed to pour her entire soul into that one small gesture, as if saying, You are worth this.

Yumi's voice, when it finally broke the silence, was soft and low, like the hum of a lullaby carried on the wind. "You have every right to be angry at yourself," she said, her words deliberate, as if she were crafting them from some hidden, sacred place within her. "To feel sick about what happened. That's what makes you human. But guilt isn't the only thing that defines you. You're more than this one moment."

Her words flowed over him like water, gentle but persistent, eroding the jagged edges of his guilt. He didn't speak — he couldn't — but his grip on her hand tightened, his fingers curling against hers as if to anchor himself in her presence.

Her words were a lifeline, pulling him from the depths of his despair. And as she spoke, he felt something shift within him — a loosening, a faint stirring of hope that he didn't dare name but couldn't ignore.

The tears he'd been holding back finally spilled over, they glistened on his cheeks like fragile threads of silver, catching the dim light with each tremor of his breath. His eyes, deep and dark as a forest before dawn, brimmed with unshed sorrow, the tears pooling until they spilled in soft rivulets down his face. His lashes, long and delicate, clung together under the weight of his grief, and his lips quivered, parted slightly as if searching for words he couldn't speak.

His face was achingly vulnerable, every feature carved by the rawness of his emotions, yet it held a kind of quiet, broken beauty — like a porcelain vase shattered yet still luminous in its ruin.

He clutched Yumi's hand as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth, his fingers trembling as they wrapped tightly around hers. His grip was desperate, not forceful, the kind of hold that spoke of silent pleading, of needing something solid in the chaos. His knuckles were pale, and the veins on the back of his hand stood out starkly, a testament to how tightly he clung to her.

She watched him, his beauty, even in his despair, was almost unbearable — an expression of sorrow so raw and unguarded it seemed to transcend words. His head dipped slightly, the curve of his neck exposed as he let his gaze fall to their joined hands. His thumb moved, just barely, brushing against her skin in a movement so hesitant, so fragile, it was as if he feared she might slip away.

Yumi caught a tear as it slipped down his cheek, her thumb brushing it away with the same reverence she might offer a sacred object. His skin was warm beneath her hand, the faint pulse of his life thrumming under her touch like a fragile bird in her palm.

His breath caught audibly in his throat, a faint hitch that broke through the quiet. His lashes fluttered closed, shadows pooling against the curve of his cheekbones as he leaned into her touch. It wasn't a hesitant movement; it was instinctive, a surrender to the warmth she offered. The weight of his head pressed lightly into her palm, grounding himself in the small solace she extended.

His head tilted ever so slightly, leaning deeper into her palm as if he wanted to lose himself in that moment, to escape the weight of everything that had brought him here.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

filler but i had to add a cute moment between them and i know y'all ate that shit up

also bc i love yumi so so so much that i don't wanna finish her story just yet and i know y'all don't want it to end either hehe

a lil flashback moment!!! we love yunho so much, and obviously i hinted at the fact that his ideals is what influenced yumi's own.

curious to know how y'all picture him too bc when i was trying to come up with names for her brother i was first thinking of my cousins but then an ateez song came on and i was like bitch... hell yeah. and now i only think of yunho from ateez as i write him or mention his name

daily what did y'all think of junhee giving her blessing, the yunho beach scene, and the cute myumi moment

i tried to write myunggi as a pretty crier after that tiktok trend and i think i killed it

next ch might be the last one im afraid

or maybe ill stretch it to be two chapters left, idk still debating where to cut everything off

much love,