The silence of the night was deafening. It hung in the air like an oppressive weight, pressing against Ji-hoon's chest with every passing second. The room around him was dark, only the faintest sliver of moonlight creeping through the blinds, casting cold shadows across the floor. He sat on the edge of his bed, his back rigid, his head hung low, his fingers clutching at the sheets. His breaths were shallow, irregular, and yet it didn't seem to help him calm down.
Everything had spiraled so quickly. Just hours ago, his entire world had been rattled—shattered by the chilling encounter with the man. The smell of cologne still lingered in his nostrils, thick and nauseating, a reminder of how powerless he had felt, of how far beyond his control everything had become.
He tried to focus on the rhythm of his breathing, to slow it down, to convince himself that everything would be okay. But it wasn't okay. It hadn't been okay for a long time. He could feel the weight of the room pressing in on him, suffocating him with the realization that he couldn't escape. He was trapped—not just in the room, but in his own mind. His thoughts spiraled relentlessly, each one darker and more suffocating than the last.
A single tear slid down his cheek, hot against his skin. He wiped it away quickly, as if the action would erase the feeling. The tears had been coming more and more lately, though he tried so hard to pretend that they weren't there. To pretend that they didn't matter. That he wasn't falling apart.
But tonight, he couldn't stop them.
He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if to stop the tears from spilling. But they came anyway—silent, uncontrolled. His body trembled with the effort of holding back the sobs that threatened to tear him apart. He could feel his chest constrict, the pressure building until it felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs. His throat tightened, a dull ache building behind his eyes as the grief washed over him like a wave he couldn't escape.
It wasn't just fear. It wasn't just the man's threats or the looming sense of danger that gnawed at him. No, it was the overwhelming weight of everything he had lost. His mother. His sense of safety. The fragile peace he had managed to hold onto for so long was crumbling beneath the constant strain of this cruel game. And the worst part was, he didn't know how to fight it.
The worst part was that he didn't even know how to fight himself anymore.
Ji-hoon let out a shaky breath and wiped his eyes again, trying to steady himself. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. Not again. He had learned long ago to hide the cracks in his soul, to push the pain deep inside where no one could find it. He had gotten good at pretending. Good at masking the truth behind a smile, behind the image of someone who was always in control, who didn't let things like fear or grief tear him apart.
But tonight, the mask slipped.
Another tear followed the first, and then another, until they were falling freely, one after another, the silent sobs wracking his body as he let himself feel everything that had been building inside him for so long. The emptiness. The anger. The guilt. The feeling of being lost in a world that didn't seem to care.
"Why is this happening?" Ji-hoon whispered to the darkness, his voice cracking under the weight of the question. "What did I do to deserve this?"
He didn't expect an answer. He didn't even know why he asked. But sometimes, when the pain became too much to bear, he found himself talking to the empty room, hoping—hoping for something, anything, to make sense of the chaos that had become his life.
But no answer came, only the cold stillness of the night. He leaned back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible, as if the smaller he was, the less visible he would be to the world. The less vulnerable.
And yet, vulnerability was all he felt. Vulnerability in every trembling breath, in every fragile heartbeat.
He thought of Hye-jin. Of the violin. Of everything that had happened and was still happening, spinning out of control, faster and faster. How long before he couldn't hold on anymore? How long before everything inside him shattered completely?
The thought made his heart ache, and he buried his face in his hands, finally letting the sobs break free, no longer able to keep them locked inside.
He was alone. He felt so unbearably alone, with no one to reach out to, no one who understood what he was going through. It wasn't just the pain of the man's threats, or the terror that gripped him every time he heard that violin, or the fear of what would happen to Hye-jin. It was the feeling of being lost in this world, of not knowing who he was anymore, of not knowing how to fight back when everything around him seemed to be falling apart.
Everything he had once trusted had been taken from him. His mother, his life, his peace. It was as if he had been ripped apart, piece by piece, until all that remained was this hollow shell of a person who didn't even recognize himself anymore.
Ji-hoon didn't know how long he cried. Time seemed to stretch, the minutes and hours slipping away unnoticed as he let the emotions crash over him like waves, leaving him numb and raw. Eventually, the tears slowed, the sobs tapering off into quiet, shuddering breaths.
But the emptiness didn't go away.
When he finally lifted his head, the room was still dark, the moonlight casting long, cold shadows across the floor. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, as if seeing through it. He felt hollow, as if all the pieces that made him who he was had been scattered, lost in the night.
He tried to convince himself that it didn't hurt. That it would pass. That he could push the pain away, like he always had. But the truth was, it hurt more than anything he had ever experienced.
And the hardest part? Pretending that it didn't.
He let out a shaky breath and wiped the last of the tears away. It wasn't over yet. The fight wasn't over. But he couldn't keep pretending it didn't hurt. Not anymore.
And somehow, in that moment, it was enough to admit it. To let himself feel it. To finally stop pretending.
The silence of the night clung to the room like a thick blanket, pressing down on Ji-hoon as he sat on the edge of his bed, trying to collect his thoughts. The pain was still there, gnawing at him from the inside out. He had tried, so many times, to bury it deep—pretend it didn't exist. But the truth was always lurking, just beneath the surface, waiting to rise up and pull him under again. And tonight, it had risen.
He stood up, pacing the small confines of the room, his steps slow and deliberate. The darkness was suffocating, and the only sound was the faint rustle of his clothes as his body shifted with each step. His fingers brushed against the edge of his dresser, the familiar sensation of the worn wood grounding him in some way. But even the feel of the smooth surface did little to calm the storm raging inside him.
His mind kept returning to the encounter with the man, the one who had come so close to destroying everything Ji-hoon had fought for. The smell of cologne lingered, an unwelcome reminder of that night. It had been too close. He could still hear the man's voice in his head, cold and mocking, as if the threat was something to be amused by.
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, anger flashing through him. The overwhelming feeling of helplessness had been suffocating. He had wanted to fight back, to defend himself, to stop the inevitable that was closing in on him. But he had been too afraid. Too vulnerable. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach.
The bitterness of the feeling lingered, and for a brief moment, he considered going to the one person who might understand, who might help him sort through the mess of emotions threatening to tear him apart. But then the memory of the last time he reached out to someone, the way he had been met with cold indifference, made him freeze.
His mind flicked back to his last conversation with Hye-jin. She had looked at him with concern, but there was something else there too—something he hadn't been able to place at the time. Was it fear? Doubt? He wasn't sure. But he knew that reaching out to anyone, especially her, would only make him more vulnerable.
The thought left him feeling empty again. The ache in his chest was sharp, like a physical wound that refused to heal, no matter how much time passed.
A knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. Ji-hoon froze, his heart skipping a beat. He wasn't expecting anyone—no one ever came to his room this late at night.
"Ji-hoon?" A voice came from the other side of the door, and his heart sank. It was Joon-won's voice, soft and cautious, like he knew something was wrong but wasn't sure how to approach it.
Ji-hoon didn't answer immediately. He stood there, feeling a mix of dread and frustration. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. Not when his world felt like it was slipping through his fingers, not when everything seemed out of control. But he couldn't ignore Joon-won, not when his best friend had been a silent witness to his breakdowns before.
He opened the door slowly, just a crack, and peered through the gap. Joon-won's face was shadowed in the dim light from the hallway, but Ji-hoon could feel the weight of his gaze, the concern and the worry that Joon-won always seemed to carry whenever he looked at him.
"Can I come in?" Joon-won asked, his voice low, careful.
Ji-hoon hesitated for a moment, feeling that familiar pull to shut himself off from the world. But something in Joon-won's expression made him step aside, allowing his friend to enter.
Joon-won walked in quietly, his eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on Ji-hoon, who was still standing by the door. "You okay?" he asked, his tone soft, but Ji-hoon could hear the tension in it.
Ji-hoon didn't answer at first. He looked down at his hands, his fingers still clenched tightly from earlier. The pain was still there, still biting at him, but he didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to admit to anyone that he was falling apart.
"I'm fine," Ji-hoon muttered, his voice sounding hollow, even to his own ears.
Joon-won didn't seem convinced. He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on Ji-hoon, the concern in his eyes palpable. "You're not fine. I can see it," Joon-won said, his voice firm. "You've been carrying this around for too long, Ji-hoon. You don't have to do it alone."
Ji-hoon shook his head, biting back the urge to snap at him. He didn't want Joon-won's pity, didn't want to drag him down into the mess of his own emotions. "I'm fine," he repeated, his voice more insistent now.
But Joon-won wasn't having it. He took another step forward, his hands reaching out as if he wanted to touch Ji-hoon's arm, to offer some kind of comfort. But Ji-hoon flinched, pulling back before Joon-won could get too close.
"Don't," Ji-hoon said sharply, his voice trembling with an emotion he couldn't control. "Please, don't. I'm not... I'm not the person you think I am. I can't be that person."
Joon-won's expression faltered, and for a moment, he seemed unsure of how to respond. Then, his eyes softened, and he spoke in a quieter tone. "I don't care about what you think you are, Ji-hoon. I care about you. And I know you're hurting, even if you won't admit it. You don't have to pretend that it doesn't hurt. Not with me."
Ji-hoon felt a pang of guilt hit him like a physical blow. He was so tired of pretending. He was so tired of hiding behind walls that he had built around himself. But the fear of being vulnerable—of truly letting someone see how broken he was—kept him from opening up.
"I just... I don't know how to fix this," Ji-hoon whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he had been holding in. "I don't know how to fix myself."
Joon-won's eyes softened even further, and for the first time that night, Ji-hoon saw the sincerity in his best friend's gaze. "You don't have to fix anything," he said quietly. "You just have to let someone in. And I'm here for you. I always will be."
Ji-hoon wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that there was someone who would stand by him through this mess, who wouldn't leave when it got too hard. But a part of him still feared the inevitable: that no matter how much someone cared, they would eventually walk away.
Still, Joon-won's words lingered in his mind long after he had left the room, the comforting weight of them pressing against the dark corners of his thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop pretending that it didn't hurt.