Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One.

The thing about holding your breath is that you can never be sure how long you’ll last—how long you can keep testing death, showing her that you can mock her with nothing more than a simple trick.

 At first it might seem easy, but the longer you go, the more undeniable the need becomes: to exhale what your body no longer needs, to inhale what it couldn’t gather in the brief moment you dared the Reaper to come find you.

 So far, Jeno’s record hasn’t gone past three minutes, though he knows there are people who can last six, seven, even ten minutes longer. He wonders what it must feel like—to hold your breath that long. To invite death to have a quiet conversation while the seconds crawl by, decrepit and slow, as your lungs remain still...

 Two.

 He likes the kind of pain that comes from needing to breathe: the pressure that builds in his nose as the seconds stack up on the clock, the spasms that ripple through his chest when his lungs realize oxygen isn’t circulating as it should, the way his hands twist into claws digging into his thighs. It’s a pain he longs for, that he craves—but most of all, it’s a pain that helps him silence the chaos that usually fills his mind.

 If he’s honest, that’s what he loves most about holding his breath: the sudden erasure of everything else, the forced stillness that demands the body’s full attention just to keep him alive. The darkness that follows—the calm drift between awareness and oblivion.

 Three minutes.

 In just a few seconds, he’ll be unable to hold it any longer. He can feel it—the way his body slowly gives in, stripped of strength, unwilling to keep working for someone who doesn’t seem to want to go on.

 Or does he?

 Jeno isn’t sure of anything anymore—not in this life, not in the world beyond the blurred edges of his imagination. He isn’t sure whether living is the right thing to do now that there are no more reasons to do so, or whether it is better to immediately replace what was—who was—his only source of happiness in order to achieve a mediocre placebo effect for God knows how long. Would that really count as living? Would that be the kind of life he’d want to have?

 Twenty-one seconds.

 Reality crashes into him like a bucket of cold water.

 His sweat-drenched body gasps for air as he lies sprawled on the hot mattress of his room. As his consciousness returns, he can only make out half-painted silhouettes—patches of moonlight on small surfaces—and, of course, the unbearable weight of vitality tearing through his body while his soul screams to be stabbed quiet.

 It takes several seconds for his body to fall back into the rhythm of being alive. It’s something that unsettles him deeply ever since the premature death of his boyfriend, Jaemin.

 Though a month has already passed—long enough for everyone else to have adjusted to his absence—Jaemin’s death still clings to Jeno like an anchor, dragging tears to the surface daily, locking his stomach shut, keeping his body from absorbing even the bare minimum of what it needs.

 Since the funeral, when the realization finally struck him, Jeno began to feel trapped inside a giant fish tank that people approached just to look at him with pity, to offer hollow condolences before walking away. That’s why, a week after the burial, he decided to attend only the classes where skipping was no longer an option, and to rush home afterward—to do nothing, to be no one.

 He still hears Jaemin’s old sermons echoing clearly in his head, the ones about making the most of every moment, about becoming a better version of himself. But Jeno longs—desperately—to collapse in bed all day, not caring about the next morning’s dull, repetitive routine.

 He checks the time: midnight. That explains the persistent growl of his stomach, furious from hunger. Over the past two days, he’s survived on coffee, water, menthol cigarettes, and weed. Every meal offered to him is politely declined, but his body protests with pain every five minutes.

 He doesn’t have the strength to eat—to bite, to chew, to chew again, to chew again—and even less to cook. So, he grabs the nearest water bottle from the floor and drinks, trying to trick his body into believing it’s being cared for.

 He misses him.

 In the end, he misses him—and he will keep missing him.

 He misses him more than he thought it was possible to miss someone. The pain burns like something alive, born from the heart and spreading slowly through every hidden corner of his body, seeping into his soul with a darkness worthy of the world’s end. Jaemin’s death was exactly that for him: an ending. And now, distant and buried beneath the ground, Jeno knows there’s nothing he can do to change the cruel ending his lover met.

 He ignores the messages piling up on his phone screen and switches it to Do Not Disturb, just to silence the calls. He lives alone, which means that if he ever decided to kill himself, no one would find his body for days.

 Would I already be decomposing by the time someone came looking? He wonders. Would they realize I was dead only because of the smell leaking through the door? Or would it be my absence they noticed first? Would I ever matter to anyone the way Jaemin mattered to me?

 He closes his heavy eyes and inhales. His body is exhausted, so sleep comes more easily than it should.

 “Good night,” Jaemin’s voice seems to whisper—though Jeno knows it’s probably just a trick of his mind.

 “Good night,” he murmurs.

 To nothing at all.

Chapter Text

The phrase “opposites attract” never made much sense to Jeno until he met Na Jaemin—almost miraculously, though more by chance.

 If Jeno was the quiet, discreet, private kind, his body wrapped in a cloak of thorns, then Jaemin was the petals of the flower: bright, soft, expressive, always ready to laugh and smile at life for no reason at all. Both beautiful, each in their own essence.

 They were classmates in a course that Jaemin hated and Jeno loved. Something about Research Methodology: utterly boring and useless, at least through Jaemin’s eyes; but endlessly fascinating to Jeno, who delighted in being allowed to choose his own topic as long as it somehow tied back to his major.

 Jeno didn’t even know Jaemin when the boy suddenly attached himself to him the moment the professor announced that the project could be done in pairs. One second, he was alone, and the next a large arm—pale as snow—was wrapped confidently around his own.

 “You two? Partners?” the woman asked, skeptical, her rough voice and tired eyes half-hidden behind thin metal frames.

 “Of course,” Jaemin replied, with that perfected charming tone that could enchant the whole world—his voice itself a spell cast by the cosmos. “Why? Don’t we look like friends?”

 His relaxed posture was a sharp contrast to the tension Jeno felt in every vertebra, every pore. If one had looked closely enough, it would have been easy to notice that it was the discomfort of unfamiliarity. But since the professor cared little about her students’ social lives, all she needed to hear was one:

 “We’re friends.”

  Chimerical and hasty on Jeno's part, to conceptualize the fallacious friendship between two strangers.

 She wrote their names down on her list and moved on to the next pair. Once she was far enough not to catch their whispers, Jaemin gently turned Jeno’s face toward him with a single finger and smiled, releasing the grip on his arm.

 “Thank you,” he said. And it was almost as if drops of magic slipped from his lips every time he spoke—tiny shining sparks that dazzled whoever they entranced.

 Jeno nodded and lowered his gaze to his hands, unable to meet the other boy’s eyes.

 Though they’d spent an entire semester in the same class, the truth was that Jeno and Jaemin had as little in common as the sea and the stars: they met at certain points, but belonged to entirely different worlds.

 If Jeno had been asked to describe Jaemin (the Jaemin he knew back then, at least), he would have said he was the very image of the popular kids in American movies—the kind of idiot who cared more about sports than grades. What set him apart, however, was that Jaemin loved being kind. He liked making people happy wherever he went. Jeno had never seen him join the brainless teammates who took pleasure in mocking others with their girlfriends, but that didn’t mean—at least to Jeno—that he was blameless.

 On the other hand, if Jaemin had been asked to describe Jeno (the Jeno he knew back then, at least), he would have said he was the ultimate nerd—always talking about topics no one else found interesting, but otherwise harmless. He looked ordinary, simple: oversized hoodies, loose pants. He didn’t realize yet that it was a deliberate choice, and that Jeno’s body was, in truth, a little more trained than his own.

 “I promise I’ll pay you back and help with whatever I can, okay?” Jaemin continued, choosing his words carefully, hoping to sound agreeable enough not to get kicked out of the partnership too soon. “It’s just that…”

 “You can’t fail another class. I know.”

 Jeno tried to keep his tone from sounding harsh. He failed.

 Jaemin’s fingers stopped drumming nervously on the table. He looked at Jeno again, surprised.

 “Was it that obvious?” His voice—so resigned—didn’t sound like him at all. Even someone like Jeno could tell.

 Jeno shook his head, trying to ease his expression so his next words wouldn’t sound like an accusation.

 “It’s not that you’re obvious,” he said. As the words formed, the realization hit him: he was talking to Jaemin. Something he never thought remotely possible. His voice trembled, lowering itself to a near whisper. “It’s just… that’s what you mostly talk about with the professors.” He felt a tremor—on the floor, in the desk, in the walls. He couldn’t tell where it came from, whether the epicenter was his mind or the world itself.“I really do understand, and… I don’t mind helping you. The only thing I ask is—”

 “That I don’t get in your way?” The embarrassed look on Jeno’s face was enough to make Jaemin burst out laughing. “Relax, I’ll do my best. I’ll do exactly what you tell me to, alright?”

 The tremors stopped when Jaemin smiled again, lighting up the classroom with a glow fit for fairy tales.

 Jeno will later admit—it’s one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever seen.

 “Alright.”

Chapter Text

The darkness has a pungent feeling that morning, when the drops of rain flay—within a single breath—the souls of the careless.

 Though it’s nearly noon, thick black clouds keep the sunlight from piercing the sky, draping the city in a kind of hopelessness that not even the happiest souls can escape.

 Jeno wakes to the frantic pounding on his front door, each hit louder than the last.

 “Jeno!” someone shouts, voice raw with panic and desperate effort. “Jeno, open the door! Please!”

 It isn’t until the third strangled plea that Jeno finally obeys, and just as he expects, the face on the other side—relieved, though drawn tight—is Donghyuck’s.

 The young man’s eyes soften the moment he sees Jeno, and his mouth closes into a thin line, trying not to reveal the thoughts that his gaze already betrays.

 His arrival brings rays of sunlight leaking from his very skin, though the aura around Jeno is such that they dim within seconds.

 “Come in,” Jeno says, his voice heavy with a weariness that seeps deep into the skin.

 He knows he looks awful—knows he hasn’t taken care of himself the way he used to. His black hair, once soft, lies dry and wild atop his head. A faint beard shadows the edge of his jaw. He reeks of the night sweat he slept in, and if one looks close enough, his body seems to blur with the darkness of the room—slowly, torturously turning into another ghost. Something not quite human. Not quite alive.

 It’s only natural that Donghyuck would worry. Natural that he’d come searching when Jeno missed several hours of class. With every visit, he tries not to say “I’m glad you’re not dead”, yet even Jeno—disoriented and depressed as he is—can hear it resonating faintly through the small perimeter of his room. A voice equal parts relief and fear; worry and exhaustion. Purely Donghyuck.

 He doesn’t ask Jeno how he feels. He knows that would be useless, insensitive. So instead, he permits himself to enter the cave, scanning it as he sits in one of the worn-out dining chairs. He’s surprised to find it warm, almost pulsing, but he focuses instead on the boy lying back down on the mess he calls a bed.

 “I brought you food,” he says, going straight to the point, his voice drained of any brightness trying to escape between his lips.

 By the tenth unannounced visit, Donghyuck has realized that Jeno doesn’t want help at all—that he’s perfectly willing to die if left alone. He doesn’t enjoy keeping watch over his friend twenty-four hours a day; he knows Jeno doesn’t like it either. But when his calls went unanswered last night, he knew immediately he had to come.

 Part of it is worry—because Jeno is his friend, and he loves him enough to want him alive. But another reason, one of the stronger ones, is the promise he made to Jaemin before…

 “I’m not hungry.”

 The answer—common and infuriating—cuts his thoughts clean in half.

 Donghyuck has to refocus before he can process the words. After a few seconds, he nods. He’s learned the hard way that forcing Jeno to eat never helps. So instead, he says:

 “Well. Try to eat it while it’s still warm, later.”

 When he finishes speaking, that silence—heavy, aching, sheltering itself within the room—spreads between the two living souls trapped within those four walls.

 While one soul fights the impulse to run, the other is far too used to discomfort to complain. It’s something that’s happened before, something Donghyuck is only beginning to grow familiar with. Still, it feels both morbid and curious to him how the darkness itself seems to take on a will, to reach for the light, to devour it.

 It’s true that silence hates Donghyuck. Hates him the way the depraved hate decency, the way fear hates warmth. But the opposite of silence—its antithesis—has always been that boy, and so he refuses to be intimidated.

 The claws of the dark wrap around Donghyuck’s neck within seconds, cling to his flesh with imaginary blades, settling into his body like a parasite, a nuisance. But where it hurts, small rays of light begin to leak out—and Jeno notices, because he doesn’t know how to look away.

 “You okay?” he asks, cautious, his voice raspy with a strange, nervous irritation.

 Donghyuck smiles, letting out a sigh he’s been holding for minutes.

 “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that, Lee?”

 The question is so directly indirect that Jeno feels like laughing. But he doesn’t, and he won’t—not when he knows that his fraying sanity isn’t only hurting him, but people like his friend. The radiant ones.

 “You’ve been holding that one in, huh?”

 Just because he sees Donghyuck trying—trying to stay steady—Jeno walks to the table and opens the bag of food. Steam and the sharp scent of spices hit his nostrils immediately, though his stomach twists as nausea sets in.

 Seeing his expression, Donghyuck takes the bag from his hands and stores it in the tiny refrigerator, ready to rely on his outdated cooking skills to make something softer, easier to digest.

 As he cooks, Donghyuck turns over in his mind the way Jaemin’s death had caught everyone off guard. He’d left behind a trail of tears, sorrow, and shock—yet the only one who hadn’t seemed surprised was Jaemin himself. As if he’d known all along. Known the facts. Known his future. Known how every thread of life would end.

 He’d been a strange boy, Jaemin (or so Donghyuck thought). Someone who looked shallow on the surface but was, deep down, as peculiar as Jeno—or maybe more so. Singular, to say the least.

 It was almost as if, in some way or another, Jaemin had been able to predict the future. Maybe he could. Donghyuck hadn’t known him long enough to tell truth from illusion.

 What he did know, however, was that Jaemin’s death hadn’t been a suicide. That accident couldn’t have been planned—and twisted as it sounded, Donghyuck felt a small, guilty relief because it meant one less reason for Jeno to spiral. Even if Jeno didn’t admit it, his eyes overflowed with the belief that he’d killed his boyfriend with his own hands—those same hands that now felt rough and sharp to the touch again.

 As the induction stove hummed and the pan warmed, as he whisked the eggs with chopsticks, the promise he’d made to Jaemin before he left returned—like an uninvited guest, insistent and steady as the rain outside.

 It had happened during a movie outing Jeno had invited them both to.

 Halfway through an unbearably long film, at a moment where the story seemed to stall, Jeno excused himself to the bathroom, leaving his friend and his boyfriend a seat apart.

 That’s when Donghyuck felt it—an odd aura watching him from his right. It didn’t surprise him (much) when he turned and met Jaemin’s bright eyes. Not knowing what else to do, he gave him a nervous smile and turned back to the screen.

 Donghyuck had no idea why such a simple exchange had thrown his heartbeat off rhythm, disrupting the precision with which his heart sent blood to every far corner of his body.

 But when Jaemin’s hand landed on his forearm—pressing lightly but firmly—Donghyuck was forced to look at him again.

 Even through the fabric of his sweatshirt, he could feel the warmth and softness of Jaemin’s hand, as if no barrier, physical or otherwise, existed when Jaemin wanted to speak. The touch was filled with emotion, he remembered. With a boundless affection that urged one to love.

 “What’s wrong?” he asked, trying not to draw attention from the few people around them.

 He could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears, could feel the blood coursing through his fingers.

 Two endless seconds passed before Jaemin dared to speak.

 “Take care of him, okay?” he said. There was no sadness in his face—only tragic determination. “When I’m no longer here.”

 Donghyuck hadn’t fully understood what he meant, but he nodded right as Jeno was climbing the stairs back to his seat.

 Jaemin smiled—but Donghyuck never knew if that smile was for Jeno, or for him.

 When Jeno’s lunch was finally ready, Donghyuck concluded that Jaemin must have already known what was coming, weeks before it happened.

 And so now he watches over Jeno. Because that’s what friends do.

 He watches over Jeno. Because he promised. Because he had promised.

Chapter Text

One way or another, Jaemin managed to get Jeno’s phone number, even though Jeno had refused to share it.

 That same day, after a simple good afternoon text, Jaemin was already waiting for him outside the faculty library, holding two large cups of coffee.

 Curiously enough, the afternoon was cooler than expected. It wasn’t unusual for the temperature to drop around eight in the evening—trees curling their branches together, pretentious cafés filling up with the steam of hot drinks. But it was only five, the sun still serving as both prophet and protector, tinting everything below with an orange glow that resembled ripe fruit, so it was strange—unnatural even—not to feel its heat.

 “Jeno!” Jaemin called out, spotting the black-haired boy stepping quickly out of the warm building. “Over here!”

 Jeno turned instinctively. To his slight displeasure, he walked toward Jaemin, wearing a smile more polite than sincere. Carefully avoiding his skin as he accepted the cup of coffee, Jeno muttered a thank you and began walking toward the bus stop, ready to go home.

 Even though the semester had barely begun, the mountain of assignments already made it feel otherwise, leaving Jeno exhausted faster than he’d expected. And though he was supposed to train today, he didn’t have the energy. His body felt heavy, his eyes burned, and his mind drifted to thoughts of home—to the idea of sinking into the comfort of his bed for a while.

 Almost on autopilot, eyes forward, he took a sip from the cup and grimaced as the bitterness hit his tongue. Grown too used to sweetness, the rough edge of real coffee pulled him back into reality.

 He stopped walking, inhaled deeply, and reflected on how little he understood this ability of him to lose himself in his thoughts, to withdraw from the world as if only he and his problems existed in a vast sea of triviality.

 He raised his eyebrows when a firm, well-built body bumped into his back. A small, embarrassed laugh followed—sincere enough to disarm him—and when he turned around, he saw Jaemin standing there. Had he followed him from the library? It seemed so.

 “I didn’t know how you take your coffee,” Jaemin said once Jeno faced him. His light-brown eyebrows furrowed unconsciously, as if he weighed every word before speaking. “So, I went with the safest choice. Did I get it wrong?”

 Though he hated Americanos—too bitter, too sharp for someone like him—Jeno shook his head and took another sip. If anyone else had drunk from that cup, the burns to the mouth and throat would have been serious. But since it was Jeno who did so, the boiling contents had little effect on a body that was accustomed to being chilled.

 You could feel it—the cold—if you paid enough attention: in the slowness of his hands, in the accidental brush of his skin against another’s, even in the faint wisps of mist that sometimes escaped him, mistaken for dust. Very few people, however, ever noticed such small details.

 “It’s perfect,” he said. But his face betrayed him, and Jaemin laughed.

 “You’re a terrible liar,” Jaemin teased. “Alright then—what kind of drinks do you like? I’ll remember for next time.”

 “Next time what?”

 Jeno’s eyes returned to the path ahead, his steps steady toward the bus stop. If he hurried, he could still catch the next bus—fifteen minutes away. And he really wanted to.

 “The next time I pick you up, duh.”

 “And why would you pick me up again?”

 Jeno walked a little faster. A small change for most, but not for Jaemin, who quickened his pace too.

 “Because we’re teammates?” he said, his voice half-annoyed, half-confused. He couldn’t understand why Jeno resisted human contact so much.

 Jeno sped up again. This time, in a desperate attempt to stop him, Jaemin grabbed his hand—then instantly let go, eyes widening in surprise.

 He didn't trust anyone. The reason Jeno never let people touch him, the explanation for always wearing loose-fitting, long-sleeved clothing, was simply and genuinely that Jeno didn't trust anyone.

 Rather than feeling like an electric shock, a cold chill, or a watery body, Jaemin would describe the feel of Jeno's skin as hundreds of tiny rose thorns digging into any surface—living or not—that it encountered.

 He laughed. Jaemin laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was unbelievable. The complete opposite of himself: everyone who touched Jaemin said his skin felt like brushing against a giant velvety petal from the whitest flower. It amused him, then, that with Jeno it was exactly the opposite.

 The sensation didn’t bother him. So he reached out again, trying to take Jeno’s hand once more. Before he could, however, Jeno pulled away sharply and snapped,

 “Don’t touch me.”

 The tone alone was enough to pull Jaemin back to reality. He looked at his hand, expecting to see blood—but nothing had changed. His palm looked the same as before, pink and calloused from training. He smiled.

 “Alright,” he murmured, almost in a trance, flexing and unflexing his fingers. “But at least let me give you a ride. Please.”

 Something curious Jaemin would come to notice later was that, when Jeno was thinking, he frowned slightly, his lips pressing into a pout, biting them once his thoughts finally settled.

 “I don’t live nearby,” Jeno replied flatly.

 Jaemin shook his head and ran ahead, stepping into his path.

 “That’s fine.” He pulled a set of keys from the inside pocket of his jacket and jingled them beside his face. “I’ve got a car.”

 “It’s a forty-five-minute drive, Jaemin. Don’t bother.”

 “Jeno,” Jaemin said, frustration finally seeping into his voice, turning it deeper, less bright. “It doesn’t matter. Let me drive you, okay?”

 Because of the sudden shift in tone, Jeno only nodded. He followed Jaemin in silence toward the faculty parking lot, digging through his backpack for the notes he’d prepared earlier at the library.

 Despite how strained their relationship was, Jeno wasn’t a bad person—or so he told himself. He wanted to help Jaemin pass the class. But for that to happen, Jaemin actually needed to study. Jeno had no problem in doing all the work for their research project. He had chosen the topic, after all. Still, leaving Jaemin to flounder would be as bad for him as it would be for his partner.

 He handed the neatly color-coded notes to Jaemin, then fell into step behind him again, eyes on the ground, watching how Jaemin walked—how one of his feet struck the pavement a little harder than the other. He sighed.

 Jaemin’s reaction to his touch had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. Never in his life had anyone touched him once and then tried again. He considered it absurd, the behavior of idiots and lunatics. However, Jeno did not believe Jaemin was either of those things.

 “And these notes?” Jaemin asked. After a few minutes of walking, the familiar warmth returned to his voice, thick and golden, like honey.

 “So you can study… in case the professor asks you something.”

 Jeno didn’t look up, but he knew the thank you that followed came colored with a smile.

 “French vanilla iced lattes.”

 “Huh?” Jaemin turned to him, eyebrows raised.

 “I like French vanilla iced lattes.”

 Jaemin’s smile was so wide his eyes disappeared into it.

 “Really?” he said, grin softening a little. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter Text

The drink, dark and bitter, hits Jeno’s system like a direct blow.

 His taste buds shrink in disgust; his eyes narrow in shock. His ears twitch, his hands clench, but his focus returns once the caffeine takes hold, helping him stay—if only barely—awake.

 He’s in class thanks to Donghyuck’s relentless efforts to drag him there. If he’s honest, he doesn’t even know what day it is—or what subject this is supposed to be.

 Trying to focus on the professor’s voice feels impossible, like his whole system refuses to hear anything that isn’t his own thoughts. He takes another sip of the awful drink, hoping to wake himself up further, but, to his dismay, it doesn’t do a thing. He bites down on his lip in frustration.

 Since Jaemin’s death, university has become nothing but a passing blur in Jeno’s life—something empty, meaningless, banal.

 If he could, he knows he’d quit altogether, shut himself inside a bubble made of tears. But because of Donghyuck (again, Donghyuck), who reminded him he has a scholarship to keep—and one that cost him dearly to get—he’s at least been trying to attend classes, just enough not to fail from pure absence.

 Even without looking, Jeno knows the aura of pity surrounding him comes from the glances his classmates and professor keep throwing his way. Someone once told him that just as a hand has weight, so do eyes—and right now, he can barely stay upright beneath the weight of so many stares.

 Under his hoodie, his skin tears in places where invisible thorns begin to grow, but he no longer tries to stop them, no longer even fears them. He’s too exhausted by the simple act of staying alive to care about much else.

 He glances at the seat beside him, and as much as he hates to admit it, it’s been empty for a month. His eyes sting when, without realizing, he runs a hand across the smooth surface. He bites his lip to stop himself from doing something he’ll regret, then looks back at the front of the room, then at his notebook, then at his phone. His gaze gets stuck on Jaemin’s contact—still pinned at the very top of his list.

 A few moments later, the school bell rings.

 He puts the notebook—blank—back into his backpack—also blank—and before he can leave the classroom, the professor stops him and asks him to come over.

 “How have you been?” the man asks right away. His words are so far from malicious that Jeno has to swallow down the irritation bubbling in him. “Do you need help with anything?”

 Jeno tries his best to smile.

 “I’ve had better days,” he says, ignoring the second question. “Did you need to talk about something?”

 The professor sighs, shoulders tense, and inhales again with a kind of physical discomfort that seems to block his lungs every few seconds.

 “Yes, Jeno. It’s about your midterm paper.”

 “What about it?”

 “That’s what I wanted to ask.” He folds his hands over the desk and gives Jeno a sympathetic smile. “I didn’t receive any work from you. Given the…” He pauses, weighing the best way to refer to Jaemin’s death. “... the situation you’ve been going through, I thought it’d be cruel to fail you outright without giving you the chance to make it up, but…”

 “But you can’t keep waiting for me,” Jeno finishes the sentence, face blank. If eyes could speak, his would say nothing. He looks like a mannequin on display, a container emptied of meaning.

 The professor nods and slides a few papers across the desk toward him. The sound reverberates through the empty room, mixing with the steady hum of the air conditioner. Outside, the next class’s students are already gathering by the door.

 “Administration’s been pressing me for grades and proof of evaluation,” the man admits. “But in your case, there’s nothing to back up a passing grade, even if I wanted to help. I don’t want to overload you with heavy assignments—I understand that you’re… still hurting. But if you could turn these in by Friday, it’d help both of us. Besides,” he adds with an awkward smile, “we wouldn’t want you to lose that wonderful scholarship, right?”

 Jeno takes the papers between his fingers and flips through the tasks designed specifically for him. They’re so simple even a grade-schooler could do them. Once, that might’ve bruised his ego, but now all he feels is tired. He doesn’t show it, though—doesn’t let it surface. He simply nods.

 “Excellent.” The professor smiles again and pats Jeno’s shoulder as he stands. Erasing the board, he adds, “Upload everything to the virtual platform. You have until 11:59 p.m.”

 Just to show he’s listening, Jeno makes a small noise of acknowledgment and starts for the door. But the professor calls out again:

 “Everything will be fine.” Their eyes meet for a second, warming the air between them. “You’ll be fine.”

 Jeno smiles faintly, grabs the doorknob, and leaves the room.