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Jisung knows he should leave.
The thought echoes in the silence of their apartment, where memories cling to the walls like ghosts. It’s too quiet here, now. Too still. The absence of Minho’s voice, which could shift from comforting to cutting in a heartbeat, leaves a void. And yet, it’s not the absence that suffocates Jisung—it’s the presence of everything that’s gone wrong.
His fingers trace the bruise on his wrist, a dull ache blooming beneath his skin. The mark is familiar. He’s worn it before, in different shapes and sizes, a permanent reminder of the moments when Minho's rage broke free, lashing out like a storm. But the bruises that hurt the most are the ones he can’t see—the ones Minho leaves on his heart.
Jisung used to think they were in love. He still does, sometimes. Minho’s touch used to be soft, tender, filled with a kind of warmth that made Jisung believe he’d finally found a place to rest. But somewhere along the way, that warmth turned sharp, cutting through the illusion until all that was left was this, a shattered version of what they once had.
It was always the same. Minho would apologize, voice cracking with regret, his hands shaking as he reached for Jisung like he was something precious. And Jisung, always forgiving, would let him, hoping this time would be different.
But it never was.
Tonight, Minho’s not here. He’d left hours ago, after another fight. Another argument that spiraled out of control, until Minho’s hands found Jisung’s body like they always did when words failed. And now, Jisung is left with the silence, the cold, the weight of all the things he should say but never will.
They’re bound together by something twisted and broken, a bond that feels more like chains than love. And Jisung knows, deep down, that Minho doesn’t hate him. But it’s hard to believe when every fight ends with bruises, when the apologies feel hollow and the promises feel like lies.
Standing by the window, Jisung watches the rain streak down the glass, each drop a reminder of the tears he’s shed, the ones that go unnoticed, unacknowledged. Minho had once told him that his tears didn’t matter. “Don’t cry, Jisung,” he’d whispered, voice low and dangerous. “It won’t change anything.”
Maybe Minho was right. His tears never stopped the fights. They never softened Minho’s anger or made the bruises hurt any less. But they were his, and they were all he had left.
Jisung closes his eyes, the words of the song that had been playing earlier still echoing in his mind. You ricocheted, and I fell—
The door opens, and Minho steps inside, drenched from the rain. His eyes meet Jisung’s, and for a moment, something passes between them. Regret. Anger. Fear. It’s all there, simmering beneath the surface, unspoken but undeniable.
“I’m sorry,” Minho says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean—”
Jisung shakes his head, the words catching in his throat. He wants to scream, to yell, to demand why Minho keeps doing this—why he keeps coming back when all he ever brings is pain. But instead, all he can do is whisper, “I know.”
They stand there, two broken people in the ruins of a love that was never meant to last. Minho reaches for him, hesitant, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he touches Jisung again. And Jisung, always forgiving, lets him. Because despite everything—despite the bruises, the tears, the shattered promises—he still loves Minho.
But love isn’t enough. It never has been.
As Minho pulls Jisung into his arms, the tears fall once more. And this time, Jisung knows they won’t change anything.
But maybe, someday, they will be enough to make him leave.