Page 45 of Tell Me Where It Ends

He finally looks up, sighing dramatically as ifI’mthe one being difficult. “Min-hee, don’t. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

“Don’t what?” I arch an eyebrow.

“This,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Turning everything into a fight.” A weary resignation settles over his features, and I can practically see the emotional drawbridge being pulled up. “We’re a mess, Min-hee. You’re in the middle of a huge scandal. We’re just trying to survive right now.”

His words hang in the air, a bitter counterpoint to the rich aroma of coffee. It’s not an apology. It’s not a reassurance. It’s a damage report. A flimsyattempt to keep our fragile situation from collapsing.

“And no matter what we do, we’re still trapped in this same fucking fishbowl,” he continues, his voice flat. “People remember our history. Everything we do gets twisted into a headline. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He’s not wrong. But hearing him frame our relationship as a liability, a problem to be managed, is a punch to the gut.

“So I’m a liability?” My voice is sharp now, and I don’t rein it in. “Is that why you’re so close to your co-star? Because she’s easier? Because the agency wants a nice, marketable showmance for your drama?” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Funny how that’s a love story, but when it was us, it was career suicide.”

The words are about the agency, but the real poison is the image of the stupid panda plush she gave him, sitting on his leather sofa, an eyesore of décor that doesn’t belong.

Suho’s jaw tightens. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it in a rare sign of agitation. “You’re twisting this. There’s nothing going on with Da-hye. She’s part of the job.”

“‘Part of the job?’” I fire back. “Is that what you call it when she texts you at eight in the morning on your day off?”

He sighs, the sound heavy. “Min-hee, I can’t do this right now. My manager just messaged. There’s an emergency meeting at the agency. I have to go.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and walks out, leaving me alone with the lukewarm coffee and a knotted twist in my stomach.

The front door clicks shut, cutting off the argument like a switch. The hollow ache is instantly familiar. He went to the agency for an “emergency meeting,” and I know, with a gut-deep certainty, thatI amthe emergency.

I pace in tight circles across his spotless living room, chewing on the edge of my thumbnail like it owes me money.

Just when I was about to throw my phone against the door out of frustration, it buzzes.

I glance at the screen. It’s my older brother, Yeong-gi. My thumb hesitates. I already know it’s not good. My brother doesn’t text unless something’s gone wrong or he’s trying to guilt me into pretending we’re still a family.

Dad’s in the hospital.

The message sucker punches the air out of me. I stare at it, blinking hard, as if the words might rearrange into something less awful.

He had a coughing fit and passed out. I’m with him.

The shaking starts instantly. The cold, crawling tremor takes me back to being sixteen, holding the phone with sweaty palms while I begged emergency services to come save my drunk, unresponsive father off the kitchen floor.

That memory always leads to the next one: finding the letter on my bed one morning not long after, from my mom, explaining that she couldn’t take it anymore and hoping I could forgive her one day. The two traumas are sewn together: the loud, drowning chaos of the addict, and the final silence of the abandoned.

I’m sick of this family script. But I still call anyway. Because I always do.

“Oppa? What happened?”

“He’s stable,” my brother answers, his voice low and ragged. “They’re doing tests. His liver’s worse, but he’s already being difficult. Refusing to stay.”

Of course he is.

“You’re with him?”

“Someone has to be,” he says. Then the line goes quiet. Just for a second. But it’s the loaded kind of quiet, and I know what’s coming before he says it. “He’s asking for you.”

My stomach turns. “Really?” I say, my voice sharp. “Now I’m the one he wants? He hasn’t called me in months.”

“He’s sick, Min-hee. This could be—”

“Don’t. Don’t do the ‘this could be our last chance’ speech. I’ve heard it. Every time.”