#catatonic reader

The hospital room was stark, sterile, and silent. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above and the faint, rhythmic beeping of the IV pump beside her bed. She stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. A profound emptiness had taken root inside her, a void where her laughter, her joy, her very self used to be.

It had all started so simply, so innocently. A glance across a crowded hallway, a nervous conversation, the giddy excitement of becoming Seongje's girlfriend. Being with him felt like a title, a status symbol that brought both attention and a quiet, unsettling ownership.

People knew her as "Seongje's girl," and for a while, she was proud of it. She ignored the way his gaze often slid past her to linger on others, the way he laughed off the cruel jokes the Union made at her expense. He was a thrill, a force of nature, and she was so caught up in his orbit that she didn't realize she was being torn apart.

Sieun saw it from a distance. He'd catch glimpses of her, a ghost of her former self, walking through the halls with her shoulders hunched. Her once-bright eyes were now shadowed and dull.

He'd seen her once, sitting alone in the cafeteria, tracing patterns on her food tray while Seongje was across the room, openly flirting with some girl, his friends egging him on. The image stuck with him—the sight of her, so utterly alone in a room full of people, with the person she loved most treating her like an inconvenience.

The torment wasn't just emotional. The Union members, egged on by Seongje’s passive indifference, had found her an easy target. Small, cruel pranks escalated into constant harassment. Her locker was vandalized. Her books went missing.

Every day was a new form of psychological torture, and she had nowhere to turn. Seongje would just shrug it off, a smirk on his face. "Lighten up," he'd say. "It's just a joke."

The spark she once had, that vivacious, joyful light, was slowly extinguished. She became a shell. The girl who used to smile so easily now just stared. The girl who once filled a room with her energy was now a silent, withdrawn figure, retreating further and further into herself until she completely disappeared.

One day, she just didn't show up. Not at school, not at their usual meeting spot. She just... vanished. Seongje barely noticed at first, too preoccupied with his own fun. When he finally did, he was more annoyed than concerned. "Where did she go?" he'd grumble to his friends. "She's so dramatic."

He didn't know that she had finally reached her breaking point. She walked for hours, her mind a blur of hurt and betrayal, until her legs gave out and she collapsed on a quiet side street. She was found by a passing couple, their horrified faces a distant blur as they called for help.

When she woke up, she was in a hospital. But the trauma had been too much. The doctors tried to talk to her, to understand what had happened, but she was gone. Her mind, in a desperate act of self-preservation, had completely shut down. She wouldn't speak. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't even meet their gaze.

The hospital was ill-equipped to handle the depths of her psychological state. After a few days, a transfer was arranged. She was moved from the clinical silence of the general hospital to the more specialized, guarded silence of a psychiatric ward nearby.

The doctors there called it a catatonic state, a complete break from reality. Her body was present, but her mind was lost, hiding somewhere deep within itself, far from the pain and betrayal that had broken her.

The empty hallways and barred windows of the psychiatric hospital became her new reality, a self-imposed prison where she could finally be at peace, away from the boy who never saw her, and the world that let her fall.

A thick silence hung over the group, heavier than the summer humidity. They were at their usual hangout spot, but the easy banter was gone, replaced by a tense, somber mood.

"Did you hear?" Juntae's voice was a low rumble. "She's... still in there."

Humin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I saw her dad the other day. He said she hasn't said a word. The doctors don't know what to do."

Sieun stared at his hands, his knuckles white. He hadn't seen her in a while, but the image of her gaunt face and hollow eyes was burned into his memory. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had seen what was happening, but he hadn't done anything. He had just watched from the sidelines as she crumbled.

Gotak, ever the stoic one, just shook his head. "Seongje's a piece of work. How could he just... do that to someone?"

A cold knot twisted in Seongje's gut. He had heard the whispers, the accusations, the pitying glances. He felt their judgment, sharp and unforgiving.

He had tried to forget about her, to move on as if she had never existed, but her absence was a gaping hole in his world. He told himself he was just annoyed, that she was just being dramatic. But deep down, a dark, unsettling feeling gnawed at him. He couldn't quite name it, but he knew it wasn't anger. It was something else, something much more frightening.

He had visited her once. He told himself it was just to prove to the others that he wasn't a monster, that he cared. He had walked into the sterile, white room and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. Her face was blank, her eyes vacant.

He tried to talk to her, to explain that he was sorry, that he didn't mean to hurt her, but the words felt hollow and fake. He had looked at her, at the broken shell of the girl he had once called his, and felt a rush of something he couldn't comprehend.

He had turned and walked away, a bitter taste in his mouth, telling himself that she was just a lost cause.

Sieun, however, couldn't stay away. He visited her every week, a silent vigil of remorse and compassion. He would sit in a chair by her bed and talk, even though he knew she wasn't really listening.

He would talk about Suho, his coma, about their fights and their triumphs, about the everyday things that filled their lives. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, a small part of her could hear him.

One day, he was sitting there, talking about a particularly frustrating day at school, when he saw it. A single tear, a tiny drop of moisture, rolled down her cheek. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but it was enough.

It was a sign that she was still there, somewhere, trapped inside her own mind. It was a glimmer of hope, a fragile promise that one day, she might find her way back.

Sieun kept visiting, a silent, steady presence in her life. He was there for her not because he had to be, but because he felt a responsibility to her, a deep and abiding need to help her find her way back to the world.

He was her only connection to a life she had lost, a single thread holding her to a world that had so cruelly abandoned her. He would not let go.

The sterile air of the hospital room was broken only by the soft beeping of machines and the low murmur of conversation. After what felt like an eternity, Suho was finally awake. He had been through so much, and now, here he was, sitting up in bed, a ghost of his former self but with his sharp mind fully intact.

Sieun spent hours with him, catching him up on the years he’d lost. He talked about the Union, about Humin, Hyuntak, and Juntae, and about the brutal, everyday reality of their school.

One day, a quiet moment fell between them. Suho, his voice a little hoarse from disuse, said, “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Sieun nodded, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. “Yeah. We all have.”

He hesitated for a long moment, then decided to bring up something he hadn't yet mentioned. "There's something else, though," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "Something... or someone."

Suho turned his head, a question in his eyes.

"Seongje’s ex-girlfriend," Sieun said. "She was with him, but he just... broke her. He let the Union mess with her, and he never did anything about it."

Suho’s face hardened. "The same Seongje you told me about? The one who runs with the Union?"

"Yeah," Sieun confirmed. "She was so full of life, but she just... faded. She went crazy from it all, and she's in a psychiatric hospital now. She won't talk to anyone. She just stares into space."

Suho was silent for a while, processing the story. "That's terrible. How could he do that to someone?"

"He's a monster," Sieun said, his voice laced with venom. "I've been visiting her. She's completely shut down. It's like no one's home."

"What's her name?" Suho asked.

"Y/n," Sieun replied, the name feeling heavy on his tongue.

A thoughtful expression crossed Suho's face. "And you said she won't talk to anyone, right? Not even you?"

"No. Not a word," Sieun confirmed. "I just sit there and talk to her, hoping something gets through. I even talked about you and our crew, about everything that happened."

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Sieun's mind. He had been visiting her, trying to reach her with words, but what if words weren't the answer?

"I have an idea," Sieun said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Maybe you could visit her. She’s not listening to me, maybe because I’m a part of all this... this world that broke her. But you're different. You’re from before all of this. You're a clean slate."

Suho looked at him, his brow furrowed in thought. "You think that will make a difference?"

"I don't know," Sieun admitted, his hope fragile. "But she needs help. We can’t just let her stay like this. You’re the only one who can talk to her without all the baggage. Please, Suho. It's the only thing I can think of."

Suho closed his eyes, considering. The story of this broken girl resonated with a deep, personal empathy. He knew what it was like to be trapped, to feel like a prisoner in his own body. He had spent years in a silent, dreamless state, and now, finally awake, he felt a strange kinship with this girl.

"Okay," Suho finally said, opening his eyes. "Let's do it.”

The hospital grounds were more of a park than a garden, a vast expanse of manicured lawn bisected by winding asphalt paths. Sieun navigated Suho's wheelchair with an easy familiarity, the rhythmic squeak of the wheels a steady counterpoint to their silence. Suho, still thin and pale, watched the world go by with an intensity that belied his physical weakness.

Everything was new to him, every tree and every blade of grass a detail he had missed. It was a strange, silent reunion, a fresh start in a place of confinement.

"We're here," Sieun said, stopping in front of a small, discreet building nestled among the trees. The windows were different here—a little too high, a little too thick.

He left Suho for a moment, disappearing inside to talk to the nurses. He’d made this walk countless times, but today was different. Today, he wasn’t just here to talk; he was here to retrieve her, to introduce a new variable into a seemingly unsolvable equation.

He waited patiently as the nurses, their faces etched with a familiar mixture of pity and resignation, went to get her. They had tried everything, every therapy and every conversation, and she remained a ghost in her own body. They’d given up on her, and he could see it in their weary eyes.

When they returned, she was in a wheelchair, too. Her posture was the same as it had been on the hospital bed—shoulders hunched, head slightly bowed. She was present, but not here. She looked like a doll, perfectly still and unresponsive.

The nurses wheeled her out, her chair moving in a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if it were a different kind of machine from the one that had beeped beside her bed.

Sieun took her wheelchair and positioned it beside Suho’s. For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of the breeze and the gentle creak of the chairs. He looked from one to the other, the stark contrast between them a painful sight. Suho, with his sharp, observant eyes, and Y/n, with hers vacant and distant.

"This is Suho," Sieun said, his voice soft. "He's the guy I was telling you about. He just woke up." He paused, looking at Suho. "And this is Y/n."

Suho’s gaze was kind but direct. He looked at her not with pity, but with a quiet understanding. "Hey, Y/n," he said, his voice a little hoarse, but warm. "It's good to meet you. Sieun told me a lot about you. He said you're a good person."

Suho nodded slowly, his mind piecing together the fragments Sieun was offering. "What happened to Seongje, by the way ?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Sieun’s expression soured. "He just… disappeared. One day he was there, and the next he was gone. No one’s seen him. Not the Union, not his friends. He just vanished, like a bad dream."

Suho looked over at Y/n, a new kind of intensity in his eyes. He knew what it was like to be torn apart, to have a part of yourself taken from you. Seongje’s disappearance didn’t feel like a relief; it felt like a coward's escape. He had broken someone and then just walked away from the pieces, leaving others to deal with the aftermath.

"That’s how they are," Suho said to Sieun, his voice low and sharp. "They do their damage, and then they leave. They don't stick around to see what they've done."

He reached out and gently took one of Y/n’s still, cold hands. Her skin felt like marble. "We’re not going to do that, Y/n. We’re going to stay. We're going to be here."

Sieun watched, his heart a raw, open wound. He had been visiting her for weeks, but in a single moment, Suho had found a way to connect, to speak a language she might be able to understand. They were both prisoners—one by his body, the other by her mind—and in that shared experience, there was a fragile promise of hope.

"He's a menace, really," Suho continued, his tone shifting to a more conversational one, as if he were talking to a fully present person. "You have no idea how much trouble he gets into. You should’ve seen him when we were at Byeoksan. The way he took out those guys with just a few books and a pen. It was unreal. He’s a total genius, you know? He just uses it for fighting instead of studying sometimes."

He looked at Sieun with a wry smile, and Sieun, to his own surprise, found himself smiling back. They weren't just talking to Y/n. They were talking to each other, a broken circle of friends that was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to mend.

Days bled into a routine of silent visits and hushed conversations in the hospital garden. Suho’s wheelchair became a fixture beside Y/n’s, a quiet, unmoving testament to Sieun’s fragile hope. They talked about anything and everything: the school, the fights, the small victories.

Suho, with his sharp observations and dry wit, and Sieun, with his calm, steady presence, formed a small, protective bubble around her. Y/n remained a silent spectator, her eyes vacant, her hands still.

One sunny afternoon, Sieun decided to change the script. He walked into the psychiatric ward with a different energy. It was time to bring in the rest of the crew. When he got back to the hospital garden, they were all there, a mismatched group of boys looking awkward and out of place among the meticulously maintained flowerbeds.

Humin stood with his hands in his pockets, his usual restless energy contained. Juntae, ever the loyal friend, stood beside him, looking more serious than usual. And Hyuntak… he looked at Suho with a mixture of respect and a kind of mischievous anticipation.

Suho’s face broke into a rare smile when he saw them. It was a genuine, unguarded expression that made him look years younger. "Look who finally decided to show up," he said to Sieun, his voice full of warmth.

The introductions were a little stiff at first. Suho, used to being the leader, took charge, his sharp mind already assessing each of them. He had heard about them from Sieun, but now he was seeing them for himself. "So, this is the infamous Humin," he said, holding out a hand. "Sieun said you're a brawler."

Humin grunted a response, a flicker of his usual cockiness returning. "You're the legend Sieun won't shut up about."

Juntae, more reserved, simply nodded in greeting. "It's an honor, Suho. We've been wanting to meet you."

Hyuntak, however, was quiet at first, just sizing Suho up. When Humin started talking, Hyuntak’s smirk grew. He would often tease Humin and Suho, pointing out the ridiculousness of their obsession with fighting.

Sieun wheeled Y/n’s chair closer, positioning her so she was a part of the circle, not just an observer. "And this is Y/n," he said, his voice soft. "She's... one of us now."

The boys looked at her, their usual brashness replaced by a somber quiet. She was a physical reminder of the darkness they had all faced, the kind of psychological warfare they had all been subjected to. They saw her and they saw a part of themselves, a silent testament to the cruelty they had once been a part of.

Humin, surprisingly, was the first to break the silence. He started talking about a recent fight, recounting it with his characteristic bravado, exaggerating every punch and every maneuver.

He and Suho, despite their differences, fell into a comfortable rhythm, their shared love for strategy and combat evident in their conversation. Suho, with his sharp, analytical mind, would interject with a clever observation, and Humin would respond with a boisterous laugh.

"This one guy, he thought he was a big shot just 'cause he was bigger than me," Humin said, gesturing wildly. "So I just went for his leg, you know? Knocked him right off balance. Didn't even have to throw a punch."

Suho smirked. "Amateurs always go for the head. It's too predictable."

They went back and forth like that, two different kinds of fighters finding common ground. Juntae and Hyuntak, initially quiet, started to get comfortable too. Juntae started talking about his plans for the future, about a new path he was considering. Hyuntak, ever the follower, chimed in with a few comments, his anxiety slowly giving way to a more relaxed posture.

The group dynamic, so broken for so long, began to mend, creating a safe space in the sterile environment of the hospital garden. They were a motley crew of misfits, but in that moment, they were a family. They laughed, they argued, and they talked about their hopes and fears, all while a silent figure sat in the center of their circle.

And then, it happened. It was so small, so subtle, that Sieun almost missed it. Humin was making a particularly ridiculous face while recounting a story, and Suho was laughing, a sound that was still a little rusty but full of genuine mirth. For a brief, fleeting moment, Y/n's head tilted.

Then, her eyes, which had been so dull and vacant for so long, shifted. A single, almost imperceptible sparkle—a tiny glimmer of light—danced in their depths before fading away. It was gone in an instant, but it was there. It was enough.

For weeks, the routine held. The hospital garden became their unofficial meeting place, a sanctuary where the outside world and its cruel realities faded. Days blurred into a month, then two, marked by the slow but steady progress of Suho's recovery. The wheelchair, once a symbol of his confinement, was now a thing of the past. He could walk on his own, still a little unsteady, but strong enough.

This newfound freedom sparked an idea in him. The group visits were good, but he felt a growing need to see her alone. He had grown fond of Y/n's silent company, of the quiet understanding that had blossomed between them. It was a connection born from a shared experience of being trapped, a bond forged in the crucible of their respective traumas.

One afternoon, he walked to the psychiatric ward alone. The sterile halls felt different without Sieun and the others. This was a place of quiet suffering, and for the first time, he felt the full weight of it. When he entered her room, the silence was absolute. She was sitting in her wheelchair, staring at the wall, her hands resting limply in her lap.

He didn't bother with small talk. He just pulled up a chair and sat beside her, his presence a steady, solid anchor in the emptiness of the room. He watched her, and for the first time, he noticed the small details. The way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks, the faint scar on her hand that he hadn't seen before. He wondered how much of her had been lost, and how much was still there, hiding beneath the surface.

He began to talk, not about school or fights, but about himself. He talked about his years in a coma, the strange, silent world he had been trapped in. He spoke of the frustration, the feeling of screaming without a voice, of being a prisoner in his own mind. He felt a deep, profound empathy for her, a kinship that transcended words.

"It's like being in a box, isn't it?" he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "You can see the outside, but you can't touch it. You can hear them, but they can't hear you. It's the loneliest thing in the world."

He reached out and gently took her hand. It was still cold, but he held it anyway, his thumb stroking her knuckles in a soft, rhythmic motion. "But I got out," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "And you will, too. I'll be here until you do."

For the first time since he'd started visiting her alone, he felt a flicker of hope. He had felt it before, that brief sparkle in her eyes when the others were there, but now, the feeling was different. It was a quiet certainty, a promise that he would not break. He would wait for her, and he would not let her fall.

The solo visits became a new ritual, a quiet counterpoint to the boisterous group sessions. Suho would arrive alone, no longer a prisoner of his wheelchair but a steadfast presence in her silent world. He would talk about his day, about the mundane realities of his new life, and sometimes, he would just sit in silence, a hand gently on her arm. He wasn't waiting for a grand gesture, just a sign—any sign—that she was still in there.

His patience was rewarded with small, almost imperceptible shifts. The first was a simple head tilt, a gesture that began when he was recounting a particularly funny story about Sieun and Humin getting into a ridiculous argument over a lost wallet. It was a slight, almost bird-like movement, but it was enough to make Suho's heart seize in his chest.

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on her. She returned to her motionless state just as quickly, but the moment had been a monumental victory.

From then on, he found himself watching her more closely than ever. He noticed that she would follow his movements with her eyes, a subtle shifting of her gaze from his face to his hands as he gestured.

She wasn’t just staring into space anymore; she was observing. The world wasn't a blur to her; it was a series of small, intriguing details.

One day, he walked over to her bed and began to talk about a song he'd been listening to, a melancholy melody he had loved even before he fell into his coma. He hummed the tune, a low, melodic sound that filled the sterile room. As he did, he saw it.

Her eyes, those vacant, dull eyes he had come to know so well, looked at him directly. They held a fleeting moment of recognition, a soft, almost painful flicker of light.

Then, as he continued to hum, she shifted. Her fingers, which had been curled into her palms for weeks, slowly uncurled. She didn't move them, but the simple act of their straightening was a testament to her conscious mind.

He kept humming, his voice unwavering, and he reached out, gently taking her hand and placing it in his own. Her touch was still cold, but now it felt different. It was the hand of a person, not a statue.

Suho didn't know what it meant, but he knew this: he was reaching her. He was pulling her back, one small, impossible moment at a time. The world was beginning to fill with color again, and he was the one holding the brush.

The change, when it came, was so subtle that anyone else might have missed it. But Sieun and the others had become accustomed to reading the silent language of the hospital room, a dialect of small gestures and subtle shifts.

It was a quiet afternoon, and the whole group was gathered in the garden. Suho sat on the bench beside Y/n's wheelchair, talking about an old comic book he used to read. The others were in a loose circle around them, their conversation a low murmur. Hyuntak was teasing Humin about a bad haircut, and Juntae was listening with a rare smile on his face.

As Suho spoke, his voice low and steady, Y/n's eyes, once vacant, now followed his every movement. When he paused to flip a page in the comic book, her gaze went from his face to his hands, tracking the motion. It was a fluid, natural movement, so unlike her former stillness.

Sieun saw it first. He was mid-sentence, talking to Humin, when his eyes snagged on Y/n's gaze. He stopped talking, his expression one of shocked, quiet awe. Humin, catching his friend's stunned silence, followed his gaze. He watched as Y/n's head, which had been perfectly still, tilted slightly, as if she were contemplating something Suho had said.

Hyuntak and Juntae noticed the shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter died down, replaced by a tense, focused silence. They watched Y/n, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.

Suho, oblivious to the scrutiny, kept talking. He reached out and gently took her hand, just as he did during his solo visits. This time, however, Y/n's fingers didn't just uncurl—they twitched. It was a tiny, involuntary spasm, a small sign of life. Then, as Suho continued to speak, she slowly, painfully, tightened her grip on his hand. It wasn't a firm grip, just a slight pressure, but to everyone in the group, it felt like an earthquake.

Humin let out a shaky breath, his usual cockiness completely gone. Juntae's eyes welled up with tears. Hyuntak, for once, was speechless. They had watched her crumble, and they had come to accept the possibility that she might never return. But now, here she was, her grip a silent testament to her presence, a faint light in the darkness.

Suho looked down at their joined hands, a small, triumphant smile on his face. He looked up and met Sieun’s gaze. It was a look that said, "I told you so."

And in that moment, in the quiet of the hospital garden, they all understood. Their collective guilt, their silent regret, had been transformed into something else: a fragile, powerful hope. They weren't just a group of boys anymore. They were a lifeline, and they had just felt a tug from the other side.

The group visits continued to be a mix of low-key banter and silent observation. Sieun and the others watched with bated breath, their eyes constantly on Y/n, looking for the next sign of life. They saw the head tilts and the way her eyes followed their movements, but the progress seemed to stall. What they didn't know was that the real breakthroughs were happening in the quiet intimacy of Suho's solo visits.

When he was alone with her, Suho felt a new kind of freedom. He could talk about things he couldn't with the others, about his own nightmares and the quiet terror of waking up to a world that had moved on without him. He shared his deepest fears with her, knowing that she was the one person who would understand the feeling of being trapped in a silent, solitary existence.

One afternoon, he brought her a small sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. He sat down beside her, his chair close enough that their knees brushed. He opened the sketchbook to a blank page. "I'm not much of an artist," he said, "but my grandma and I used to love drawing with me. She'd draw a line, and I'd draw the next one. Maybe we can try that."

He took a red pencil and drew a simple, crooked line on the page. He then placed the pencil in her still hand, his own hand guiding hers. He waited. For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to take the pencil away when he felt a small, almost imperceptible pressure from her hand. Slowly, painstakingly, she drew a single, shaky blue line that connected to his. It was a small, childlike scribble, but it was there. She had responded. She had drawn a line to meet his.

He didn't make a sound. He just looked at the paper, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence in the room was now different. It was no longer empty, but filled with a new, quiet life. He knew this was the first step, a fragile bridge built between her mind and the world she had left behind. He continued the game, drawing lines and letting her connect them, a silent conversation in color.

The next time the group visited, they saw her holding the sketchbook, her fingers curled around the pencils. They exchanged stunned glances, a mixture of awe and confusion on their faces. They couldn't understand how she had gotten to this point.

How did this happen? But Suho just smiled. He knew. It had happened in the silence, in the small, beautiful moments when she was finally able to connect with someone who truly understood.

The sketchbook became a symbol of their fragile hope. When the group visited and saw Y/n holding it, her fingers curled around the pencils, a stunned silence fell over them. Juntae’s mouth fell open. Humin’s usual bravado vanished, replaced by a quiet awe. Even Hyuntak, ever the stoic observer, looked at Suho with a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect.

When Y/n was back in her room and the boys were gathered in Suho's chamber, the questions came pouring out. Sieun was the first to speak.

"What did you do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "How did you do that?"

Suho was lying on his hospital bed, propped up by pillows. He looked at them, a small, knowing smile on his face. "I just gave her a pencil," he said simply. "She did the rest."

Humin scoffed, but there was no real malice in his tone. "Yeah, right. She just picked it up and started drawing? It's been months, man. The nurses said she was a lost cause."

"They've tried everything," Juntae added, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Therapy, medication... nothing worked."

Suho sat up, leaning forward slightly. He spoke to them not as a patient, but as a leader, the calm authority he'd always possessed beginning to re-emerge. "They treated her like a patient. I just treated her like a person." He looked at each of them, his gaze sharp and direct. "She wasn't gone. She was just hiding. I gave her a way to come back out."

They fell silent, absorbing his words. The unspoken guilt that had hung over them for months began to lift, replaced by a new, collective purpose. They realized that their visits, their seemingly pointless conversations, had been a part of it too. They had been building a world for her to return to, and Suho had simply found the first key.

Meanwhile, in the psychiatric ward, the nurses were buzzing. They had seen Y/n for weeks, a silent statue in her wheelchair, a ghost in the hospital halls. They had lost hope, resigned to her catatonic state.

But now, she was holding a sketchbook. A small, shaky drawing of a flower was on the page. They looked at each other, their faces a mix of wonder and disbelief.

"She hasn't done anything like this since she came here," one nurse whispered, her eyes wide. "Not a single gesture, not a sound."

They didn't understand it. They couldn't explain it with their medical knowledge or their years of experience. All they knew was that the boy in the other building, the one who had just woken up from a coma, had done what they couldn't. He had reached through the silence and found a way to her.

The next time they all gathered in the hospital garden, the atmosphere was different. The forced cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a deep-seated hope.

They all brought something for her. Humin, surprisingly, had a small, worn soccer ball. Juntae brought a collection of his favorite manga. Hyuntak, in his own way, had brought a bag of chips.

Suho wheeled her chair into their circle, and as he settled into his spot on the bench, he placed the sketchbook on her lap. She didn't draw, but her fingers occasionally brushed the cover, a small, subtle acknowledgment.

The boys talked, their voices a little softer, their movements a little less frantic. They knew now that she was listening, and they spoke with a new kind of purpose, weaving a tapestry of their lives for her to return to.

Suho, who had taken to observing the nurses' shifts and routines, noticed that they, too, had changed. The weary resignation on their faces was gone. They would pass by her room and give her a small, hopeful smile.

They would bring her a glass of water and wait a little longer to see if she would take it. They had been given a new reason to believe, and they treated her not as a lost cause, but as a person on the cusp of a breakthrough.

One afternoon, Suho was alone with her in her room. He was talking about his grandma, the one who had been so devastated by his accident. He spoke of the small details, the way her grandma would hum a specific tune when she was happy, and the way she would chew on his lip when she was nervous.

As he spoke, he felt a small pressure on his hand. He looked down and saw that Y/n had taken his hand and was holding it, her grip surprisingly firm.

He continued to talk, and for the first time, she turned her head and looked at him directly. Her eyes were still clouded with a heavy sorrow, but they weren't vacant. They held a raw, painful light, and for the first time, Suho knew she was truly there.

He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb tracing the faint scar on her knuckle. "It's okay," he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "You're safe. We're here."

A single tear, a tiny drop of pure emotion, rolled down her cheek. It was a silent testament to the pain she had endured and the hope she was finally allowing herself to feel. The dam was breaking, one tear at a time. It was a long way from a smile, or a word, but it was a beginning. A slow, painful, and beautiful return.

The tear was a turning point. It was a wordless confession of pain, a release of the agony she had held inside for so long. Suho didn't push her. He just sat with her, his presence a silent shield against the world that had broken her.

The next day, he brought a small, worn music player and a pair of headphones. He placed them on her lap and pressed play. It was a familiar melody, a quiet, soothing tune he had loved for years.

The next few days were a blur of small miracles. Her head would tilt in the direction of the music. Her hands would fidget with the worn edges of the sketchbook. She would even meet the gaze of the nurses, a small, tentative flicker of recognition in her eyes.

The nurses began to talk to her in a softer, gentler tone. The air in the ward, which had been heavy with despair, was now filled with a fragile, burgeoning hope.

Then, one afternoon, when the group was visiting, it happened. They were all talking, their voices a familiar, comforting chorus. Humin was bragging about a fight he'd won, exaggerating his prowess to a ridiculous degree. Hyuntak was, of course, giving him a hard time about it, and Suho was just listening, a slight smirk on his face.

"So I was like," Humin said, puffing out his chest, "I was like, 'You wanna go? Let's go!'"

Hyuntak rolled his eyes. "You probably just tripped and fell on him, Humin."

A laugh, a sharp, surprised sound, erupted from the group. It was a sound they hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime. They all looked at Y/n, stunned into silence. Her face was still, but her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. A single, choked-off giggle escaped her lips, a tiny, almost inaudible sound.

Then, from her, came a whisper. A single, breathy word that was both a question and a statement.

"S-Suho...?"

It was the first word she had spoken in months. It was a sound that broke the stillness, a fragile, beautiful note in a symphony of silence. Suho's eyes widened. He had expected her to talk, but he hadn't expected to be the first one she called out to. He looked at her, and for the first time, he saw not a patient, not a broken girl, but a person, a friend who had found her way back.

"I'm here," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm right here."

And in that moment, in the quiet of the hospital garden, they all knew. The ghost was gone. She was finally, truly, back.

The first word was a dam breaking. After that, the progress was slow, but constant. Y/n began to speak in hushed, hesitant whispers, her voice a little rusty from disuse. She’d ask simple questions, her gaze still a bit clouded, but her curiosity was returning.

She'd ask about a song on the radio, or a character in a book, and each question felt like a small, triumphant victory. The boys, overjoyed, would answer her with a patience they never knew they had. They’d explain the plot of a manga, or the rules of a game, their voices gentle and reassuring.

Her physical recovery was just as slow, and just as miraculous. It started with her hands. She began to use the colored pencils with a purpose, her lines no longer shaky and tentative, but firm and deliberate.

She drew pictures of things she had lost—a tree with brilliant green leaves, a dog with a happy, wagging tail. The nurses would watch, their faces a mix of professional astonishment and personal wonder. They had documented every small change, every flicker of life.

One afternoon, during a solo visit with Suho, she tried to stand. Her legs, which had been dormant for months, trembled beneath her. Suho didn't try to help her. He just knelt in front of her, his hands hovering, ready to catch her if she fell. He looked at her not with pity, but with a quiet challenge in his eyes.

He had been through the same process, the painful, frustrating journey of rebuilding a body from scratch. He knew that she had to do it on her own.

"You can do it," he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. "I know you can."

She took a shaky step, then another. The world swayed around her. She was scared, but she didn’t stop. She took a step, and then another, until she was standing, a little unsteady, but on her own.

Suho reached out and took her hands, his touch grounding her. She looked at him, and for the first time, a small, genuine smile touched her lips. She had taken herself in her hands again.

Meanwhile, the group had a new kind of conversation. They talked about Y/n, but also about the boy who had put her there. The subject of Seongje came up one day when they were talking about the school union. Humin was bragging about how they had all but disbanded since Seongje's disappearance.

"It's like they lost their leader, their king," Humin said, a proud smirk on his face.

Suho’s face hardened. He had never liked the idea of a king, a person who ruled through fear and intimidation. He looked at Sieun, then at the others, his gaze sharp and direct.

"He wasn't a king," Suho said, his voice cold. "He was just a bully. A coward."

The silence was thick with the weight of his words. They all knew what he was talking about. Seongje had been a force of nature, a terrifying kind of power. But what kind of power breaks a person and then disappears? He had run away from the consequences of his actions. He was a ghost, a bad memory that had vanished.

"He's a piece of work," Humin said, a somber note in his voice. "We haven't seen him since. It's like he just fell off the face of the earth."

They all knew he was gone, but his absence was a constant presence, a reminder of the darkness they had escaped and the fragile light they were trying to build. He had broken Y/n, but in doing so, he had created an unbreakable bond between a group of misfits who had found a new kind of family.

The next time the group gathered in the hospital garden, they were a little early, sitting on a bench and talking amongst themselves. They were waiting for Sieun, who was bringing Y/n down from her room.

The usual low hum of their conversation was replaced by a more tense silence. They were all on edge, a collective bundle of nerves, waiting to see what new sign of progress she would show.

Then, they saw them. At the top of the path, where the double doors of the psychiatric ward opened, Suho emerged. But he wasn't alone. He was walking, his gait steady and confident, and beside him was Y/n.

She was on her own two feet, her shoulders no longer hunched, but straight. She walked with a slow, deliberate pace, but she was walking. She wasn't holding his hand, but she was close enough that their arms brushed.

Juntae's mouth dropped open. Humin, ever the dramatic one, let out a low whistle. Hyuntak just stared, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and admiration. They all looked at Sieun, their faces a mix of confusion and awe. Sieun just smiled, a quiet, knowing expression on his face.

The sight of them walking side-by-side, two people who had been broken by the world and were now mending each other, was a powerful one. They walked toward the group, and as they got closer, the boys saw something in Suho's eyes.

It was a fierce, protective light, a look that said he would do anything to keep her safe. His whole demeanor had changed. He wasn't just a friend anymore; he was a guardian.

When they reached the bench, Y/n didn't sit down. She just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, and looked at each of them. A small, shy smile touched her lips.

"Hi," she whispered, her voice still soft, but clear.

They all scrambled to their feet, their usual boisterous energy replaced by an awkward silence. They didn't know what to say. Y/n had always been a ghost to them, a silent figure in a wheelchair. Now, she was standing, talking, and looking at them. She was a person, with a past full of pain, but a future full of possibility.

Sieun watched his friends, his heart swelling with a quiet, powerful sense of accomplishment. He saw the way Humin looked at her, no longer with pity, but with a new kind of respect. He saw the way Juntae’s shoulders relaxed, the guilt he had carried for so long finally beginning to lift. And he saw the way Hyuntak, ever the stoic, gave a small, genuine nod of approval.

His plan had worked. His idea, so fragile and so desperate, had not just saved a life, but had also changed the lives of his friends. He had brought them all together, a group of misfits who had found a new kind of family, a new kind of purpose. They had all been broken in their own ways, but they had come together to help her mend. And in doing so, they had begun to heal themselves.

The nurses stood in a small group near the hospital entrance, their usual professional calm replaced by hushed whispers and astonished gazes. They had seen countless patients come and go, had witnessed every type of psychological trauma, but this… this was unprecedented.

They had given up on Y/n, labeling her condition as a severe catatonic state with no hope for recovery. Now, she was not only walking but smiling, a shy, almost painful ghost of the girl she once was.

They saw Suho at her side, his presence a steady anchor. He wasn't just a friend; he was a lifeline. They remembered him, the quiet, formidable young man who had spent years in a silent coma. And they saw the way he looked at her—not with pity, but with a fierce protectiveness that spoke volumes. He had done what years of therapy and medication could not. He had simply given her a reason to return.

Sieun watched Suho and Y/n, his heart filled with a mixture of pride and a quiet understanding. He had seen the subtle shifts in Suho’s demeanor, the way his gaze softened when he spoke of her, the way he seemed to carry a new kind of purpose.

He knew, long before the others did, that Suho had found a kindred spirit in her. Suho had been a prisoner in his own mind, and Y/n a prisoner in hers. They had a shared history of isolation and silent suffering, a bond forged in the crucible of their respective traumas.

Sieun had brought them together, hoping to give her a chance, but he never could have anticipated the profound connection that would form. He saw the way Suho looked at her, and in his eyes, he saw not just hope, but a deep, unspoken affection. He saw his friend, so long a solitary figure, finally finding a place for his heart to land.

The contrast was stark, a painful testament to the boy she had left behind and the boys who had brought her back. They looked at her now and saw not the gaunt, hollow-eyed girl who had walked the halls beside Seongje, but a survivor.

They remembered the way she had been a mere shadow in Seongje's orbit, her shoulders hunched as she retreated further and further into herself. She was a title, "Seongje's girl," and it was a title that had been a slow, methodical erasure of her very self. She had been an object, something to be possessed and then discarded.

The cruel pranks, the passive indifference of her so-called boyfriend, had worn her down until she was a ghost, a shell of the person she once was.

But now, she stood before them, a living, breathing testament to her own resilience. She was no longer a ghost but a person. She wasn't just "Suho's girl" or "Sieun's friend"; she was Y/n. The light in her eyes, so long extinguished, was back. It was a fragile light, but it was there, and it was hers alone.

The hospital garden was a place of quiet solitude, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze the only sound between them. Suho and the others had left for the day, leaving Sieun and Y/n alone. It was a comfortable silence, a truce between two people who had a profound, unspoken understanding.

Sieun was happy to just be there, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves, a feeling of quiet contentment settling in his chest. He had taken a chance on her, on an idea that seemed impossible to everyone else, and the results were a testament to his own strength and compassion.

He felt no need to speak, content with the easy stillness. He had seen the way his friends had changed, the way their apathetic silence had been replaced by a fierce protectiveness. He saw the new light in their eyes, a glimmer of purpose that had been missing for so long. He knew, with a deep certainty, that he had done the right thing.

Then, she broke the silence. Her voice was soft, a little rusty from disuse, but clear.

"Sieun," she said, her voice a gentle murmur. "Thank you. For everything."

He turned to look at her, a little surprised. She wasn't looking at him, but at the sky, a peaceful, far-off look in her eyes. It was a simple statement, but it carried the weight of everything they had been through. It was a thank you for his compassion, for his unwavering belief, for his quiet refusal to let her disappear.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't feel like a hero, just a boy who had reached out his hand to another person who was drowning. He looked at her, at the small, genuine smile on her face, and felt a rush of emotion so powerful it took his breath away.

"You're welcome," he finally managed to say, his voice a little hoarse. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

The silence returned, but it was different now. It was a silence filled with gratitude and understanding, a peaceful moment between two people who had found each other in the wreckage of their past.

Suho would sit beside her on the bench in the hospital garden, the warmth of the sun on his face, and a quiet sense of ownership in his heart. The others would be there too, their laughter and conversations a comforting backdrop, but in his mind, he was alone with her. He'd watch her, her movements now fluid, her face expressive, and remember.

He was the one who had seen the first head tilt, a small, hopeful gesture that no one else had caught. He had been the only one to witness the first, shaky line she had drawn in the sketchbook, a quiet, almost secret conversation between them. He had been the one to feel the pressure of her hand, her first, tentative grip a silent promise of her return.

And he was the one who had heard her first word. It had been his name. A simple, two-syllable word, but it had held the weight of a thousand silent prayers. He would replay it in his mind, the memory of her whispered voice a constant reminder of the profound bond they shared.

He had been the one to experience her journey of recovery in a way no one else could. He had been a ghost in his own life for years, and he had found her, a lost soul, and together, they had found their way back. He had not just been a friend; he had been a mirror. In her, he saw his own suffering, his own isolation, and in her recovery, he saw his own.

She was not just a person he had helped; she was a testament to his own resilience, a living, breathing symbol of his own triumph over his past. He would remember, always, that he was the one to experience her first steps, her first words, her first moments of genuine life. He had been her first connection back to the world, and in doing so, he had found his own way back, too.

The hospital garden, once a place of quiet desperation, had become a sanctuary. The passage of a year had softened the sharp edges of their memories, replacing them with a gentle rhythm of shared lives. Y/n was no longer a ghost but a person.

She could now walk, her stride a little unsteady at first, but with a growing confidence that matched her inner strength. She no longer had to use the wheelchair. Her physical recovery mirrored her mental one, a slow, painstaking process of rebuilding a life from the ground up.

Her days were filled with quiet purpose. She would spend her mornings in the garden, a book in her hands, her mind finally free to wander. The simple act of reading, a luxury she had lost for so long, was a quiet joy.

Her afternoons were spent with Suho, just the two of them. They didn't need words. They had a language of their own, a quiet understanding forged in the crucible of their shared trauma. They would sit on a bench, side by side, his presence a steady anchor in her life.

The group visits were a different kind of joy. When the boys came, the garden would fill with their laughter and their endless banter. Y/n was no longer a silent spectator; she was a participant. Her quick wit and dry humor were a new, delightful addition to their conversations.

She was a puzzle piece that had been lost for a long time, and now, she was finally fitting back into the picture.

As for Seongje, the name was now nothing more than a ghost, a bad memory that faded a little more each day. No one had seen him. The Union had disbanded, their power base crumbling in his absence.

He had simply disappeared, a silent vanishing act that was a final testament to his cowardice. He had broken a person and then run away from the pieces, leaving others to clean up his mess. He was gone, but the love and loyalty that had formed in the wake of his cruelty was a far more powerful legacy than he could have ever imagined.

The easy rhythm of their lives had settled into a comfortable routine. One afternoon, they decided to change their usual meeting place from the hospital garden to a park near Suho's apartment. The air was filled with the sounds of children laughing and the distant thud of a soccer ball.

Humin and Hyuntak, in a rare moment of cooperation, were trying to teach Y/n how to play street soccer. Suho and Sieun sat on a park bench, watching them. Y/n, in a pair of comfortable sweatpants, was a little clumsy at first, her movements a bit hesitant. But she was laughing, a sound that made a quiet, triumphant kind of music in Sieun's ears.

Humin, in a rare moment of gentleness, was showing her how to trap the ball with the inside of her foot. "You gotta be one with the ball," he said, his voice a little too serious.

"Oh, like a soul connection?" Hyuntak said, a teasing smirk on his face.

Y/n just shook her head, a playful smile on her lips. She tried again, and this time, the ball rolled neatly to her foot. She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, and a triumphant grin spread across her face.

Sieun watched them from the bench, a feeling of quiet contentment settling in his chest. He looked at Suho, who was watching Y/n with an intensity that made his feelings for her obvious. He saw the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed every time she laughed. It was a look of pure adoration.

"She's doing great," Sieun said, a soft smile on his face.

Suho nodded, his gaze never leaving her. "She's amazing."

Their conversation was simple, but it was filled with an unspoken depth. They were both witnesses to a miracle, and they both knew it. Y/n's recovery wasn't just a physical one; it was a testament to her spirit, and to the fact that they had all, finally, found a home in each other.

Suho, who had spent the last year watching her bloom, felt a swell of emotion in his chest. He remembered that first day in the hospital garden, the sterile silence, and her vacant eyes. He had only spoken a few words to her then, a simple, "Hey, Y/n," but even in that brief moment, he had felt a strange connection. He saw not a patient, but a person, someone trapped in a silence he knew all too well.

Now, a year later, she was so different. She was vibrant, full of life, and his heart ached with a quiet kind of love. He looked at her, his gaze filled with an unspoken tenderness.

"You know," he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur, "I remember the first time I met you. Sieun wheeled you out to the garden. You were just... still. I told you it was good to meet you, but you didn't even look at me."

Y/n's gaze softened. She had no memory of that day, only the stories the boys had told her. She knew that he had been the first one to truly see her, to look past her catatonic state and see the person inside.

"I didn't know what to do," Suho continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I just... I felt like I had to do something. You were in a box, and I knew what that was like."

Y/n's hand found his, her fingers intertwining with his. She didn't say a word, but her touch was a silent language, a profound thank you for his presence, for his unwavering belief. He had seen her in her darkest moment, and he had been the one to guide her back to the light. It was a silent promise of a future together, a future built on a foundation of shared understanding and quiet love.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink. Suho and Y/n were still on the park bench, the low hum of the city a distant sound. The easy silence between them, once a source of comfort, now felt charged with an unspoken energy. He had been so close to confessing before, and the words now felt heavy on his tongue, a truth he could no longer keep to himself.

He turned to face her, taking her hands in his. Her gaze was soft and open, a silent invitation to speak. He took a deep breath, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"Y/n," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I... I remember that first day in the garden. I told you it was good to meet you, and you didn't even look at me. And I was scared. I was scared that you were trapped in a place I knew all too well, and I didn't know how to get you out."

He squeezed her hands gently, his gaze unwavering. "And then... then you started to come back. And I felt like I was the only one who saw it at first. The head tilts, the little lines in the sketchbook. Every single small thing, every single step you took back to the world, I felt it. And I knew... I knew I was falling in love with you."

The words hung in the air, a beautiful, vulnerable truth. He saw the surprise in her eyes, followed by a soft, profound understanding.

"I know you had a really shitty relationship," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, earnest murmur. "And I'm not him. I would never hurt you. I would never lie to you. And I would never... I would never let you be alone again. I love you, Y/n. I love you so much."

Tears welled in Y/n's eyes, a release of so much pent-up emotion. She had been through a relationship where her love had been a weapon used against her, where she had been nothing more than an object to be possessed. Her life had been filled with a cold, calculated cruelty. But with Suho, it was different. He had seen her at her lowest, had loved her when she was a ghost. He had given her back her voice, her spirit, her life.

She looked at him, her heart full of a love so powerful it took her breath away. "I love you, too, Suho," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I... I think I've loved you since the moment you came back. Since you chose to stay."

He smiled, a genuine, joyful expression that made him look years younger. He leaned in and gently kissed her, a tender, heartfelt kiss that sealed their love, a quiet promise that she would never have to be a ghost again.

꩜ Part Two