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a tiny heist went down to rescue Rise and now he's being taken everywhere by Reid Wiseman because he's extremely important (he was supposed to be left on the craft, he has instead been adopted)
I think a lot of people forget that Wen Ning is hot. We know that both Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng are jealous of him, but this is generally assumed to be because Wei Wuxian prioritizes Wen Ning over the two of them during the events of the novels. He prioritizes Wen Ning as a member of his found family, as a partner in crime and as his closest friend. But it is so much funnier—so much juicier, drama-wise—to remember that Wen Ning is described as physically beautiful many times in the books. An enemy of the state just stole Wei Wuxian from right under your nose, and he’s also hot. Humiliating. Devastating. 2 dead 3k injured
I do respect the live action cast of One Piece more than other live actions cuz one of the dudes decided to double his muscle mass (no one actually told him to) for his character, and the other trained under professional chefs and learned mixology (again. no one asked him to)
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Minho stood in the entryway for a long moment, just staring at the wall. His shoulders were up somewhere near his ears, his bag still slung across his chest like he'd forgotten it was there. The kind of day that didn't have a name. Not a bad day in the dramatic sense, no disasters, no fights, nothing he could point to and say that's what broke me. Just a thousand tiny cuts. A schedule that ran overtime. A producer who talked over him. A dancer who kept missing the same count, and Minho had to smile and say "again, you've got this" when what he wanted to do was scream.
He heard you before he saw you. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. Then you were there, in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing his hoodie and absolutely nothing else of consequence.
You looked at him. Just looked.
No questions. No "how was your day?" No "what's wrong?" Just your eyes, scanning his face, reading the lines he hadn't learned how to hide yet.
Then you turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Minho blinked. He should probably move. He should probably take off his bag. He should probably,
The sound of your voice, slightly muffled because you were already on the phone. "Yeah, the usual. Double the dumplings. And the spicy rice cakes. Yes, to this address. Thanks."
Minho's bag hit the floor.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, you were leaning against the counter, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, scrolling through something on yours. You caught his eye and, there it was. That small, crooked smile. The one that said I see you. I've got you. You don't have to say anything.
You hung up. "Forty minutes."
"How did you-"
You shrugged, like it was nothing. Like you hadn't just reached into his chest and massaged the knots out of his heart without him saying a single word. "You get this little line. Right here." You stepped forward and pressed your fingertip gently between his eyebrows. "Between the eyes. Means you need dumplings."
He caught your wrist. Held it. Pressed his lips to your palm.
"I love you," he said, and it came out wrecked, because it was true in a way that terrified him sometimes.
"I know," you said softly. Then you tugged him toward the couch. "Come on. There's a variety show marathon. You're not allowed to think until the food gets here."
You pulled him down beside you, and he went willingly, gratefully, his head finding its natural resting place on your shoulder. Your fingers found his hair.
He still hadn't told you about his day. He didn't need to.
Not literally. But there was something in his mouth, something soft and vaguely offensive, and he was already mid-cough when he opened his eyes to find Soonie's tail draped directly across his face like a mustache from hell.
He sputtered. Swatted blindly. Soonie, offended by this betrayal, leapt off the bed with a yowl of protest.
Beside him, you were shaking.
Not with cold. Not with fear. With laughter. Silent, shoulder-shaking, hand-over-your-mouth laughter that you were desperately trying to contain and failing spectacularly.
Minho turned his head. Blinked at you with cat hair clinging to his eyelashes. "You saw that."
"I saw nothing," you gasped. "I was asleep. Completely asleep."
"You let him suffocate me."
"You're so dramatic. He was just-" You lost it, a snort escaping despite your best efforts, and that set you both off. Minho tried to stay dignified, he really did, but your laugh was infectious, that full-body thing you did, and soon he was laughing too, cat hair be damned.
You reached for him. He leaned into it instinctively, the way he always did, the way he'd been doing for years without thinking. Your thumb found the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, brushing away the evidence with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"There," you murmured, still smiling. "All better. Very handsome."
He caught your thumb with his lips before you could pull away. Pressed a kiss to the pad of it. Watched your eyes go soft and warm.
"You have cat hair on your face too," he whispered.
"Liar."
"Absolutely. Right there." He leaned in, touched his nose to yours. "Let me get it."
And he kissed you, slow and sweet, tasting morning and you and the life he still couldn't quite believe was his.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with that expression. The one that undid him every single time. Like he was something precious. Something miraculous.
"What?" he asked, suddenly shy.
You just shook your head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just-" You reached up, tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "You're here."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of wonder. Like you couldn't quite believe it either.
"Where else would I be?" he asked.
You didn't answer. You just pulled him back down, cat hair and all, and held on.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's choreography, worrying about tomorrow's schedule, spiraling about things that hadn't even happened yet.
He turned over, intending to stare at the ceiling instead, and froze.
You were facing him. Asleep, clearly asleep, your mouth slightly open, your breathing deep and even, one hand tucked under your pillow. The moonlight from the window painted half your face silver.
And Minho couldn't look away.
He'd seen you asleep a thousand times. A thousand nights of this. You stole the blankets. You talked in your sleep sometimes, nonsense words that made him smile. You reached for him in the dark, your hand finding his chest or his arm or his hair, pulling him closer even in unconsciousness.
But tonight, for some reason, it hit him differently.
How?
How did someone like you, you, with your laugh and your kindness and the way you remembered that he liked his coffee with just a splash of milk, the way you defended him to people who didn't matter, the way you looked at him like he hung the moon, how did someone like you choose someone like him?
He wasn't being self-deprecating. He genuinely didn't understand it. He was loud, sometimes too much. He was competitive, sometimes too much. He was insecure in ways he'd never learned to hide, and you'd seen all of it, the ugly parts, the tired parts, the parts he tried to keep from the world, and you'd stayed.
Not just stayed. You'd chosen him. Every day. For years.
Your hand twitched in your sleep, searching. Finding his arm. Curling around his bicep like it belonged there.
Minho's breath caught.
He lifted his free hand, slowly, carefully, and hovered it just above your cheek. Not touching. Just feeling the warmth radiating from your skin. Just tracing the shape of you with his eyes.
I don't deserve you, he thought. I don't know what I did to deserve you.
But he was too selfish to give you up. Too in love to question it too hard.
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you," he whispered, so quiet it was barely air. "I hope that's okay."
You stirred, just slightly. Your lips curved, just slightly. A sleepy, unconscious smile.
"Love you," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft.
Minho's eyes burned.
He closed the distance, pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, and finally, finally felt sleep tugging at him too.
"Love you more," he whispered against your skin. "Always."
Outside, the world kept spinning. Inside, in the dark, with you in his arms, Minho had everything he'd ever need.
Minho was standing at the stove, stirring the kimchi jjigae he'd been perfecting for months, your favorite, the one you always asked for when you'd had a hard day, when you appeared in the kitchen doorway. Same hoodie. Same bare feet. Same soft look on your face.
But something was different.
"Hey," you said. Casual. Easy.
"Hey yourself," he replied, not turning. "Dinner's almost ready. I added extra tofu, like you-"
"Minho?"
Something in your voice made him turn. Made the spoon pause mid-stir.
You were holding the rice cooker insert. Empty. Looking at it with an expression he couldn't quite read. Confusion? Frustration? Something in between.
"Did we..." You trailed off, shook your head slightly. "Sorry, this is dumb. Did we already eat? I was about to make rice and I can't remember if-"
"You asked me to make dinner," Minho said slowly. "An hour ago. You said you were craving the jjigae."
You blinked. Looked at the rice cooker. Looked at the pot on the stove. Looked at him.
"Right," you said, but it came out wrong. Too quick. Too automatic. "Right, of course. Sorry, I just-" A small, self-deprecating laugh. "Brain fog. Long week."
Minho smiled. He made himself smile, because that's what you do when someone makes a joke, when someone explains away a tiny, insignificant thing.
"Yeah," he said. "Long week."
You set the rice cooker down. Came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, pressed your face between his shoulder blades. He felt you breathe in, slow and deep.
"It smells amazing," you mumbled against his back.
He covered your hands with his. Held them tight.
"Anything for you," he said.
—
Three days later, you forgot Dori's name.
You were on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when the ginger menace jumped into your lap and started kneading your stomach with intense, focused determination.
You laughed, scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, buddy. Where'd you come from?"
Minho looked up from the photo album he was organizing, a project, he'd told you, just for fun, just to have all the pictures in one place.
"His full government name is Dori," he said lightly. "But he also answers to 'the menace' and 'get off the counter.'"
You smiled. Nodded. Kept scratching.
And Minho watched you.
Watched you look at the cat you'd had for four years. The cat you'd found as a kitten, soaking wet in the rain, and carried home in your hoodie pocket. The cat you'd named after your favorite character from your favorite movie, the one you made Minho watch at least twice a year.
You didn't say his name. You just called him "buddy."
Minho told himself it was nothing. You were distracted. You were tired. You called people the wrong names all the time, you'd called him Jisung once, early in the relationship, and they'd never let either of them live it down.
Minho was in the bedroom, folding laundry, your sweater, his shirt, the socks that never seemed to match no matter how carefully he paired them, when you appeared in the doorway.
You looked... small. That was the only word for it. Small in a way that made his chest tighten.
"Hey," he said, setting down the sweater. "What's up?"
You didn't come in. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, and stared at a spot on the floor.
"I need to tell you something."
The words landed like stones in still water. Minho felt the ripples before he understood why.
"Okay," he said carefully. "I'm listening."
You took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
"It's happening more often. The-" You gestured vaguely at your head. "The forgetfulness. Little things. What I went into the kitchen for. A word I was looking for. Whether I already told you something." A pause. "I forgot Chan's name yesterday. When we were texting. I had to scroll up to see who I was talking to."
Minho's hands had gone still on the laundry.
You looked up. Met his eyes. And he saw it, the fear. The real, raw fear you'd been hiding behind smiles and self-deprecating jokes for weeks.
"I'm going to call my doctor tomorrow," you said quietly. "Talk about it. It's probably nothing. Stress, or sleep, or-" You stopped. Swallowed. "But I wanted you to know. Before I... before I didn't."
Minho crossed the room in three steps. Took your face in his hands. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for telling me."
You let out a shaky breath. Leaned into him. Let him hold you up.
"It's probably nothing," you said again, like a prayer.
"Probably," he agreed, because he needed to believe it.
But his heart was already pounding. Already knowing. Already starting to break.
That night, you fell asleep in his arms, your breath warm against his neck, your hand curled loosely over his heart.
Minho didn't sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of you against him. Listening to the sound of your breathing. Committing it to memory. Every inhale. Every exhale. The way your eyelashes fanned against your skin. The tiny mole behind your ear that you hated and he loved.
It's probably nothing.
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and have you be fine, have this be a blip, a scare, a story you'd tell later with a laugh and an eye roll.
But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew.
Something was wrong.
And for the first time in his life, Minho had no idea how to dance his way out of it.
He tightened his arms around you. Pressed his lips to your hair.
"I've got you," he whispered into the dark. "No matter what. I've got you."
You stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and settled deeper against him.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho held on tight and prayed to every god he didn't believe in that tomorrow would be different.
Minho was in the middle of practice when his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. Choreography was already behind schedule, and Jisung kept messing up the transition, and Chan had that look on his face that meant they weren't leaving until they got it right. One more run. Then another. Then another.
His phone buzzed again.
And again.
He glanced at it between takes. Your name on the screen. Three missed calls.
His blood went cold.
"Give me a second," he muttered, already reaching for his phone, already stepping away from the mirrors and the music and the bodies around him.
"Hyung, we're in the middle-"
"Give me a SECOND."
The studio went quiet. Minho didn't notice. He had the phone to his ear, your contact photo staring back at him, you at the beach last summer, squinting into the sun, laughing at something he'd said.
You picked up on the first ring.
"Minho?"
Your voice. But wrong. Thin and stretched and scared in a way he'd never heard before.
"I'm here," he said quickly. "What's wrong? What happened?"
A breath on the other end. Shaky. Too shaky.
"I'm at the doctor's office. The, the neurologist. I came in for those tests, the memory ones, and they-" You stopped. He heard you swallow. "They want me to call someone. To come in. They said I shouldn't be alone for the results and I didn't know who else to-"
"I'm coming."
"The traffic is bad this time of day, you don't have to-"
"I'm coming. Send me the address. I'm coming right now."
He was already grabbing his bag. Already heading for the door. Chan called after him, worried, confused, and Minho just shook his head, couldn't form words, couldn't do anything but move toward you.
"Minho?" Your voice, small through the phone.
"I'm coming," he said again. "I'm almost there. Just, just stay on the phone. Okay? Stay on the phone with me."
The neurologist's office smelled like antiseptic and old magazines.
Minho burst through the door like a man being chased, hair disheveled, chest heaving, still in his sweat-soaked practice clothes. The receptionist looked up, startled, but he was already scanning the room, already searching,
You stood up from a chair in the corner. You looked so small. That was the only word for it. Small and pale and young in a way that made his heart crack right down the middle. You were wearing his hoodie again, the gray one, the one you'd stolen months ago and never given back, and your hands were shaking.
He crossed the room in four steps and pulled you into his arms. You crumpled against him. Let him hold you up. Let him be the thing that kept you from falling apart right there in front of everyone.
"I didn't know who else to call," you whispered into his chest. "They said to bring someone and I just, I just wanted you. I just wanted you here."
"I'm here," he said fiercely. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
A door opened. A nurse with a kind face and sympathetic eyes looked at them both.
The doctor's office was small. Cluttered with diplomas and anatomical diagrams and a box of tissues placed strategically on the corner of the desk. Minho hated it immediately. Hated the tissues most of all.
You sat in the chair across from the doctor. Minho stood behind you, one hand on your shoulder, because he couldn't sit. Couldn't be still. Needed to be touching you or he might shatter.
The doctor was a woman. Middle-aged. Gentle eyes. The kind of face that delivered bad news for a living and hadn't quite learned how to hide the toll it took.
"Thank you for coming in," she said to Minho. Then she turned to you, and her expression shifted into something carefully neutral. "I have the results of your cognitive assessments and the MRI."
Your hand found Minho's. Squeezed.
"Okay," you said. "Just, just tell us."
The doctor nodded. Opened a file. Looked at it for a moment, then set it aside and met your eyes directly.
"The MRI shows significant hippocampal atrophy. That's the area of the brain responsible for memory formation and retrieval." A pause. "Combined with your cognitive test results and the symptom pattern you've been reporting, we've arrived at a diagnosis."
The room was very quiet.
"It's a form of early-onset neurodegenerative disease. Specifically, a variant of accelerated retrograde amnesia." The doctor's voice was gentle but unflinching. "It's rare, especially in someone your age. But the pattern is clear. Your brain is struggling to consolidate new memories and is beginning to degrade existing ones, starting with the most recent and moving backward."
Minho's hand tightened on your shoulder. You reached up and held it there.
"What does that mean?" you asked. Your voice was steady. Too steady. "What does that mean for, for us? For our life?"
The doctor hesitated. Just for a moment. But Minho saw it. Saw the way she braced herself before continuing.
"The progression rate varies, but based on the scans, we're looking at an accelerated timeline. The memories you've formed in the last few years are the most vulnerable. As the disease progresses, you'll lose them. First recent events, then older ones. Eventually-" Another pause. "Eventually, you may lose most of your autobiographical memory. The people in your life. The experiences you've had."
"You're saying," Minho heard himself speak, his voice rough and strange, "you're saying she'll forget. She'll forget everything."
The doctor looked at him with those gentle, terrible eyes.
"I'm saying we need to prepare for that possibility. There are treatments that may slow the progression. Therapies that can help with coping strategies. But yes. The trajectory suggests significant memory loss over the coming months."
Months.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
You turned in your chair. Looked up at Minho. And he saw it, the moment you realized what this meant. What this would do to him. To the life you'd built together.
"Minho-"
"No." He shook his head. Dropped to his knees in front of you so you were eye to eye. Grabbed both your hands in his. "No. Don't. Don't you dare start worrying about me right now."
"But if I forget-"
"Then I'll remember." His voice cracked. He didn't care. "I'll remember for both of us. Every single day. I'll be here every morning and I'll tell you who I am and I'll make you fall in love with me again and again and again if that's what it takes."
Tears were streaming down your face. You didn't seem to notice.
"That's not fair to you," you whispered. "That's not, you can't spend your life-"
"Watch me."
He said it like a vow. Like a challenge to the universe itself.
The doctor was saying something about treatment plans, about support groups, about clinical trials. Minho heard none of it. He was too busy looking at you. Committing this moment to memory. The way your nose crinkled when you cried. The way your bottom lip trembled. The way your hands shook in his.
"I love you," he said. "I love you and I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere."
You nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"I love you too," you whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just don't forget this. Don't forget this right now. Me telling you. Me promising you. Hold onto this as long as you can."
Neither of you spoke in the car. Minho drove. You stared out the window. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shapes and people going about their ordinary lives, completely unaware that the world had ended.
At a red light, you reached over and took his hand.
He looked at you. You were still staring out the window, but your fingers were laced through his, holding on like he was the only solid thing left.
"Can we get ice cream?" you asked quietly. "The place with the weird flavors? The one we went to on our first date?"
Minho's throat closed.
"Of course," he managed. "Yeah. Of course we can."
Later, after the ice cream, after the crying, after the phone calls to family that neither of you had the strength to make yet, you fell asleep in his arms.
Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But everything was different now.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in his life, he was afraid of the morning.
Because tomorrow, you might wake up and know him.
Or tomorrow might be the first day you didn't.
He held you tighter. Pressed his lips to your hair. Closed his eyes against the dark and made himself a promise.
I'll be here. Every single day. I'll be here.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho began to say goodbye to someone who was still, impossibly, right there in his arms.
He watched the clock change. 2:13 AM. 3:47. 4:02. 5:19. The numbers glowed green and indifferent, and he watched them all, your body warm against his, your breath steady, your hand curled over his heart like it had always belonged there.
At 6:34, the alarm went off.
Not his. Yours. The one you set every morning because you liked to wake up slowly, to stretch and groan and burrow deeper into the pillows before finally surfacing.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Shifted away from him, reaching for the phone on your nightstand to silence it.
Minho held his breath.
You turned back over. Faced him. Your eyes were half-lidded, sleepy, soft in the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
And then you blinked.
Focused.
Looked at him.
Your body went still.
Minho felt it happen. Felt the exact moment the warmth in your eyes flickered and died, replaced by something else. Something cold and unfamiliar.
Stranger danger. That's what they called it in animals. That instinctive freeze when confronted with the unknown.
You were looking at him like he was the unknown.
"Hi," he whispered. His voice was wrecked. He hadn't used it in hours. Hadn't cried either, not yet, but his voice was wrecked anyway.
You pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to create space between your bodies. Your hand slipped away from his chest.
"Who-" You stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes darted around the room, the familiar walls, the unfamiliar man, the cats sleeping at the foot of the bed. "Who are you?"
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He'd known this was coming. He'd prepared for this. He'd promised himself he'd be strong, be gentle, be whatever you needed him to be.
But knowing and feeling were two different things.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice cracked on his own name. "I'm your, I'm your boyfriend."
You stared at him.
He watched your brain working, searching for something, anything, that would make this make sense. Your brow furrowed. Your lips parted. Nothing came.
"I'm sorry," you said, and it was polite. So painfully, horribly polite. The voice you used with strangers who stopped you on the street. "I don't, I don't remember."
Minho nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"That's okay," he lied. "That's, that's okay. The doctor said this might happen. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You were still looking at him like he was a puzzle you couldn't solve.
"How long?" you asked quietly. "How long have we been together?"
Four years. One thousand four hundred sixty-one days. Thirty-five thousand sixty-four hours. I stopped counting the minutes because it hurt too much to realize I'd never get them back.
"A while," he said instead. "A few years."
You looked down at yourself. At his hoodie you were wearing. At the bed you were in. At the cats who were still sleeping, oblivious, at the foot of it.
"I should-" You started to move, to get up, to escape. "I should go. I shouldn't be here. This isn't, I don't know you, I shouldn't be in your bed, I'm sorry-"
Minho's heart shattered.
"No, no, wait-" He reached for your hand, then stopped himself, hand hovering in the air between you. "Please. Just, can I show you something? Before you go? Please?"
You hesitated. Looked at his hand. Looked at his face.
Something in his expression must have reached you, because slowly, carefully, you nodded.
Minho reached for his phone on the nightstand. Hands shaking. Opened his photos. Scrolled past a thousand memories you no longer carried.
He turned the screen toward you.
It was a photo from two summers ago. You at the beach. Sand in your hair. Ice cream on your nose. Laughing at him for taking yet another picture, for documenting everything, for being ridiculous and sweet and so in love with you it was embarrassing.
You took the phone. Studied the image.
"That's me," you said quietly.
"Yeah."
"And that's..." You looked up at him. Back at the photo. At the way his arm was wrapped around your waist, the way he was looking at you in the picture like you were the sun. "That's you."
"Yeah."
You stared at the photo for a long time.
Minho watched you. Committed this to memory too. The way the morning light caught your eyelashes. The way your lips moved slightly as you tried to find words. The way your hand trembled holding his phone.
"I don't remember," you whispered finally. "I'm sorry. I don't remember any of it."
The tears came before he could stop them.
He turned his face away, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to get himself under control. But they kept coming, silent and hot, because you were right here and you didn't know him and you were sorry and God, it hurt, it hurt so much worse than he'd ever imagined.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and now you sounded scared. "Please don't cry. I didn't mean to, I don't know why I'm here, I don't know you, I'm sorry-"
"It's not your fault." He forced the words out through the wreckage of his throat. "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just, I'm just sad. That's all. I'm just sad."
You reached out.
Hesitated.
Then, gently, so gently it broke him all over again, you touched his cheek. Wiped a tear away with your thumb.
The gesture was so familiar. So you. Even when you didn't know him, your body remembered. Your body knew how to comfort him.
He looked up. Met your eyes.
You were looking at him with confusion, yes. With fear, yes. But underneath it, something else. Something soft. Something curious.
"You really love me," you said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." His voice broke on the word. "Yeah. I really do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you looked down at his hand, still lying on the bed between you. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and took it.
"I don't remember you," you said. "But I think, I think I'd like to. If that's okay."
Minho squeezed your hand. Held on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"That's more than okay," he whispered. "That's everything."
You sat at the kitchen table in his hoodie, your hoodie, the gray one, but you didn't know that, and watched him make coffee.
He could feel your eyes on him. Studying him. Trying to piece together who this stranger was who claimed to love you.
"What's my favorite food?" you asked suddenly.
He turned, surprised by the question. "Tteokbokki. The spicy kind. You say it's the only food that's allowed to make you cry."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That's specific."
"You're specific. You have opinions about everything. You once spent twenty minutes explaining why the rice at that one restaurant was wrong. I didn't understand half of it, but I loved watching you talk about it."
You ducked your head. Almost shy.
"What else?"
He leaned against the counter. Let himself look at you. Really look.
"You hum when you're happy. Not songs, exactly. Just, melodies. Made-up ones. You don't realize you're doing it." He paused. "You steal the blankets. Every single night. I wake up freezing and you're wrapped up like a burrito and I wouldn't change it for anything."
Your cheeks pinked.
"You snore," he continued, smiling now despite everything. "Just a little. Only when you're really tired. You deny it every time I mention it. You say I'm lying and then you fall asleep on my chest and snore again."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
You laughed. Just a small one. Just a breath. But it was real.
And Minho realized, with a ache so deep it almost doubled him over, that this was his life now. Collecting your laughs like precious coins. Hoarding every smile. Falling in love with you over and over again, knowing you'd forget by tomorrow.
He brought you coffee. Made it exactly how you liked it, light roast, a splash of milk, no sugar. Handed it to you.
You took a sip. Your eyes widened.
"This is perfect," you said. "How did you know?"
"I know everything about you," he said simply. "Every single thing."
You looked at him over the rim of your cup. Something shifted in your eyes. Something warmer.
"Tell me more," you said softly. "Tell me everything."
And so he did.
He told you about the first time he saw you, at a friend's party, laughing at something, your whole body committed to it. He told you about your first date, the ice cream place with the weird flavors, how you'd ordered something called "sweet potato and honey" and made him try it. He told you about the cats, how you'd found Dori in the rain and carried him home in your hoodie pocket. He told you about the way you danced when you thought no one was watching, all wrong and beautiful and so perfectly you.
You listened. Asked questions. Laughed in the right places. Cried a little when he told you about the night you first said "I love you."
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his coffee was cold and the morning had somehow slipped away into afternoon, you reached across the table and took his hand.
"I don't remember any of it," you said quietly. "But I believe you."
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
You squeezed his hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" you asked. "When I wake up and don't remember again?"
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
"Yes," he said fiercely. "Every tomorrow. Every single one. I'll be here."
You smiled. That small, kind smile. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like hope.
That night, you fell asleep on the couch watching a movie.
Minho carried you to bed. The same bed you'd woken up in this morning, terrified of the stranger beside you. The same bed you'd share tonight, trusting him because he'd spent the whole day earning it.
He tucked you in. Pulled the blankets up to your chin. Brushed the hair from your face.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Your hand found his and held on.
"Minho," you whispered. Just his name. But you said it like you knew him. Like you remembered.
"Yeah," he breathed. "I'm here."
"I'm glad." Your eyes were still closed, your voice thick with sleep. "I'm glad you're here."
Tears slid down his cheeks. Silent. Endless.
"Me too," he whispered. "Me too."
He stayed there until your hand went slack, until your breathing evened out, until he was sure you were asleep. Then he pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead and whispered the words he'd say every night for the rest of his life:
"I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."
He turned off the light.
Walked to the living room.
Sat on the couch in the dark and finally, finally let himself break.
Not in any way a stranger would notice. The furniture was the same. The photos on the walls were the same. The cats still slept on the same pillow, chased the same sunbeams, meowed at the same time every morning for food.
But the apartment had changed.
There were sticky notes now. Dozens of them. On the bathroom mirror: Your name is ____. You are safe. Minho is your person. On the refrigerator: Food inside. Eat something. Minho made it. On the nightstand: This is Minho. He loves you. You love him too.
Minho had gotten good at writing them. Short. Clear. Kind. Nothing that would scare you, nothing that would make you feel broken.
He wrote new ones every night before bed, because you'd been known to wake up in the middle of the night disoriented, and he needed you to see his words before you saw your own panic.
Tonight, he sat at the kitchen table with a stack of sticky notes and a pen that was running out of ink.
The photo album sat in front of him.
He'd finished it last week. Three months of work, distilled into fifty pages. Your life together. Your love story. Page after page of proof that you had existed, that you had been happy, that you had chosen each other.
He'd shown it to you this morning.
You'd flipped through it slowly. Studied each photo like a detective examining evidence. Asked questions he'd answered a hundred times before.
Who's this? That's us at the beach. You buried me in the sand and then left me there to get ice cream.
When was this? Two years ago. Your birthday. You said you wanted to go somewhere warm, so I booked flights that night.
Why are we making that face? Because you dared me to eat a whole lemon and I actually did it. You laughed so hard you cried. That's you crying in the photo. Right there.
You'd laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. And Minho had felt his heart crack open and heal itself in the same breath.
But then you'd gotten to the last page. A photo of the two of you at home, ordinary Tuesday night, you in his lap and both of you smiling at the camera like idiots in love.
You'd stared at it for a long time.
Then you'd looked up at him, and your eyes were wet, and you'd said the words that would haunt him forever:
"I wish I could remember loving you. It must have been amazing."
He'd held it together until you went to take a shower. Then he'd sat on the bathroom floor and cried into a towel so you wouldn't hear.
You came out of the bedroom wrapped in his hoodie, the gray one, always the gray one, even though you didn't know why you loved it so much, and sat across from him at the kitchen table.
He slid a cup of coffee toward you. Perfectly made.
You smiled your thanks. Took a sip. Made that small satisfied sound that made his chest ache.
"I have a question," you said.
"Anything."
You set down the cup. Looked at him with those eyes that held no memory of him but held everything else, your kindness, your curiosity, your stubborn beautiful soul.
"Why do you stay?"
Minho blinked. "What?"
"I've been here a month. I know because of the notes. I write the date on them now, so I can keep track." You tapped the edge of the table. "Every morning I wake up and I don't know you. Every morning you're here, with coffee and kind eyes and a photo album full of a life I don't remember. And I just-" You shook your head. "Why? Why do you stay? This has to be destroying you."
Minho was quiet for a long moment.
Then he reached across the table and took your hand.
"You want the truth?"
"Always."
He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
"The first week, I thought I couldn't do it. I thought it would kill me. Waking up every day to the person I love most looking at me like a stranger. Having to introduce myself over and over. Watching you search your own mind for something that isn't there anymore." His voice wavered. He steadied it. "I cried every night. I cried in the shower. I cried in the stairwell so you wouldn't hear. I thought about leaving. Not because I didn't love you, but because I thought maybe you'd be better off without some stranger in your apartment every morning, claiming to be yours."
Your hand tightened on his.
"But then-" He smiled. Small and sad and real. "Then I'd make you coffee. And you'd take that first sip and make that little sound. The one you've made every morning for four years. And you'd look at me over the cup, and you'd smile, and you'd ask me a question about myself. Because that's who you are. You're curious. You're kind. Even when you don't know me, you want to know me."
Tears were forming in your eyes. You didn't blink them away.
"Every day, I get to fall in love with you all over again," he continued. "Every day, I get to see you for the first time. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. The way you talk to the cats like they understand every word. Every single day, I get to discover you again."
He squeezed your hand.
"And every night, when you fall asleep in my arms, you hold onto me. Even when you don't know who I am, your body remembers. You reach for me in the dark. You say my name in your sleep. And I think, I think maybe some part of you knows. Some part of you remembers loving me. Even if your mind can't."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.
"So that's why I stay," he whispered. "Because loving you, even like this, especially like this, is the best thing I've ever done. And I'm not going to stop. Not ever."
You were crying now. Quietly. Beautifully.
"You deserve so much better than this," you said.
"I have you," he replied. "That's the only thing I deserve. That's the only thing I want."
You stood up. Walked around the table. Climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.
He held you. Rocked you gently. Pressed kisses to your hair.
"I don't know why I love you," you whispered against his neck. "I don't remember why. But I do. I feel it. Right here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "It's like, like my heart knows you even when my head doesn't."
Minho closed his eyes. Let the tears fall.
"That's enough," he breathed. "That's everything."
Later, you fell asleep in his arms. Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But tonight, something was different.
Just before sleep took you, you stirred. Lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light from the window.
"Minho?" you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
His heart clenched. "I know, baby. I know."
"What if one day I wake up and I don't just forget you? What if I forget how to love? What if I forget how to feel?"
He pulled you closer. Held you tighter.
"Then I'll love you enough for both of us," he said. "I'll feel enough for both of us. I'll remember enough for both of us. You don't have to be scared. I've got you. I'll always have you."
You looked at him for a long moment. Searching his face. Finding whatever it was you needed to find.
Then you smiled. Soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurt.
"I believe you," you whispered. "I don't know why, but I believe you."
"That's all I need."
You kissed him. Just a gentle brush of lips. Just a promise.
Then you settled back against his chest, your hand over his heart, and within minutes you were asleep.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, holding you close.
And he thought about all the tomorrows ahead. All the mornings he'd wake up a stranger. All the coffees he'd make. All the introductions. All the photo albums. All the moments of recognition that would fade by nightfall.
It would be hard. It would be devastating. It would break him over and over again.
But right now, with you in his arms, breathing softly, trusting him even though you didn't know why,
At 3 AM, Minho carefully extracted himself from your arms. You stirred, mumbled, but didn't wake.
He went to the kitchen. Sat at the table. Pulled out a fresh sticky note and the pen that was almost out of ink.
He wrote:
Good morning. I'm Minho. I'm the luckiest person in the world because I get to love you. Today, I'll make you coffee. I'll show you photos. I'll tell you stories. And by the end of the day, you'll smile at me like I'm someone special. You'll hold my hand. You'll fall asleep in my arms.
You won't remember tomorrow. But I will. I'll remember every single second.
And I'll be here. Waiting. Ready to fall in love with you all over again.
Always yours,
Minho
He placed it on the nightstand, right where you'd see it when you woke.
Then he climbed back into bed, pulled you gently against his chest, and closed his eyes.
That's what the doctor had called it, anyway. A last-ditch effort. An experimental treatment that had shown promise in early stages. Not a cure, never a cure, but maybe a slowdown. Maybe a few more months of memories. Maybe a little more time.
You'd agreed before the memory loss fully hit. Sat in that same office with the gentle-eyed doctor and the box of tissues and signed your name on page after page of consent forms. Minho had held your hand the whole time. Had watched you scribble your signature with a determination that made his chest ache.
"I want to fight," you'd told him afterward, in the car, with the rain streaming down the windows. "I want to try. For us. For more time."
He'd kissed you. Right there in the parking lot. Long and slow and desperate.
You'd go to the hospital, sit in a room with pale blue walls and a television that only played cooking shows, and they'd hook you up to an IV. The medication was clear. Unremarkable. It dripped into your veins for three hours while you watched chefs compete and Minho held your hand and you both pretended this was normal.
For the first three months, it seemed to work.
You still forgot. Every morning was still a reintroduction. But the forgetting seemed... slower. Smaller. You remembered the cats' names more often. You remembered the gray hoodie was yours. Sometimes, just sometimes, you'd look at him and something would flicker in your eyes, recognition, maybe, or something close to it.
You were burning up. Literally burning. Your skin was hot to the touch, damp with sweat, and you were shaking, violent, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the bed frame.
Minho was awake instantly.
"Hey. Hey, baby. Can you hear me?"
Your eyes were open but unfocused. Glassy. Your lips moved but no sound came out.
He grabbed his phone. Dialed. Pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while the other held your face, tried to ground you, tried to bring you back.
"The clinical trial hotline," he said when someone answered. "My girlfriend. She's in the trial. She has a fever and she's shaking and she's not responding-"
The ambulance came.
Minho rode in the back, holding your hand, watching your chest rise and fall, praying to every god he'd never believed in.
The hospital was too bright. Too loud. Too full of people going about their ordinary lives while yours hung in the balance.
Minho sat in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and stared at a wall that was painted a color designed to be calming. It wasn't calming. Nothing was calming.
A doctor came out after what felt like hours. Young. Tired. Sympathetic in that practiced way that meant bad news.
"Mr. Lee?"
Minho stood. His legs almost gave out.
"She's stable," the doctor said quickly. "The fever is responding to treatment. But we need to talk about the clinical trial."
Minho just looked at him. Waiting.
"The reaction she had, it's a known risk. Severe neuroinflammation. Her body is rejecting the treatment." The doctor paused. "We can continue the infusions, but the likelihood of another reaction is high. Each one could be worse than the last. Seizures. Organ stress. Potentially-" Another pause. "Potentially fatal."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"What happens if we stop?" Minho heard himself ask.
"The memory loss will accelerate. The timeline we discussed initially, it will move faster. Weeks instead of months." The doctor's eyes were gentle. Cruelly gentle. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
So pale. So small. Tubes and wires connecting you to machines that beeped and hummed and kept you alive.
But your eyes were open. And when you saw him, you smiled.
"Minho."
It was your voice. Your smile. Your eyes looking at him with recognition, real recognition, not the polite confusion of a stranger.
He crossed the room in three steps and was at your side, holding your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles, crying without making a sound.
"Hey," you whispered. Your voice was rough. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I was scared. Because you're here and you know my name and I don't know how to handle any of this."
Your fingers tightened on his. Weak, but there.
"I remember," you said softly. "Today. I remember today. The ambulance. The lights. You holding my hand." A pause. "I was so scared. But you were there. You're always there."
"I'll always be there," he promised. "Always."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then your eyes drifted to the window, to the gray sky beyond, to the ordinary world going about its ordinary day.
"What did the doctor say?" you asked quietly.
Minho's heart stopped.
"About what?"
"Don't." You looked back at him. "Don't protect me. I can tell by your face. It's bad. Just tell me."
He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell you everything was fine, that you'd go home tomorrow, that you'd have more time.
But you'd asked him never to lie. Back when you still remembered everything. Back when you'd made him promise.
"The treatment is hurting you," he said. "The fevers, they'll keep happening. Each one could be worse. They said we can stop, but if we stop-"
"The memory loss gets faster." You finished his sentence. Nodded slowly. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe."
You were quiet for a moment. Processing. Accepting.
Then you squeezed his hand and smiled that small, brave smile that destroyed him every time.
"Then we stop."
"Baby-"
"Minho." You reached up with your free hand, touched his face. So gently. "I don't want to spend what time I have in a hospital. I don't want you to watch me seize and burn and maybe die in a room with pale blue walls. I want to go home. I want to sleep in our bed. I want the cats to sit on my lap. I want to drink your coffee and watch you dance and-" Your voice broke. "And I want to make as many memories as I can before I can't anymore."
He was crying. Both of you were crying.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
You pulled him down. Pressed your forehead to his.
"How long do I have?" you asked. "Before I forget everything? Before I forget you?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
"I need to know," you said. "I need to know so I can, so I can say goodbye properly. So I can tell you everything I need to tell you."
Minho closed his eyes. Let himself feel the weight of it.
"A month," he breathed. "Maybe two. The doctor said, the doctor said at this stage, with the accelerated timeline-"
"A month." You said it like you were testing the weight of it. "Okay. Okay. One month."
You pulled back. Looked at him with those eyes that held so much. Love. Fear. Grief. Gratitude.
"Then we have one month to live a lifetime," you said. "Can we do that?"
He kissed you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he couldn't say.
"We can do anything," he whispered against your lips. "As long as I'm with you."
The apartment felt different. Sacred, almost. Every corner held a memory you might not have tomorrow. Every object carried weight.
You stood in the living room, looking at the photo album on the coffee table. At the sticky notes on the walls. At the cats weaving between your ankles.
"It's strange," you said quietly. "Knowing I won't remember this. Knowing that right now, this moment, will be gone tomorrow."
Minho came up behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pressed his cheek to your hair.
"Then let's make it count," he said. "Let's make every second count."
You turned in his arms. Faced him.
"Teach me something," you said.
"What?"
"Teach me something I've never learned. Something new. Something I won't forget because I never knew it before." You smiled. "Give me a memory that's just for today."
So he did.
He taught you a dance move. The one from the music video, the one you'd tried to teach him a lifetime ago. You laughed at your own clumsiness, at his patient corrections, at the way you kept stepping on his feet.
And when you finally got it, finally nailed the sequence, you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him, full of joy and triumph and the fierce beauty of being alive.
"Did you see that?" you laughed. "I did it!"
"I saw," he said, smiling through the ache in his chest. "You were amazing."
You beamed at him. So proud. So present.
And Minho made himself a promise.
He would give you this. Every single day. A new memory. Something just for today. Something the thief couldn't steal because it had never been stolen before.
You sat at the kitchen table, the same table where he'd written a hundred sticky notes, and you wrote. For hours. Page after page.
When you finally came to bed, your eyes were red and swollen.
"What did you write?" he asked gently.
"Letters." You crawled into bed beside him, settled against his chest. "Letters to myself. For when I forget. Reminders of who I am. Who you are. What we had." A pause. "What we have."
He held you tighter.
"There's one for every day," you continued. "For as long as I can. When I wake up, I'll read one. And for a few minutes, I'll remember. I'll know."
Minho's throat was too tight to speak.
You lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light.
"You're in all of them," you whispered. "Every single one. You're the reason I wrote them. You're the reason any of this matters."
He kissed you. Long and slow and full of everything.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I know," you whispered back. "I love you too. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just stay with me. As long as you can. Just stay."
"I will," you promised. "I'll stay until I can't."
Panic seized him. He threw off the covers, ran to the living room,
You were there. Sitting on the couch. Staring at the photo album in your lap.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and fear.
You looked up. Your eyes were wet.
"I wanted to remember," you said quietly. "I wanted to look at these and really see them. While I still can."
He sat beside you. Pulled you against his side.
Together, in the dark, you looked at photos of a life you were losing.
The beach. The ice cream. The cats as kittens. Your first anniversary. The time he surprised you with tickets to your favorite band. The time you surprised him with a cake that looked nothing like the picture but tasted perfect anyway.
Page after page of proof that you had existed. That you had been happy.
"This one's my favorite," you whispered, pointing to a photo of the two of you in the kitchen, flour on both your faces, laughing at something the camera didn't capture.
"Why that one?"
"Because we're not posing. We're not trying to look good. We're just, happy. Real happy." You traced the image with your fingertip. "I want to remember this. Even if I forget everything else, I want to remember this."
You made a list. Things you wanted to do. Places you wanted to see. Foods you wanted to eat one last time.
Minho made it happen.
The beach where you'd had your first real conversation. The ice cream place with the weird flavors. The park where you'd first said "I love you." The rooftop where you'd watched the stars and talked about the future you thought you'd have.
Every day, a new adventure. Every night, you fell into bed exhausted but smiling.
And every morning, you woke up and read your letter and knew, for a little while, who you were and who he was and what you meant to each other.
Not just from the letter. Not just from the photos. You knew him. You looked at him and your eyes lit up with recognition, with love, with everything.
"Minho," you breathed, and it was his name, his name, the way you'd always said it, full of warmth and belonging.
"Yeah," he whispered, tears already forming. "Yeah, it's me."
You pulled him down. Kissed him like you'd never stop.
"I remember," you said against his lips. "I remember everything. Today. Right now. I remember."
You spent the day like you used to. Before the forgetting. You made breakfast together, pancakes, messy and imperfect and perfect. You danced in the living room, wrong and beautiful and so full of joy it hurt. You talked about nothing and everything. You held hands on the couch. You kissed in the kitchen. You laughed until you cried.
And at the end of the day, as the sun set through the window, you looked at him with eyes that held four years of love.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For fighting. For loving me even when I couldn't love you back." A tear slipped down your cheek. "For giving me a lifetime in a month."
He cupped your face in his hands. Brushed the tear away with his thumb.
"Thank you for letting me," he said. "Thank you for being the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for every single day, even the ones you forgot."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I'll try to remember tomorrow," you said. "I'll try so hard."
"I know you will." He kissed your forehead. "And if you can't, I'll be here. I'll always be here."
That night, you fell asleep in his arms.
And Minho held you close and prayed to a god he still didn't believe in that tomorrow, just once more, you'd know his name.
He'd gotten into the habit. Those final minutes of darkness, with you still asleep in his arms, were the only time he wasn't bracing for impact. The only time he could just be with you, without the weight of your empty eyes.
He watched the sunrise paint your face gold.
Committed it to memory. The soft part of your lips. The way your eyelashes fluttered during dreams he'd never know. The small sound you made when you were surfacing from sleep.
Please, he thought. Please. Just one more day. Just let her know me one more time.
You stirred.
Your eyes opened.
And Minho knew immediately.
There was nothing there. Not confusion, not fear, not the polite curiosity of a stranger. Just, nothing. Empty. Like a house where someone had turned off all the lights.
You blinked. Looked at him. Looked at the room. Looked at your own hands like you'd never seen them before.
It was a scream of not knowing. Of existing without context, without memory, without any thread connecting you to the world.
You scrambled backward, away from him, falling off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that should have hurt but you didn't seem to notice. Your back hit the wall and you pressed yourself against it, arms wrapped around your knees, rocking.
"No no no no no-"
Minho was on his knees in front of you, hands up, palms out, trying to be small, trying to be unthreatening.
"Hey," he said, voice shaking. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're in your home. My name is Minho, I'm your-"
You looked at him.
And the look in your eyes stopped his heart.
Not fear. Not confusion. Nothing. Absolute vacancy. Like looking at a person through a window made of ice.
"Who am I?" you whispered.
"You're-"
"WHO AM I?" Louder now. More desperate. Your hands flew to your head, gripping your hair, pulling. "I don't know who I am. I don't know anything. There's nothing. There's nothing in my head. Why is there nothing in my head?"
Minho reached for you.
You flinched like he'd hit you.
"DON'T TOUCH ME."
He froze. Hands still in the air. Tears streaming down his face.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I won't touch you. But please, please let me help you. You're sick. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But you're safe. You're in your home. I'm here to help you."
You stared at him.
And then you started hitting yourself.
Not hard at first. Just slapping your own temples, your own forehead, like you could shake something loose, like you could force your brain to work.
"Come back," you muttered. "Come back come back come back. There has to be something. There has to be something."
Minho lunged forward. Caught your wrists. Held them tight.
You fought him. Actually fought, kicking, thrashing, screaming. Not at him. At the universe. At the emptiness inside your own skull.
"LET ME GO. LET ME GO I NEED TO FIND IT I NEED TO FIND MYSELF-"
"You're right here," he sobbed, holding on, taking the hits because he couldn't let you hurt yourself. "You're right here. You're safe. Please. Please, baby, please-"
You went still.
Looked at him with those empty eyes.
"Baby," you repeated. Like the word meant nothing. Like it was sounds without sense.
One arm around your torso, pinning you gently but firmly to his chest, the other fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. You were still fighting, still thrashing, still making sounds that weren't words anymore, just raw, animal noises of distress.
"911," he gasped when someone answered. "Please. My girlfriend. She has memory loss. She woke up and she doesn't know anything. She's, she's hurting herself. She's terrified. Please. Please hurry."
He gave the address. Dropped the phone. Wrapped both arms around you and held on.
"Shh," he whispered against your hair. "Shh. I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. You're safe."
You didn't stop fighting until the paramedics arrived.
Minho watched them do it. Watched the medication flood your system, watched your eyes go from wild and empty to slowly, heavily closed. Watched them strap you to a gurney and wheel you out of the apartment you'd never remember living in.
He rode in the ambulance again.
Held your hand again.
Watched your chest rise and fall again.
But this time, when you opened your eyes, there was nothing there. And he knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that there never would be again.
The same doctor. The same gentle eyes. The same box of tissues on the corner of the desk.
Minho hated her. Hated this room. Hated the universe for putting them here again.
"She's in a state of complete autobiographical memory loss," the doctor said quietly. "Not just recent memories. Everything. Her name. Her age. The concept of self. It's all gone."
Minho stared at a spot on the wall.
"The terror she's experiencing, it's not something she can control. Imagine waking up in a world you don't recognize, in a body you don't recognize, with no context for anything. No language, even, beyond the instinctive. She doesn't know what a hospital is. She doesn't know what help is. She only knows fear."
"Fix it," Minho said. His voice was flat. Dead. "You're doctors. Fix it."
The doctor was quiet for a moment.
"There is one option."
Minho looked at her.
"The clinical trial. The one we stopped. If we restart it, at a higher dosage, there's a chance, a small chance, that some memories could return. Fragments. Impressions. Enough to give her back a sense of self."
"But?"
The doctor met his eyes.
"But the side effects will be worse. The fevers will be worse. The inflammation will be worse. She'll need round-the-clock monitoring. She'll need to stay here, in the hospital, indefinitely. And even then, there's no guarantee. She might never know who she is again. She might never know you."
Minho's hands were shaking.
"And if we don't?"
"Then she'll remain in this state. Permanently. She'll need full-time care. She won't recognize anyone or anything. She'll live in a world of strangers, including herself."
The room was very quiet.
"There's one more thing," the doctor said. "If we restart the trial, she can't go home. The risk of seizures is too high. She'll need to be here, in the neurology wing, for the foreseeable future. You can visit, but-"
"She can't come home."
"No. I'm sorry."
Minho closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep inside him, something broke for good.
They let him see you before they moved you to the neurology wing.
You were awake. Sedated, but awake. Your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and there was nothing in them. No recognition when he entered. No fear, either, thanks to the drugs. Just... absence.
He sat in the chair beside your bed. Took your hand.
You didn't react.
"I have to make a choice," he whispered. "And I don't know what you'd want. I don't know if you'd want to fight, or if you'd want to let go. I don't know anything anymore."
You blinked slowly. Your eyes drifted to his face. No spark. No flicker.
"You're in there somewhere," he said, his voice cracking. "You have to be. You're too bright to just, to just go out. You're too you."
Nothing.
He lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one.
"I'm going to say yes," he whispered. "To the trial. Because if there's even a chance, even a tiny chance, that you could come back, even for a moment, even just to know your own name... I have to take it. I have to."
You looked at him. Empty. Peaceful. Gone.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from this."
Page after page. Consent forms. Waivers. Acknowledgement of risks. Acknowledgement that you might die. Acknowledgement that you might never come back. Acknowledgement that even if you did, you might not know him.
He signed them all.
Then he went back to your room, your room, in the neurology wing, with the pale blue walls and the television that only played cooking shows, and sat beside you until visiting hours ended.
A nurse came. Gentle. Kind. "You should go home. Get some rest. She'll be here tomorrow."
Minho looked at you. Still staring at the ceiling. Still empty.
"Will she know me?" he asked. "When she wakes up?"
The nurse's silence was answer enough.
He stood. Leaned down. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll always come back. I promised you that, remember? Even if you don't."
You didn't respond.
He walked out of the room.
Walked down the hallway.
Walked out of the hospital and into the night and drove home to an apartment that would never feel like home again.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie. Winding around his ankles, meowing for food, for attention, for the person who wasn't there.
Minho stood in the entryway and looked at the life they'd built.
Your shoes by the door. Your hoodie on the back of the chair. The photo album on the coffee table. The sticky notes on the walls. The half-empty cup of coffee you'd never finish.
He walked to the bedroom.
Your side of the bed was still rumpled. The sheets still held your shape. The pillow still smelled like you.
He lay down on your side. Buried his face in your pillow. Breathed in the last traces of you.
And for the first time since this started, really started, Minho let himself break completely.
He sobbed until he couldn't breathe. Sobbed until his throat was raw. Sobbed until there was nothing left, just empty heaves and the sound of his own heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.
The cats jumped on the bed. Curled up around him. Dori licked the tears from his face.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were gone.
Not dead. But gone.
The person he loved, the one with the laugh that filled rooms, the one who stole blankets and snored and made him coffee and looked at him like he was something precious, that person was somewhere inside a body that didn't know her own name.
You were awake. Sitting up in bed. Your eyes were clearer today, less sedated, but still empty. Still vacant.
A nurse was helping you eat breakfast. You opened your mouth mechanically when the spoon approached. Chewed. Swallowed. No expression.
Minho stood in the doorway.
The nurse noticed him. Smiled gently. "She's had her first infusion. No reaction yet. That's good."
He nodded. Walked to your bedside.
"Hi," he said softly.
You looked at him. Nothing.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice only cracked a little. "I'm the person who loves you most in the world. I know you don't know me. That's okay. I'm going to keep coming anyway. Every day. I'm going to keep telling you who I am. I'm going to keep hoping."
You stared at him.
Then, slowly, your hand moved.
Reached out.
Touched his face.
Minho's breath caught.
Your fingers traced his cheek. His jaw. His lips. Like you were trying to read him through touch. Like your body was searching for something your mind had lost.
"No," you whispered.
His heart stopped.
"No what?"
You frowned. Concentration. Effort. Like you were trying to climb out of a deep, dark hole.
"No... don't..." You shook your head slightly. "Don't... cry."
Minho realized there were tears on his face. He hadn't noticed them falling.
"You don't know me," he whispered. "How do you know I was crying?"
You looked at him. Still empty. Still lost.
But your hand stayed on his face.
And for one moment, one tiny, impossible moment, he thought he saw something flicker in your eyes.
Then it was gone.
You pulled your hand back. Looked away. Stared at the wall.
Minho sat beside you for the rest of visiting hours. Holding your hand. Talking to you. Telling you stories about a life you'd never remember.
Sometimes you were awake. Sometimes you were asleep. Sometimes you were in the middle of a fever, shaking and burning and surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed.
He was there for all of it.
He read you letters, the ones you'd written, the ones you'd never read yourself. He showed you photos from the album, even though your eyes slid off them like water. He told you about the cats, about Dori's latest mischief, about Soonie's favorite sleeping spot.
And every day, before he left, he kissed your forehead and said the same thing:
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll always come back. I love you."
You never responded.
But sometimes, when he said it, your fingers would twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.
And Minho held onto that like a drowning man holds onto air.
Three weeks into your hospitalization, Minho found a letter he hadn't seen before.
It was tucked into the back of the photo album. Your handwriting on the envelope. His name. He opened it with shaking hands.
Minho,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone. Not dead, I made the nurse promise she'd give you this if I ever got to the point where I couldn't communicate anymore. So if you're reading this, I'm in that place. The empty place. And you're still here, being you, being the most stubbornly loving person I've ever known.
I need you to know something.
I'm not scared.
I know that sounds crazy. I should be terrified. But I'm not, because I know you're with me. Even if I don't know it in the moment, even if my eyes are empty and my hands don't hold yours back, some part of me knows. Some part of me feels you. And that part is peaceful.
You gave me that. You gave me a love so big it exists even when I don't.
I need you to promise me something. You're going to want to stay in that apartment forever, surrounded by my things, trapped in a life that's half-empty. Don't. Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll laugh again. Promise me you'll let yourself be happy, even if it's without me.
I know that seems impossible right now. But I need you to try. For me. For the person who loved you more than anything.
I don't know if there's an afterlife. I don't know if I'll be watching. But if I am, I'll be cheering for you. I'll be so proud of you. I'll be so grateful for every single second you gave me.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for loving me even when I couldn't love you back.
You were my whole heart. You will always be my whole heart.
Forever yours,
(Your name)
P.S. , Take care of the cats. They miss me. Tell them I love them.
Minho read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully, placed it in his wallet, and went to the hospital.
You were having a good day. No fever. Eyes open. You even looked at him when he walked in.
"Hi," he said, sitting beside you. "I brought a letter. From you. From before. Do you want to hear it?"
You stared at him. Empty.
He read it anyway.
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his eyes were wet, you reached out and touched his face again.
He sold the apartment. Packed up your things carefully, reverently. Kept the gray hoodie for himself. Donated the rest to a women's shelter, because you would have wanted that.
He found a smaller place. Closer to the hospital. Easier for visiting.
He took the cats.
And every single day, he went to see you.
You never knew him again. Not really. There were moments, flickers, glimpses, tiny windows where your eyes would focus and your hand would reach for his. But they never lasted. By the next visit, you were empty again.
But Minho kept coming.
He kept talking. Kept reading. Kept holding your hand.
Because somewhere, deep inside the empty, he knew you were there. The real you. The one who laughed with her whole body and stole blankets and made him coffee and looked at him like he was the sun.
Minho sat beside your bed, holding your hand, telling you about Dori's latest adventure. The cat had gotten stuck in a paper bag and stumbled around the apartment for an hour before Minho rescued him. It had been hilarious. You would have laughed.
He was mid-sentence when your fingers tightened on his.
He stopped. Looked at you.
Your eyes were open. Clear. Focused.
"Minho," you whispered.
Not a question. Not a stranger's polite confusion. His name. His name.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's me."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I remember," you said softly. "I remember everything."
Minho's world stopped.
"You-"
"For a minute. Maybe less. But I remember." You lifted your free hand, touched his face. "I remember loving you. I remember being loved by you. I remember everything that matters."
Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't care.
"I've been waiting," he choked out. "I've been waiting so long."
"I know." Your thumb traced his cheek. "I know. I felt you. Every day. Even when I couldn't respond. I felt you here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "Right here."
He leaned down. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." Your voice was getting weaker. Your eyes were fluttering. "I'll try to come back. I'll try to remember again."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be here. I'll always be here."
You smiled one more time.
Then your eyes closed, and you were gone again.
Minho sat beside you, holding your hand, crying without making a sound.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's visit, replaying your empty eyes, replaying the one moment of clarity you'd given him a week ago.
I remember loving you.
He held onto those words like a lifeline.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it before the sound could fully register, heart already pounding, because phones don't ring at 3:47 AM for good news.
The screen said: HOSPITAL.
He answered. Didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Mr. Lee?"
"Yes."
"It's Dr. Park. From the neurology wing." A pause. The kind of pause that stretches into eternity. "I'm so sorry to call at this hour. There's been an incident."
Minho was already standing. Already pulling on clothes. Already moving toward the door.
"What happened?"
"She had a seizure. A severe one. The team responded immediately, but-" Another pause. Longer this time. "It was too aggressive. We couldn't stop it. Her heart-"
The words stopped.
Minho stopped too. Frozen in the middle of his living room, one shoe on, one shoe off, the cats watching him with wide eyes.
"Mr. Lee? Are you there?"
"She's gone." His own voice. He barely recognized it.
"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. She wasn't in pain. I need you to know that. She wasn't in pain."
Minho's legs gave out.
He sank to the floor, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing.
"She was alone," he whispered. "She was alone and she didn't know who she was and she died alone."
"There was a nurse with her. She wasn't alone. And Mr. Lee-" The doctor's voice cracked, just slightly. Professionalism giving way to something human. "In her final moments, she said a name. Just once. Before the seizure took her."
Minho's heart stopped.
"What name?"
"Yours. She said 'Minho.' Clear as anything. And then she was gone."
The sob that tore out of him was animal. Primal. It came from somewhere so deep he didn't know it existed.
She remembered. At the end. She remembered.
"Thank you," he gasped. "Thank you for telling me."
"Someone will be in touch about, about arrangements. Take your time. There's no rush. And Mr. Lee?"
"Yes?"
"She was lucky to have you. I've never seen anyone fight as hard for someone as you fought for her."
The line went dead.
Minho sat on his living room floor at 3:47 AM, one shoe on, one shoe off, and held the phone in his hands.
The cats came to him. Dori first, then Soonie, then Doongie. They curled around him, pressed their warmth into his shaking body.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were really gone.
Not empty. Not waiting. Not somewhere inside a body that didn't know itself.
Gone.
The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. You were too bright, too alive, too much to just be gone.
But the phone call was real. The silence was real. The empty apartment was real.
One moment he was on the floor with the cats. The next, he was in the parking lot, engine off, hands still gripping the wheel like he'd been holding it for hours.
The sun was rising. Pale pink and orange over the buildings. Beautiful. The kind of sunrise you would have dragged him outside to see.
He sat in the car and watched it and thought about how the world kept spinning even when his had stopped.
A nurse met him at the entrance. The kind one. The one who always smiled at him when he came for visits.
Her eyes were red.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "She's still in her room. They haven't, they haven't moved her yet. I thought you might want-"
"Thank you."
His voice was automatic. His legs were automatic. Everything was automatic except the gaping hole where his heart used to be.
He stood outside it for a long time. Staring at the crack of light. Listening to the machines that weren't beeping anymore.
She's not in there, he told himself. She's not in that room. She's somewhere else. She's free.
But his hand still shook when he pushed the door open.
You were in the bed.
Still. So still. Your eyes were closed, your face peaceful, your hands folded over your chest like you were sleeping.
But you weren't sleeping.
He knew because your chest wasn't moving. Because the machines were dark. Because the room had the terrible quiet of finality.
He walked to your bedside.
Sat in the chair he'd sat in a thousand times.
Took your hand.
It was cold.
Minho lifted it to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one. Just like he'd done a million times before.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm always here. Remember?"
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
But he kept talking anyway.
"The cats miss you. Dori tried to steal my food this morning. Soonie slept on your pillow again. They know something's wrong. They keep looking at the door like you're going to walk through it."
He laughed. A broken, wrecked sound.
"I keep doing that too. Looking at doors. Expecting you."
He pressed your hand to his cheek. Held it there.
"The nurse said you said my name. At the end. Thank you for that. Thank you for remembering. Even for a second."
Tears dripped onto your cold fingers.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be in a world without you. I don't know how to wake up tomorrow and not come here. I don't know how to exist when half of me is gone."
He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to your still shoulder.
"You were supposed to forget me. Not leave me. You were supposed to be here, even if you didn't know me. I could handle that. I could handle anything as long as you were breathing."
A sob wracked his body.
"But you're not breathing. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to say goodbye."
He stayed like that for a long time. Holding your hand. Crying into your shoulder. Saying everything and nothing.
Eventually, a gentle hand touched his back.
The kind nurse. Tears streaming down her face.
"It's time," she whispered. "They need to, they need to take her now."
Minho nodded. Sat up. Looked at your face one last time.
He leaned down. Kissed your forehead. The same spot he'd kissed a thousand mornings.
"I love you," he said. "I loved you from the moment I met you. I'll love you until the moment I die. And after that, if there's anything after that, I'll find you. I'll always find you."
He stood.
Let go of your hand.
Walked to the door.
Turned back one last time.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Wherever you are. Wait for me."
Then he walked out of the room, and you were gone.
Your family. His family. A few close friends who had watched this whole tragedy unfold from the sidelines, helpless.
Minho stood at the front and didn't cry.
He'd done all his crying in that hospital room. Now there was just emptiness. Just the mechanical motions of existing.
They played your favorite song. The one you used to dance to in the living room. Minho stood perfectly still and listened and thought about the way you'd grab his hands and pull him into your ridiculous choreography, laughing, always laughing.
Afterward, people touched his arm. Said words he didn't hear. Cried tears he couldn't join.
He nodded. Thanked them. Waited for it to be over.
When everyone was gone, he stood alone by the grave. Looked at the headstone with your name on it. Your real name. The one he'd whispered a million times.
"I brought something," he said quietly.
He pulled the gray hoodie from his bag. Your hoodie. The one you'd stolen years ago and never given back.
He knelt. Folded it carefully. Laid it on the fresh earth.
"So you're not cold," he whispered. "Wherever you are."
The wind picked up. Rustled the leaves. Carried something that might have been a whisper or might have been his imagination.
He stood. Looked at the sky. Thought about all the mornings he'd wake up without you.
"I'll be okay," he said. "Eventually. I'll be okay because you'd want me to be. I'll laugh again. I'll dance again. I'll live again."
A pause.
"But I'll never stop loving you. Not for one second. Not ever."
That night, Minho sat on his couch with three cats on his lap.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie.
They purred. They kneaded. They looked at him with eyes that held their own kind of grief.
"She loved you," he told them. "So much. She found you in the rain, Dori. She carried you home in her hoodie pocket. You were so small you fit in one hand."
Dori blinked slowly.
"She used to talk to you guys like you understood every word. Maybe you did. She seemed to think so."
Soonie meowed. Soft. Questioning.
"Yeah," Minho whispered. "She's not coming back. I'm sorry. She's not coming back."
The cats curled closer. Pressed their warmth into him.
And for the first time since the phone call, Minho cried.
Not the violent sobs of that first morning. Not the wrecked grief of the hospital room. Just tears. Silent, endless tears, falling onto the fur of the creatures you'd loved.
He cried for you. For him. For the life you should have had.
And when the tears finally stopped, he sat in the quiet and felt something he hadn't felt in months.
Peace.
Not happiness. Not okay-ness. But peace. The knowledge that you weren't suffering anymore. That you weren't scared or empty or lost.
You were free.
And someday, a long time from now, he would be too.
He sat at the kitchen table, the same table where you'd written your letters to yourself, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen that was almost out of ink.
Dear y/n,
I don't know where you are. I don't know if you can hear this. But I need to talk to you anyway.
It's been a year. A whole year without you. I don't know how that's possible. It feels like yesterday and it feels like forever.
The cats are good. Dori still steals food. Soonie still sleeps on your pillow. Doongie still follows me from room to room like he's making sure I'm okay. I think they remember you. I think they're waiting too.
I moved. Just last month. A new place. Smaller. Closer to the park where we used to walk. I brought your hoodie. The gray one. It's in a drawer next to my bed. I don't wear it, I'm scared of wearing it out, but sometimes I take it out and hold it and pretend you're still here.
I laughed yesterday. Really laughed. Jisung told a stupid joke and I laughed before I could stop myself. It felt strange. Like betraying you. But then I remembered what you wrote in your letter-"Promise me you'll laugh again", and I think maybe you were cheering somewhere.
I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay. But I'm here. I'm living. I'm trying.
Because that's what you asked me to do.
I love you. I'll always love you. Every single day for the rest of my life, I'll love you.
Wait for me.
Yours always,
Minho
He folded the letter. Put it in an envelope. Wrote your name on the front.
Then he went to the cemetery and buried it in the earth beside you.
On a quiet Tuesday, many years later, an old man sat in a chair by a window.
His hair was gray now. His body was tired. But his eyes were still sharp, still bright, still full of a love that had never faded.
Three cats, descendants of the originals, slept at his feet.
In his lap was a photo album. Worn. Pages yellowed. Held together by love and tape.
He turned the pages slowly. Smiling at each one.
The beach. The ice cream. The kitchen covered in flour. The cats as kittens. A thousand small moments that added up to a lifetime.
He stopped at the last page.
A photo of you. In the gray hoodie. Laughing at something off-camera. Beautiful. Alive. His.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm getting close now. I can feel it."
The cats slept on.
"I hope you're still waiting. I hope there's something after this. I hope I get to see you again."
He traced your face with a trembling finger.
"If there is-" His voice cracked, old and soft. "If there is, I'm going to run to you. I'm going to hold you and never let go. And if there isn't, if this is all there is, then thank you. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything."
He closed the album. Set it gently on the table beside him.
Closed his eyes.
And smiled.
Because somewhere, in the space between heartbeats, he heard it.
You know, more millionaires should skip their 15th mansion and start funding multi-million dollar BL series to live out their gay fanfiction AU dreams—mafia boyfriends, rockstar angst, omegaverse heat cycles. Do something useful with your wealth!
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When Wei Wuxian woke up in some guys body and was like “I have to solve whatever this guy’s dying wish was or my soul will be torn asunder, but I don’t know exactly what the guy wanted,” I was like “oh yes I understand the plot. He will think the guy wanted revenge on this family but it was actually a secret other thing that Wei Wuxian will have to discover lest his soul be torn asunder,” and then the whole family dies in the course of a chapter and Wei Wuxian is like “cool! Mission done! Time to ride off on my shitty donkey,” and I’m continuing my trend of being completely incapable to predicting this author’s plot
Just watched the first episode of the show and I love the way that production was clearly like, “hey. actually it IS wild that ENTIRE plot line got solved by like page 50.”
van gogh being like “!!!!!museum!!!!!!” and trying to look at all the cool art in there and the doctor just pulling him around and vincent is like “nooo but i want to seeee” until they get to the van gogh exposition and he starts recognising his own paintings…… and he starts tearing up……. oh god oh god
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I love the idea that Lan Sizhui is very visually dissimilar to Lan Wangji, with wavy hair that curls in humidity, a flatter nose, lankier build, and slightly lighter eyes, but still regularly gets confused for his father because they have such similar mannerisms. Like father like son, but in nurture not nature. Like father like son, because of the way he curls his hands into fists at his sides when at ease. Because he always says thank you with the same neutral lilt, takes every step with a full ankle rotation such that walking looks like floating. The way he flicks his sleeve before drinking tea. How he's never the first to raise his sword. Emulation as proof of affection.
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