Even When The World Ends

Chapter Twenty-Four: When Loving Feels Like Climbing

Some mornings, Jennie couldn't get out of bed.

Not because of the alcohol this time.

But because of the shame.

The kind that clung to her ribs like barbed wire.
The kind that made opening her eyes feel like dragging her skin across gravel.

Jisoo never forced her to move.

She just slid beside her, whispered, "We'll try again tomorrow," and kissed her shoulder like showing up was enough.

And it was.

They made a calendar.

A simple one.

Each day Jennie stayed sober, she marked it with a small red dot.

She was on Day 9 now.

Nine red dots that felt like fire in her chest.

But every time she added one, Jisoo kissed her temple and said, "You're winning."

Even when Jennie didn't believe it.

Therapy was hell.

The first session, Jennie barely said five words.

The second, she cried for all sixty minutes without knowing why.

Afterward, she called Jisoo from the sidewalk, knees tucked to her chest, shivering even under the sun.

"She asked me what I would've done if you hadn't come back."

"What did you say?" Jisoo asked gently.

"I didn't. Because I know the answer. And it's ugly."

There was silence on the other end.

Then Jisoo replied:

"I came back because I didn't want to ever have to find out."

Jisoo worked long hours during that week.

Deadlines stacked like bricks on her shoulders. Her firm demanded more. Clients became stricter. But she never missed coming home.

Even when it meant leaving her computer open at the dinner table while Jennie pushed food around her plate.

Even when it meant hiding her exhaustion behind a smile.

Even when it meant carrying both of them.

There was one night when Jennie found her passed out at her desk at 1:30 a.m., chin against blueprints, hand still holding a pen.

Jennie stared for a long moment.

Then covered her with a blanket, pressed a kiss to her head, and whispered:
"I don't deserve you."

But Jisoo stirred, eyes barely open, and murmured:

"Then earn me."

There were setbacks.

Jennie had panic attacks. Sometimes at night. Sometimes in the middle of painting.

The worst one came in the grocery store.

She was reaching for a bottle of wine to check the ingredients on the label for her art reference — nothing more — but the cold glass in her hand triggered a memory she couldn't fight.

The bar.

The heat.

The shame.

She dropped it.

It shattered.

And she collapsed.

Right there between the sparkling water and imported cheese.

Jisoo arrived fifteen minutes later.

The manager was yelling. Someone had called security. Jennie was curled in a ball, fingers in her ears, whispering "I didn't mean to" over and over.

Jisoo didn't argue. Didn't explain.

She crouched beside her, lifted her gently, and held her until her breathing slowed.

Later, in the car, Jennie apologized through tears.

Jisoo didn't say it's okay.

She said:

"It happened. And we're still here. That's what matters."

That night, Jennie painted again.

For the first time since her relapse.

It was quiet.

Soft brush strokes.

Gentle movements.

She didn't finish the canvas.

But she started.

And she signed the corner in small red ink: Still trying.

Jisoo saw it the next morning and cried silently in the kitchen, hand over her mouth.