Page 48 of Tell Me Where It Ends
Neither of us dignifies that with an answer.
“Listen,” he continues, shifting awkwardly against the pillows. “They want me to stay. Observation, tests… you know. But I told them, I just need rest. Maybe a trip somewhere warm? Get my strength back.”
My eyes narrow. There it is. The pivot. The ask. He gives me the look—the one that says,you’re the successful one, the rich one, what’s a little money to you?
My carefully constructed composure cracks. I stand up. “Get better,Appa.”
“Min-hee—”
“No.” My voice is firm, a solid thing in the room. I look from my father’s hopeful face to my brother’s resentful one. “Don’t ask me for money. Don’t turn this into a transaction. I came. That is all I have to give right now.”
I walk out without waiting for a reply, the silence chasing me down the hall.
Suho is right where I left him, his car—a discreet SUV—tucked near the staff entrance. The interior light is off, but the faint glow of his phone screen casts his masked profile in a cool, blue hue. The moment I step out of the hospital doors, his head snaps up, and the car locks click open like a quiet welcome.
He doesn’t press for details during the drive, reading the silence between us. A few blocks from the hospital, he pulls over to drop his bodyguard and assistant. They give a small, respectful nod before stepping out, leaving just the two of us.
Back at his apartment, the quiet follows us inside. He doesn’t flip on the harsh overhead lights, letting the soft glow from the city skyline filter through the windows instead.
He takes my hand, his thumb gently brushing over my knuckles, and leads me to his room.
He flips the comforter back, and I crawl under it, still blotchy-eyed but too wrung out to care. Instead of leaving me space, he slides in behind me.
“Suho,” I murmur, trying to stop my tears, tired of feeling this emotional. “There are times when… I don’t want to live anymore.”
There’s a long silence. I feel his arm snake around my waist, a quiet desperation in the way he holds me—like he knows everything he’s about to say won’t make me feel okay, and all he can do now is hold on.
His voice, when it comes, is low and unhurried. “Hey… you don’t have to be okay all the time. But I need you to stay. Even if it’s just to yell at me for being an idiot.”
He presses a light kiss to the top of my head. “And good thing you’re a terrible quitter, because I’m not done with you yet.”
A broken laugh escapes me.
“Also,” he murmurs against my ear, trying to ease the air just a little, “I saw something weird today.”
“Weirder than me?”
“Objectively weirder. A fan tagged me in a photo. He got my face tattooed on his calf.”
I let out a startled chuckle. “Okay, that’s pretty weird.”
“But here’s the thing.” His tone drops into that conspiratorial register he uses when he’s about to say something both profound and stupid. “What happens when he’s old? Skin all wrinkly and saggy. Does my face wrinkle, too? Do I end up looking like a melted candle on some seventy-year-old’s leg?”
This time, a real laugh explodes out of me. He shares the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of his fame, assuming—correctly—that I’m the only other person on the planet who would understand.
When the laughter dies down, the moment feels different—less like a mess, more like a truce. Like maybe the whole house of cards we’ve been living in isn’t about to collapse.
8b
Everything Going Under
The next few weeks pass in a strange, suspended reality. I lived out of the single bag I packed, constantly feeling like a guest who had drastically overstayed her welcome.
We fall into a rhythm that isn’t quite a relationship but is more than just a fling. It’s the same situationship we’ve always been in—a holding pattern. We’re two planes circling a storm, waiting for clearance to either land or crash.
Some mornings, I wake up alone. He’s already gone—off to set before sunrise. The apartment feels bigger without him, quieter in a weird, artificial way. Too clean. Too still.
I wander through the rooms like I’m not sure if I actually live here or just misplaced myselftemporarily. I make coffee and forget to drink it. I stare out at a city I can’t step into without making headlines.