¿double update?
Hongjoong clicked his tongue, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him—white, blank, and blinding under his unfocused stare.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. Just two doors down, across the hall, was Seonghwa's. And he hadn't heard it open once in the last five hours.
It was Thursday. Seonghwa's last class should've ended by six.
Now it was past 8:30.
A restless buzz crawled under his skin, like ants marching across his nerves. He didn't know why he noticed. Or why he cared.
But the answer never came.
Click.
There it was.
The soft sound of the door unlocking echoed down the hall like thunder in Hongjoong's ears.
He must be back. Finally.
Probably stayed behind again — another favor for another professor. They all seemed to lean on Seonghwa like he was made to carry other people's weight.
But who helped him when it got too heavy?
Hongjoong stood too fast. His knees wobbled, his breath hitching for a reason he didn't want to name. He didn't even know what he was hoping for — just that he needed to see him.
Needed to know which version of Seonghwa walked through that door tonight.
Was it the mask again?
That carefully blank expression he wore like armor? The soft smile that didn't reach his eyes?
Or worse — the distant one?
The one he wore when Hongjoong spoke too much. When he reached too far. When he cared too loudly.
His chest twisted at the thought.
Why won't you just look at me when you're tired?
Why is it always me reaching out first?
Why do you keep pretending I'm not the one who sees you?
But before Hongjoong could take a step forward, his eyes flicked to the digital clock glowing from the corner of the room.
8:54 PM.
His stomach dropped.
Shit.
Eight. The rule. The 8pm rule.
His mind started racing — images crashing into him like waves. Seonghwa, fifteen and scared to ask for seconds. Seonghwa, seventeen and calculating calories like they were sins. Seonghwa, twenty and still pretending he wasn't hungry after 8pm because "it's just a habit now."
Habit.
No, it was a scar shaped like a routine. And Hongjoong hated how well he knew that.
Did he eat?
Did he skip dinner because someone asked for help again and he didn't know how to say no?
Was he being hard on himself again — punishing himself with an empty stomach and a polite smile?
The air felt too thick suddenly. Hongjoong gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
Why won't you just let me take care of you?
Why do you keep starving the parts of yourself I'm trying so hard to care for?
He didn't even realize when his legs started moving. When his body took over before his brain could catch up. He just knew he was moving toward the door — towards him. He didn't have a plan, didn't even know what he was going to say. All he knew was that he couldn't stay still knowing Seonghwa might be hurting.
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
(no) Strings Attached
Fanfiction"Hey San... wanna fuck?" It was supposed to be enough. It was never enough.
