Chapter Text
10:00 am.
“Sensory stimuli?” the doctor asks, jotting something down in the Notes section of a document while watching the vital signs monitor.
“Unresponsive,” a nurse answers from across the room.
“Visual stimuli?” he asks, still writing.
“Unresponsive,” she repeats.
“Pain stimuli?” He glances at her. She simply shakes her head.
The doctor exhales slowly.
“Almost two years, and he’s still unresponsive,” the nurse says, looking down at Suho’s still, pale body with a pitiful expression.
“I ordered another EEG. His brain activity is just as minimal as it was back then,” the doctor adds with a sigh. “I was hoping to give her some good news today.”
“He should be out there celebrating his twenty-first birthday, having fun like everyone else. Not here… like this,” the nurse says. Her voice sounds genuinely hurt. But who could blame her? After caring for a kid this long, you can’t help but grow attached.
“It’s not fair,” she adds quietly.
“It’s not,” the doctor replies. “Not for him, and not for his grandmother,” he adds after a pause. “They’re all each other have. And all because of some irresponsible piece of shit.” His voice drops, tight with anger.
“I keep thinking about them,” the nurse says, her tone a mix of worry and resignation. “What if he doesn’t make it? She’ll probably follow right after him. And what if she gets sick before he wakes up?”
“Don’t say things like that,” the doctor cuts in. “He’ll come out of this.”
The nurse offers him a sympathetic smile.
“We’ll keep trying,” she says.
The doctor returns a faint smile, though his eyes remain on Suho.
“You need to wake up, kid,” he murmurs, a part of him wishing there were more he could do, before turning toward the door. The nurse follows close behind.
“He can’t even hear you,” she says softly, her voice still heavy with sadness.
She’s right. According to every bit of evidence from EEGs and MRIs, Suho is completely unconscious, unresponsive to stimuli, lacking a sleep-wake cycle. All of it textbook for someone in a comatose state. By science, by logic, by everything they understand, he shouldn’t be able to hear them.
Only… he can.
Not always. Not like a conscious person follows a conversation. Bits and pieces slip through sometimes, muffled, stuttering like water from a faulty faucet. But they echo somewhere in the corners of his mind. And he hears them. Processes them, in fragments.
Sometimes he can make sense of the words. Other times, they blur together, and he isn’t sure if what he’s hearing belongs to one conversation or if yesterday’s words are bleeding into today’s. There’s no way to tell. It’s like being locked in a dark chamber inside his own mind, staring up at nothing, aware that something exists beyond it but with no way to reach it.
Suho wonders if the words he thinks he hears are actually being spoken, or if his mind is so far gone and fractured that he’s just making them up. Maybe it’s just an excuse to hold on. But he can’t know for sure. He can’t open his eyes. Can’t move. Can’t force himself to focus or listen more carefully.
He can’t do anything.
He doesn’t know how to free himself from this dark chamber of nothingness.
But there are a few things he does know:
He’s in a coma.
His grandma is all alone right now.
He needs to wake up.
12:00 pm.
Yeon Sieun absentmindedly places a paper on the professor’s desk and walks out of the classroom, heading toward the university cafeteria.
His earbuds are in. He walks slowly, almost dragging his feet. He’s not hungry, he never really is, but he goes out of routine. And to grab an energy drink from the vending machine.
He needs it, not because he’s a fan of the flavor or the way it makes his heart race and beat weirdly, but because he hasn’t slept in three nights, and he still has afternoon classes plus two more exams to get through.
Reaching the cafeteria, he rummages through his backpack for money while walking, paying no attention to where he’s going. Suddenly, he crashes into someone. His left earbud falls from his ear, the money slips from his hand, and he stumbles sideways, grasping at nothing until he regains his balance.
He looks up, his face showing neither annoyance nor apology, only exhaustion. His mouth moves as if to say sorry, but then he registers the person’s face and immediately deadpans.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” Baekjin says seriously, through gritted teeth.
“You need to get out of the way,” Sieun replies, mimicking Baekjin’s tone.
Baekjin’s face relaxes, and he lets out a dry laugh as Sieun bends down to pick up his things. Baekjin doesn’t offer to help, he just watches from above, his intense eyes locked on the shadows beneath Sieun’s.
“You look terrible,” Baekjin says, his voice free of mockery.
“I know,” Sieun replies. “Haven’t slept much.”
“You have to. Otherwise your brain won’t work properly. I won’t have anyone to compete with. It’ll get boring.”
Sieun straightens back up and stares at him for a moment. They’re not exactly friends, and not exactly rivals either. They just understand each other in an unspoken way, neither bothered by the other’s presence. It’s comfortable, Sieun thinks. Baekjin isn’t overly curious about him, doesn’t cross any boundaries and Sieun does the same.
Their quiet understanding makes Sieun feel a little less alone. And even though they haven’t talked about it, and probably never will, he thinks Baekjin feels that way, too.
“That won’t happen,” Sieun says, watching as the machine picks up a can and lowers it into a tiny door. Baekjin smirks beside him, and a moment later they’re walking to an empty table.
Eyes follow them as they go, and Sieun can hear the whispers. This happens every time they interact: people stare, then move away and whisper.
They’re both so quiet. What do they even talk about?
What a scary pair. No wonder they get along.
Are they friends or enemies?
How can you be friends when you’re both trying to be top student?
That last bit reaches Sieun’s ears.
“I’m not trying,” he says dryly to Baekjin. The dude who said it hears it too, and immediately looks away. Baekjin chuckles quietly.
A second later, they sit down at an empty table near the edge of the room.
“You should talk to your doctor. Change your medication to something stronger,” Baekjin says, ignoring the whispers around them, his voice low as they settle in. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
Sieun takes a sip of his energy drink and thinks for a moment. They’ve changed his medication before. It’s not working. He’s tried so many different alternatives, but nothing helps.
He looks down at the empty space on the table in front of Baekjin and keeps his eyes there as he speaks.
“We both do.”
Baekjin lowers his gaze to that same spot and lets out a quiet sigh. They remain silent after that, the whispers around them fading until it’s time to head back to class.
3:00 pm.
Suho’s grandmother is gently cleaning his arms and hands with a warm cloth. Her movements are slow, careful, filled with the kind of touch only someone who loves deeply can give.
“My child,” she says softly, her eyes fixed on Suho’s face.
He barely looks like himself anymore. The breathing tube covers his mouth, the golden hue of his skin has faded into paleness. Sometimes he bruises. Sometimes he’s swollen. It all makes him look like someone else.
“My boy,” she cries out. The cloth stills in her hand as sobs rack her body.
“I wanted to feed you seaweed soup today. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Her crying grows louder, spilling into the quiet of the room. It echoes, rising above the steady beeping of machines.
The sound slips into Suho’s mind, distant and distorted, like it’s coming from four rooms away. But he hears it clearly enough to know it’s her.
“Grandma?” he says. But in this space, his voice makes no sound.
“Grandma!” he tries again.
But he knows she can’t hear him. Hell, he can’t even hear himself.
He’s not sure where the pain is coming from. He can’t feel his body the way he used to. He knows there’s a body tethered to him somewhere, but its shape, its borders, have slipped beyond his reach. It’s like he’s turned to dust, scattered across the world. His arm could be drifting somewhere over Canada, or sinking quietly into the ocean.
But the pain is there, real and strong. He assumes it must be in his heart, but he’s not sure where his heart even is.
Something else slides in, smoother this time. A melody. She’s singing happy birthday to him.
The pain worsens. It slashes through him. It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt. Worse than the accident that put him here.
“I’ll be there soon,” he says, even if the words are only for himself. He needs to hold on to them. Needs to believe they’re true.
Everything goes quiet after that. He’s alone in his mind again. And if he could cry in this strange, empty space, he’d be sobbing.
8:30 pm.
Sieun opens the front door and is met with nothing but darkness and silence. He’s not surprised, of course.
Back when he got into university, he’d mentioned the idea of moving out. His parents had disagreed. Said, “We’re barely home anyway, so you might as well stay.”
They were right. So he stayed.
If they ever drop by, it’s usually for two nights before they leave again. So, he doesn’t mind. Not really.
He takes off his shoes, leaves them by the door, and slips into his house slippers. The familiar shuffle of fabric against wood accompanies him as he walks toward the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water and looks around.
The place is neat, aesthetically pleasing, even magazine-worthy in some corners, but it’s never felt like a home. He thinks about that sometimes. About what home is supposed to feel like. He’s pretty sure this isn’t it. But at least it’s comfortable.
He heads to the bathroom, his footsteps echoing through the emptiness.
He lets the tub fill while he undresses, dropping everything where he stands. Steam begins to curl around the edges of the mirror, clouding it over. Still, he catches a glimpse of himself; his exhausted face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the cracked dryness of his lips. He winces at the sight.
Baekjin was right. He needs sleep.
Sieun walks to the bathtub, turns off the spout, and steps in. He lets himself slide down slowly, the warm water rising to meet him. This is the only warmth he ever feels, the only comfort he knows throughout his day. Returning to this tub, filling it with heat, and sinking into silence.
He sits back, grips the edges of the tub with both hands, and pushes himself downward. Water covers his chest, then his neck, until it swallows him whole.
He opens his eyes. Watches the way the light bends and flickers beneath the surface. Follows a few stray bubbles dancing toward the air above. With each second, he drifts closer to sleep, or something like it… He wishes he could stay here forever.
But then the pressure starts to build at his throat, and the comfort fractures. That’s how he knows it’s time to get out.
He dries himself off, pulls on a pair of boxers and an oversized tee, then drags his feet toward the bedroom. His pills sit on the desk, lined up beside a half-full bottle of water. He stares at them for a while, trying to do the math in his head.
How many would it take, for his body to feel the same comfort he found in the tub?
Since he can’t bring the water here, can’t fill his room with warmth, how many would it take to feel that peace again? To feel it forever?
He’s supposed to take just one, but he settles on two. He usually does. Some days they help. Some days they don’t.
He pops them into his mouth, takes a sip of water, and drags himself toward the bed. He lets his body fall onto the mattress, landing at an odd angle, one arm pinned beneath him. He doesn’t move.
He leaves it there, waits until it starts to go numb, until that tingling creeps from his fingertips to his elbow like a trail of five hundred ants marching up his skin. And then, nothing.
He focuses on that. Closes his eyes.
The first few minutes are the hardest. His eyes keep twitching, his mind refuses to settle. No matter how tired he is, sleep won’t take him just yet.
But then, another minute passes. His eyes go still. His body feels lighter, like something has finally let go. A quiet calm settles around him. He doesn’t question it, just lets himself drift with it, lets it carry him.
And then, he’s asleep.
If hell is real, Suho thinks, it must be something like this.
Being trapped inside your own body, fully aware you’re in a coma. Able to think, to wonder, but with no sense of time; no clue if days are passing or just minutes. Voices come and go like echoes underwater, even when they’re right beside you, calling your name.
Yes. This had to be hell.
Suho had tried to find a way out. Tried to move toward something, anything. But there’s nothing here. Just darkness. Whether he goes forward, backward, left, or right, he can’t tell. There’s no difference, no direction. So he stopped trying.
Now, he just stays still. Always. Waiting for something to shift.
Just then, something echoes in his mind. A voice. Someone is speaking.
He strains to listen, trying to place it, but the sound keeps building, and it’s not the broken stream of words he’s grown used to. This is different. Clearer. Steady.
He searches for the source, scouring every corner of his mind with growing desperation. And then, he sees it. A faint glow, flickering somewhere to his left. The voice is still coming from it.
This is it. I’m fucking dying.
That’s his first thought.
But it’s also the first thing he’s seen since the accident. And sure, he’s terrified. But he’s also too curious, maybe even a little too hopeful, to let the fear of death stop him now.
So he moves, forward and to the left, toward the glow. For the first time since this all began, he knows which direction he’s going.
As he gets closer, the voice sharpens. It’s a man’s voice, unfamiliar, but steady. Suho doesn’t recognize it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s there, and Suho can’t believe this is happening.
When he reaches the glow, he sees it’s coming from the ground. He looks down, and… what even is he looking at?
Images, shifting and alive. Like a movie projected onto water. Moving pictures rippling across a liquid screen.
“A movie on a puddle? Hah. I’m fucked,” Suho says, and he hears it. Not just in his head, but out loud. The sound of his own voice cracks through the silence, and something sharp jolts inside the mess of his scattered body.
What the hell is happening?
Then another voice. This time, a woman’s. Unfamiliar too. But does that even matter?
This might be it. This might mean it’s time to wake up.
He pushes the hesitation down and leans in closer. The puddle gleams brighter, and then it pulls him in. No resistance, no warning.
And then he’s falling.
And falling.
And falling.
Until he hits solid ground.
It takes a moment, maybe more, for his senses to adjust, for his breath to return to him. But when it does, when everything finally settles, he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
He’s in a house. A room, specifically. There’s a bed, a desk, a bookshelf. Everything is vivid, colorful. And he can see it.
His hands fly to his face so fast he practically slaps himself, but he doesn’t care. He feels his cheeks, his eyebrows, the curve of his eyelids.
Then he looks down. His hands. His arms. Lower, his legs, his feet.
He’s here. Whole. Present.
An unspeakable joy hits him, right in the chest, and right now he knows exactly where that is. His eyes sting with tears. He doesn’t know what’s happening, not really, but whatever this is, it’s better than the nothingness.
Suddenly, the door swings open, fast. Suho gasps, instinctively flinching, certain it’s going to hit him.
But it goes right through him.
The door slams shut with a bang, and a small kid locks it quickly, then darts to the desk and flips open a workbook, already scribbling down math equations with focused determination.
Suho steps closer, then crouches beside him, tilting his head.
“Hello?” he says softly, but the kid doesn’t look up. Doesn’t flinch. Suho quickly realizes, he can’t see him. Can’t hear him either.
“Yeon Sieun,” a voice calls from behind the door, followed by a knock. “Open the door. Talk to your dad.”
Suho turns back to the boy. Sieun doesn’t even glance toward the door. His small hands keep moving, pencil dragging quickly across the page. Suho watches his face, sees the tightness in his expression, the way he’s trying so hard not to cry. Trying to look composed. Trying to act like it doesn’t bother him.
Suho knows that look. He’s worn it himself. That ache of having to be mature when you’re still just a kid.
“Now, why would you do this to a kid?!” Suho says, loud and angry, even though no one can hear him.
The knocking stops. The kid keeps writing, still biting back tears. Still pretending it doesn’t hurt.
Suho watches helplessly. He wants to crack a joke, ruffle his hair, or storm outside and scream at whoever’s behind that door. But he knows there’s nothing he can do here, either.
He lets out a long sigh, the kind that sinks deep.
Even so, he thinks, this is still better than nothing.
Just then, he hears a sniffle. He looks back at the kid, thinking he must’ve decided it’s safe to cry now that no one’s at his door. But the kid isn’t crying, he’s focused on his homework, eyes dry and steady.
Suho frowns, squinting as he scans the room again.
That’s when he sees it: in the shadowed corner, someone’s sitting on the floor, curled up with his knees to his chest.
Suho startles, stumbling back. But the shock fades almost instantly, because the guy isn’t scary. He’s just… sad.
Quietly, Suho steps closer, crouching beside him. He studies his face.
The first thing Suho notices is the way the guy is looking at the kid; softly, like he knows him. Maybe it’s his little brother? But if that’s the case, why isn’t he saying anything?
Suho leans in, eyes narrowing as he studies the man’s face. And then he sees it. The eyes. They’re the same. Exactly the same as the kid’s.
Realization hits him like a jolt.
That kid… is him.
Suho’s gaze bounces between the two, trying to make sense of it.
Is this a memory? A dream? Was he in a coma too? Is he even real?
His thoughts are cut off by another soft sniffle. Suho looks back up, eyes settling on the tears streaming down the man’s face. On how they cling to his lashes first, like crystal beads before slipping down cheeks flushed red from crying.
“Looks like they hurt you a lot,” Suho says quietly, his voice laced with sympathy, even if the other can’t hear him.
Another tear rolls down.
And Suho doesn’t know why he does it, doesn’t know what or who to blame, but he moves his hand forward and up, toward the guy’s face, and tries to wipe the tear away. Instinctive. Useless. He immediately scrunches his face, eyes squeezing shut as he remembers that a door had gone straight through him just minutes ago, like he was nothing but air.
When he opens his eyes again, the tear is still there, still rolling down exactly as it had before.
But then, he freezes.
The guy is staring straight through him. Eyes wide.
Did he feel it? But the tear…
And then Sieun is practically looking right at him, just for a second, before his eyes shift, scanning the space beyond. Confusion is written all over his face.
“What?” he says, voice soft, uncertain. Then, suddenly, he reaches out.
Suho flinches, falling back on his ass to avoid the hand, and just like that, he’s falling again. And falling. And falling. Until he hits the bottom of the void.
No need to wonder. He knows exactly where he is.
Only, something’s different now.
The darkness is the same, but his body feels… less scattered. Still dust, but dust that’s beginning to settle. Almost within reach.
He thinks back to what just happened; the guy’s sad expression, the knock at the door, the voice calling out a name.
Yeon Sieun.
Just who are you?
Sieun’s body jerks suddenly, like he’s about to fall from a great height. He wakes with a start, breath catching as he sits up in bed, heart pounding.
The dream lingers. Though really, it’s less of a dream and more of a memory. One his mind drags him back to far too often.
And it’s always the same:
His parents arguing. The fight about him. About how much of a burden he is. They think he can’t hear them. That he doesn’t hear them call him weak. But he does. Every word.
Then he runs. Locks himself in his room. His chest tight, tears on the verge of falling.
So he turns to his school work. Puts all his focus there. Lets it drown everything else out.
And whenever this memory finds its way into Sieun’s dreams, all he can do is sit there and watch.
Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he doesn’t.
But it always hurts the same.
It never changes, never shifts, never feels different.
Until now.
He closes his eyes, tries to recall it.
He could’ve sworn he felt something touch his face. A warmth, soft and fleeting, just under his eye.
Instinctively, he brings his thumb to the spot where the warmth had been.
Weird.