Page 37 of Tell Me Where It Ends

I decide to take a long bath, sinking into the kind of bone-deep, flower-scented warmth that promises to temporarily erase my thoughts. Bliss.

When I’m done, I find one of Suho’s hoodies in his closet and pull it on. It swallows me whole, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem falling to my mid-thighs.

I run my hands over the broad shoulders of the hoodie, thinking about how those same shoulders once got him ripped apart in netizen forums for being too “bulky,” too “tall” to debut.

In a perfectly manufactured K-pop group, you can’t have one member towering over the others like a misplaced bodyguard. I remember the ridiculous diet they put him on, how he had to lose so much muscle just to fit their perfect, manufactured mold.

Now, only the scent of him remains on the oversized fabric that engulfs me. I feel like a ghost wearing a ghost’s clothes, haunting a life that isn’t even mine.

My eyes land on the clock on the wall. 4 p.m. My phone is still in timeout. The TV is off-limits.And a single, profound, and deeply philosophical thought hits me: Great. What do people evendoall day without the internet or screens?

I drift back to the window, feeling like a caged bird as I watch the city move on without me. All those people down there, just… living. Walking freely, minding their own business, not being mobbed by paparazzi—they have no idea how lucky they are.

Finally, I crack the front door just enough to peek through. A plastic bag dangles from the knob, a silent, edible offering.

The scent hits me even through the plastic—rich, familiar sesame oil and the sharp tang of kimchi cutting through the quiet hallway air.

It’s probably cold by now, but that doesn’t stop it from being a deeply inconvenient and delicious-smelling complication to my plan of professionally sulking for the rest of the afternoon.

I glance down the hallway like a criminal about to commit a heist, then snatch the bag inside.

Inside:kimbap, a small container ofkimchi, and—because Suho apparently thinks I’m five years old—a banana milk.

Ilaugh under my breath, unpack the package, eat two slices ofkimbap, polish off thekimchi, and down the banana milk in three gulps.

What now?

I drift back to his bookshelf, but instead of a novel, I pull down the analog camera resting near the edge. I raise it to the window and snap a few random pictures of the tall buildings just across the street. The shutter clicks with a quiet, satisfying finality, capturing a slice of this stolen, temporary moment.

I get so lost reviewing the random shots I’ve taken on the camera screen that I don’t notice the doorknob turning until it’s too late.

Suho steps in, carrying the weariness of someone who’s been working under hot lights for hours. He kicks off his shoes, spots me by the shelf with the camera still in my hand, and quirks a tired half-smile.

“You’ve made yourself at home,” he says, voice low and amused. “Good. I like that.”

Before I can come up with a witty, defensive reply, he heads straight for the bathroom. The sound of the shower fills the apartment, and I hatethe unwelcome knot of anticipation tightening low in my stomach.

When he finally emerges, my pulse stutters. He’s a walking, talking visual, sculpted by the industry to specifically dismantle my common sense. A towel is slung criminally low on his hips, and he’s casually drying his still-damp hair, droplets tracing a path down his temple. He smells of soap and something warmer, deeper—something uniquely him.

It’s a cheap shot. And it’s working.

“You look comfortable,” he says again, nodding at the hoodie I’m swimming in.

I lean back into the couch, feigning nonchalance. “Better than whatever that stylist picked for you today.”

He chuckles, but it’s missing its usual spark. “Still sharp-tongued, I see.”

“Still avoiding straight answers, I see,” I shoot back.

He exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t sleep and worked more than twelve hours… Not tonight, Min-hee.”

Somehow, that triggers me. I’m tired of this dance… this whole situationship. “Then when?” I press, the dam of my patience finally breaking. “When it’s convenient? When you’ve got no other girls in the queue? Or maybe when you’re just bored and suddenly remember I exist?”

His mouth flattens into a hard line. “You’re the one who chose to stay here. Couldn’t you be nicer to me?”

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. There are too many scars to just benice. “Nicer? Like that time I brought you medicine when you had that awful flu, and you told me to leave through the back so the neighbors wouldn’t see me?”

That hits him. The exhaustion in his eyes is replaced by something sharper, more wounded. He’s silent for a long moment, the accusation hanging heavy in the air between us.