(no) Strings Attached

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The room was cold, though not in temperature. Seonghwa sat still, spine locked straight, hands trembling just beneath the lacquered surface of the dining table. His father hadn't said a word. His mother didn't need to. The silence roared louder than anything they could've shouted.

"You embarrassed yourself," she finally said, placing her glass down with a soft but definitive clink. "You embarrassed us."

He opened his mouth to explain, to insist that the tutor had been impatient, that the question was hard, that he got physically weak, that his throat had gone dry—not because he was lazy or unprepared—but all that came out was a thin, fragile breath.

"No more outside tutoring," his father said, voice clipped. "Clearly, it makes you weak."

"We've always been too lenient, too considering" his mother added. "If you can't speak properly, you shouldn't be speaking at all."

The curtains in his room were replaced with blackout ones. Breakfast would now be at 5:30 a.m. sharp. A new stack of practice papers—thicker than his wrists—was set on his desk. No television. No music. No warmth.

Just silence, and the sound of a pen scratching answers no one would praise.

The days blurred. Time measured only by the thud of workbook pages turning and the sharp tick of the metronome his mother set to "keep him focused." Meals were silent. Mistakes were punished with colder stares and extra drills.

He didn't cry. Crying was weakness. And Seonghwa was nothing if not obedient.

But one night—when the numbers on the page started bending, warping into things that weren't numbers at all—he pressed the pen so hard it split. Ink bled across the problem he couldn't solve. His breath hitched.

The walls were too close. The silence was too loud.

He clutched his desk's edge to steady himself, but his fingers trembled. Don't lose it. Just a bit longer. He repeated it like a prayer, but it sounded more like a lie. His reflection in the blackened window didn't look like him anymore.

That's when he remembered.

The paper. The scribbled email.

Hongjoong's voice had been quiet that day—almost like he knew.

"If you ever need to reach out ..."

Seonghwa hesitated. Then, he slipped the false bottom of his drawer open, the one where he hid the card behind a stack of unmarked papers. He hadn't dared touch it since.

His hands shook as he powered on the laptop. It had no chat apps, no games, nothing but a browser and a word processor. But it was the sole way he could communicate with Hongjoong.

God, how much he missed him.

The cursor blinked at him like it was waiting.

He typed the address. Paused. But he didn't pull out.

"Hi. I don't know if I'm supposed to write. But I think I need to."

The reply came almost immediately. As if Hongjoong was waiting by the mail application to reply to his email.

Inbox: 12:44 AM
From: hjoongwrites@protonmail.com
To: parkshwa94@tmail.net
Subject: Re: (no subject)

What's wrong?

Are you safe? Where are you?

You don't message unless something's really bad, Hwa. Please tell me what happened. I'm here. Just talk to me.

⸻

Seonghwa stares at the screen. The words blur, not from tiredness—but from how fast they came. How sure they are.