Page 46 of Tell Me Where It Ends

He sighs, heavy with a disappointment he didn’t earn. “You should come.”

“I’m a little busy, in case you forgot. National scandal. Media death watch. Ring any bells?”

“Right,” he snaps. “The scandal. It’s always about you, isn’t it? Too busy with your career to care about your dying father?”

He uses the word ‘dying’ like a weapon, a casual little hand grenade he likes to toss into the conversation just to watch me flinch.

“Stop it!” I hiss, my voice cracking. “And what have you done to help? Besides gamble away the money I sent you?”

“Show some respect,” he curses. “Now is not the time to fight.”

I didn’t have an energy to reply. I stab the ‘end call’ button, the screen buzzing in protest. The room sways for a second, and I grab the back of the couch to steady myself. Suho’s stupidly perfect apartment feels like it’s closing in on me. I don’t know what’s worse—my family bleeding me dry with guilt, or the sick feeling that I’m still responsible for them.

I drop my phone onto the cushion and sink beside it, hugging my knees as a few angry tears finally escape. I wipe them away impatiently.

Unable to stand the quiet of my own head, I grab the remote. My hands move on a masochistic autopilot and turn on the TV. YouTube opens. I type in a name I haven’t searched in years.

Jellypop – Inkigayo – 2015.

There we were: twenty-one, glowing with stage lights and delusion. Five girls in neon tutus, all synchronized joy and sweat.

Where are they now?

Gigi, Aerin, Duri, Soo-bin…

Gigi still works in entertainment. Aerin married a rich businessman. Duri went back toschool. Soo-bin vanished. We were five satellites tethered together by a shared dream and a punishing schedule, and the moment the schedule broke, the ties snapped.

Our group was once dubbed “The Nation’s Little Sister Group,” and I was the face of the group.

Now I’m just a national disgrace, sitting alone on my hookup’s expensive couch.

I’m so lost watching these ghosts dance, my mind a blank slate of grief and static, that the sound of the front door closing is swallowed by the silence. The soft thud of keys hitting the marble countertop is what finally breaks the spell. I flinch, my head snapping up.

Suho’s back. He’s standing in the archway to the living room, his jacket half off. The frustration from our earlier fight is still tightening his jaw, but the expression melts away the second our eyes meet. He takes one look at my tear-streaked face, then at the glowing screen filled with our younger, happier selves, and stops cold.

“What happened?”

My throat tightens. “It’s nothing.”

“Min-hee.”

I point vaguely toward my phone. “My dad’s in the hospital.”

His face changes. He grabs the phone, scrolls through the texts. His jaw clenches so tight I can almost hear it.

He doesn’t say“I’m sorry.”He doesn’t offer a platitude. His response is immediate, pragmatic, and utterly insane.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

“Wait—what? No. I’m not going.” I say. “You read the messages. He just wants money. And I can’t—” My voice cracks. “I can’t see him like that again. Not like before.”

Suho’s voice softens. “You don’t have to. But you’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I do.” His tone is quiet, not the kind that needs to prove anything. “When my dad cheated on my mom and ran off to LA, I told myself he was dead. I meant it. Every word. And when he called one day, wanting a favor, I almost hung up. But I’m glad I listened.”

A faint half-smile tugs at his lips as he looks down. “I didn’t do it for him. I did it so he’d stop living rent-free in my head.”