You Were Tired, Too
You Don't Have To Know Yet - requested by @stay-engene the protective but reserved dad
By seventeen, his son had learned that there were several different kinds of silence his father could give him. There was the comfortable silence. The kind that happened during late-night drives when neither of them felt the need to fill the car with conversation. Sunghoon would drive with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, and his son would sit beside him with his headphones around his neck, occasionally pointing out something stupid they passed on the road. There was the annoyed silence. Usually accompanied by one raised eyebrow. That one meant, You know exactly what you did. And then there was the disappointed silence. His son had spent years believing that one was the worst. He was wrong. The worst was the silence he imagined. Because imagined disappointment could become anything. It could become You're not good enough. It could become I expected better. It could become I'm embarrassed you're my son. It could become every insecurity a seventeen-year-old boy could manufacture at two in the morning when his bedroom was dark, and his phone was face-down beside him. His father never actually said any of those things. But that didn't stop his son from hearing them. It started with hockey. He'd been playing since he was little, long enough that his father had seen every version of him on the ice. The fearless one. The angry one. The little kid who used to fall and immediately look toward the stands to see if his dad was watching. The thirteen-year-old who discovered that being talented didn't mean you were automatically the best. The fifteen-year-old who discovered that sometimes hard work still wasn't enough. And now, at seventeen, the one who desperately wanted this season to mean something. He'd trained for months. Extra practices. Early mornings. Late nights. He'd stopped going out with friends because he had a game the next morning. He'd watched recordings of himself and written down every mistake. He'd pushed himself until his legs shook. Sunghoon never told him he had to win. He'd always said the same thing.
"Do your best."
And when his son complained that doing your best doesn't always get you anywhere, Sunghoon had looked at him over the rim of his coffee mug.
"Then you learn what to do differently."
That was his dad. Never overly comforting. Never dramatic. Never making promises he couldn't keep. Just—-Then you learn. So when the biggest game of his season came around, his son wanted desperately to prove that all those years of effort had been worth it. He didn't. They lost. And it wasn't even a close loss. He made a mistake in the third period. A bad pass. A stupid one. He saw it happen in slow motion. He knew immediately. The other team took advantage of it, and the goal went in. Afterward, he sat in the locker room staring at his skates while his teammates talked around him. Someone tried to tell him it wasn't his fault. He knew they were lying. He'd made the mistake. His phone buzzed.
Dad: Outside.
Two words. His stomach dropped. The ride home was quiet. His father didn't yell. That should've made him feel better. It didn't. Sunghoon drove with his eyes fixed on the road. His son stared out the window.
Finally, he whispered, "I'm sorry."
Sunghoon glanced at him.
"For what?" "I don't know."
His father frowned slightly.
"Then don't apologize."
That was it. No, it's okay. No, you played well. No, I'm proud of you. Nothing. Just silence. His son nodded and turned back toward the window. Something inside him sank. The next few weeks were strange. His son became quieter. At first, Sunghoon assumed he was tired. Teenagers slept badly. He knew that much. There were mornings when his son stumbled into the kitchen looking like he'd fought a war in his dreams. His hair was a mess, his uniform half-buttoned, his backpack hanging from one shoulder. Sunghoon would slide breakfast across the counter.
"Eat." "I'm not hungry." "You have practice after school." "I'm fine." "You said that yesterday." "I'm fine, Dad."
The answer always came too quickly. Sunghoon would watch him leave. Something was wrong. He didn't know what. His son stopped asking for rides. Stopped asking for advice. Stopped sitting in the living room when Sunghoon watched television. Even his usual arguments disappeared. No more complaining about homework. No more sarcastic comments about his father's old-fashioned opinions. No more knocking on the kitchen door at eleven at night to ask if there was anything sweet in the house. He went to his room. Closed the door. And stayed there. Sunghoon didn't understand it. Until one night, he heard something fall. It was almost midnight. He was passing the hallway when he heard a sharp sound from his son's bedroom. A chair, maybe. Then silence. Sunghoon knocked.
"Hey."
Nothing. He knocked again.
"Open the door." "I'm sleeping." "You dropped something." "I'm fine."
Sunghoon stared at the door. There it was again. I'm fine. He opened it. His son sat on the floor beside his bed. His school laptop was open. A test was displayed on the screen. A red mark at the top. His father looked at him. His son immediately closed the laptop.
"What?" "Nothing."
Sunghoon leaned against the doorframe.
"You've been saying that a lot."
His son shrugged.
"Because nothing's wrong." "Look at me."
He didn't. Sunghoon waited. His son finally lifted his eyes. They were red. Not crying. Just tired. Exhausted. Sunghoon's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"What happened?" "Nothing." "You're failing chemistry."
His son swallowed.
"So?" "So you're upset." "I'm not." "You are." "Can you just leave it?"
Sunghoon was quiet. His son looked away. Then, suddenly, the words came out.
"You're disappointed anyway."
Sunghoon blinked.
"What?" "You don't have to pretend." "I don't know what you're talking about." "Yes, you do."
His son's voice cracked.
"You didn't say anything after the game."
Sunghoon's brow furrowed.
"The hockey game?" "What else?" "You made one mistake." "I cost us the game." "You made one mistake." "You didn't say anything." "I didn't know you wanted me to."
His son laughed bitterly.
"That's the problem."
Sunghoon said nothing. His son wiped his face quickly with the heel of his hand.
"You always have something to say when I mess up. You tell me what I should've done. You tell me what I need to fix. You tell me to work harder. But that time you just—"
He stopped. Sunghoon waited.
"You just looked at me."
His voice was smaller now.
"And I thought..."
He looked down.
"I thought you were ashamed of me."
Something in Sunghoon's chest tightened. He stepped into the room.
"Hey."
His son shook his head.
"I know it sounds stupid." "It doesn't." "I played badly." "Yes."
His son flinched. Sunghoon noticed. He immediately softened.
"But playing badly doesn't make you a bad son."
His son looked at him. Sunghoon sat down on the floor. Not beside him. Across from him. He wasn't particularly good at this. Talking about feelings had never been his strength. He could explain discipline. Responsibility. Hard work. He could teach his son how to shave without cutting his face, how to tie a tie, how to shake someone's hand properly, how to apologize without making excuses. He could talk about girls, too. Although the conversation had gone badly the first time.
"Dad, I think I like someone." "Okay." "That's all?"
Sunghoon had looked up from his phone.
"What do you want me to say?" "I don't know." "Then we'll talk when you know."
His son had stared at him in disbelief. Sunghoon had continued eating.
Later, he'd quietly added, "Just treat her well."
His son had groaned.
"Please never say that again."
But Sunghoon had meant it. Respect. Boundaries. Communication. Don't play games with someone's feelings. Don't expect affection just because you're nice to someone. And if someone doesn't want something, you accept it. Those were things he could explain. Feelings were harder. So he tried now.
"I wasn't disappointed in you."
His son stared at the carpet.
"You didn't say anything." "I was trying not to make it worse." "How would talking make it worse?"
Sunghoon exhaled.
"Because you already knew you made a mistake."
His son looked up.
"You didn't need me to tell you."
Silence.
"I thought you needed your dad to be quiet for once."
His son's eyes filled again. Sunghoon looked down at his hands.
"I was wrong."
That sentence seemed to surprise them both. Sunghoon wasn't a man who apologized easily. Not because he didn't believe in apologies. Because he believed they should mean something.
"I'm sorry," he said.
His son swallowed.
"I thought you hated me."
Sunghoon's head snapped up.
"I could never hate you." "You looked so..." "Disappointed?"
His son nodded. Sunghoon shook his head.
"I was worried." "About what?" "You."
His son frowned. Sunghoon leaned his elbows against his knees.
"You work hard when you care about something. Sometimes too hard."
He paused.
"You think if you make one mistake, it means all the work before it didn't matter."
His son didn't answer.
"And lately, you've been doing that with everything."
School. Hockey. Friends. His voice became quieter.
"Yourself."
That landed. His son looked down. Sunghoon continued.
"You don't have to be perfect for me."
His son's mouth trembled.
"I know." "No."
Sunghoon shook his head.
"I don't think you do."
The room went quiet.
"You can fail."
His son blinked.
"You can lose."
Another pause.
"You can change your mind. You can be bad at something. You can have a terrible day. You can like someone and have them not like you back."
His son gave a tiny, embarrassed laugh through his tears. Sunghoon's mouth twitched.
"And you can fail chemistry." "Dad." "I'm serious." "I know." "I'll help you." "You're terrible at chemistry." "I got good grades." "That was, like, thirty years ago." "Still counts."
His son laughed. It was small. But it was real. Sunghoon looked at him for a moment. Then he reached over and placed a hand on the back of his son's neck. His son froze. Physical affection from his father was rare enough that it still felt unfamiliar. Sunghoon squeezed gently.
"You don't have to earn my being your dad."
His son's face crumpled. He leaned forward before he could stop himself. Sunghoon caught him. For a moment, neither spoke. His son pressed his face into his father's shoulder.
"I'm sorry." "Stop apologizing." "I thought you were mad." "I was."
His son pulled back slightly. Sunghoon looked at him.
"Not because you lost."
He paused.
"Because you stopped letting me help you."
His son wiped his eyes.
"That's different." "It is."
Another quiet moment. Then Sunghoon stood.
"Come on." "Where?" "Kitchen." "It's midnight." "You're hungry." "I'm not."
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. His son sighed.
"Fine."
They walked downstairs. Sunghoon opened the refrigerator. His son sat on the counter.
"Can I ask you something?" "Mm." "Do you think I'm good enough?"
Sunghoon stopped. He looked at his son.
"At what?""Anything."
Sunghoon considered the question. Then he walked over and stood in front of him.
"You're seventeen."
His son frowned.
"So?" "So you're not supposed to have everything figured out."
He rested one hand on his son's shoulder.
"You're supposed to learn."
His son looked down.
"Mess up."
Sunghoon squeezed his shoulder.
"Try again."
Then, after a moment—-
"And come home."
His son looked up. Sunghoon's expression was steady. Reserved. Almost painfully calm. But his eyes were soft.
"That's enough for me."
His son nodded. And maybe that was the thing he had needed to understand all along. His father wasn't disappointed because he failed. His father was quiet because he trusted him enough to know that failure wasn't the end of the story. Sunghoon didn't love loudly. He didn't say I'm proud of you every five minutes. He didn't hug him every time something went wrong. Sometimes his love was a packed lunch left on the counter. Sometimes it was waiting outside practice in the cold. Sometimes it was texting Home? when his son stayed out late. Sometimes it was a hand on the back of his neck. Sometimes it was sitting silently on the floor at midnight because his seventeen-year-old son had convinced himself he wasn't enough. And sometimes—-when his son was old enough to understand finally—-love was simply this:
You can fail. You can fall apart. You can become someone you don't recognize for a little while. And I'll still be here.
His son leaned against him.
"Dad?" "Yeah?" "Can we get ice cream?"
Sunghoon sighed.
"It's midnight." "That's not a no." "It's a school night." "You're supposed to be soft now."
Sunghoon gave him a look.
"I never said that."
His son grinned. But Sunghoon opened the freezer anyway. And when his son reached for the ice cream, his father quietly handed him the bigger spoon.
At twenty-six, his son finally understood that love could look a lot like inconvenience. He understood it because he had become inconvenient himself. His job had taken him across the country. His apartment was too expensive, his hours were too long, his relationships never seemed to last, and every few months he found himself calling his father for something he should probably have figured out on his own. A tax question. A broken appliance. A car problem. Once, at two in the morning, because he had gotten locked out of his apartment and didn't know who else to call. His father had answered on the second ring.
"What's wrong?" "I locked myself out."
A pause.
"Where are you?" "Outside my apartment." "I'll come." "Dad, you're four hours away."
Another pause.
"I know." "I'll call a locksmith." "Okay."
His father had hung up. Twenty minutes later, his phone rang.
"How much?" "What?" "The locksmith." "Two hundred." "I'll send it." "Dad—" "Go inside when he opens the door." "I can pay for it." "I know."
That was all. His father never made generosity feel like charity. He made it feel like breathing. Necessary. Unremarkable. Something that happened. His son hadn't understood that when he was seventeen. He hadn't understood a lot of things. He'd thought his father was strict because he didn't trust him. He'd thought the constant questions—Did you eat? When will you be home? Did you finish your work?—were control. He'd thought the silence after arguments meant anger. He'd thought the quiet rides home meant disappointment. He'd thought his father didn't know how to love him. It took becoming an adult to realize his father had spent most of his life loving him in ways that required no audience. And once he understood it, he couldn't stop seeing it. He found the old box by accident. His father was moving. Not far. Just into a smaller apartment. His son had protested immediately.
"You don't have to move." "I don't need all this space." "You've lived here for twenty years." "Exactly."
The house felt different without the noise of his childhood inside it. The walls were too bare. The hallway too long. His old bedroom still had a few boxes stacked against one wall. He was helping his father sort through them when he found a folder. Inside were papers. Certificates. School forms. Medical records. Old photographs. And beneath them—-a hockey schedule. His son's hands stopped. It was from when he was fourteen. He remembered that season. He'd hated it. He'd been convinced he wasn't good enough. He'd complained constantly. He'd wanted to quit. His father had never stopped him.
Instead, he'd said, "If you want to quit, quit because you don't want hockey anymore. Don't quit because you're afraid you're not good enough."
His son had stayed. He'd forgotten that. He hadn't remembered the sentence. Until now. He turned the page. There were dates handwritten in his father's neat handwriting. Practice. Game. Tournament. Transportation. A note beside one date: Leave work early. Another: Call manager. Another: Use vacation day. His son's brow furrowed. He turned another page. More dates. More notes. He pulled out his phone.
"Dad?"
From the other room:
"Mm?" "Were you working at the hospital when I was fourteen?" "Yes." "You worked nights." "Sometimes."
His son looked at the papers again.
"You came to my games."
His father didn't answer immediately. Then:
"Most of them." "You were working nights." "I know." "You drove me to practice at five in the morning." "You needed to be there at five."
His son stared at the doorway.
"You were sleeping during the day."
A shrug.
"Sometimes."
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
His father looked confused.
"Tell you what?" "That you were tired."
His father gave him a strange look.
"Why would I tell you that?"
His son laughed once. It came out broken.
"I don't know."
His father went back to folding clothes.
"It's what parents do."
His son looked down. No. It wasn't. Not always. He had known enough parents growing up to know that. He had friends whose parents never attended games. Friends whose fathers forgot birthdays. Friends who stopped talking to their children the moment they became difficult. His father had never done that. Not once. And suddenly he remembered something else. The summer he was sixteen. He'd wanted a new hockey stick. It was expensive. His father had said no. His son had sulked for a week. Then, on his birthday, the stick had appeared in the hallway. He'd assumed his father had bought it. Now he remembered seeing the receipt. His father had worked extra shifts that month. His son had never asked why. He sat down on the edge of the bed. The room blurred.
"Dad." "Yeah?" "Why did you never tell me when things were hard?"
His father folded another shirt.
"They weren't your problem."
His son stared at him.
"They were." "No." "They were."
His father's hands stopped. His son swallowed.
"I should've known." "Known what?" "That you were giving things up."
His father looked at him for a long moment.
Then he said quietly: "I wasn't giving things up."
His son frowned. His father looked around the empty bedroom.
"I was choosing."
That was somehow worse. Because it meant every missed dinner had been a choice. Every vacation day. Every early morning. Every time he'd sat in a freezing rink at six in the morning. Every time he'd driven across the city after working twelve hours. Every time he'd pretended not to be tired.
Every time he'd say, "It's okay, I can do it."
He had chosen. His son looked down at the hockey schedule again. There was a date circled. His final game of that season. He remembered that night. He'd played terribly. He'd been angry afterward. He'd refused to talk. His father had waited outside for nearly an hour. His son had assumed he'd been angry.
But there, beside the date, his father had written: He looked exhausted. Don't push.
His vision went blurry. He covered his face. His father noticed.
"Hey." "I'm fine."
The familiar words. His father almost smiled.
"You still say that."
His son laughed through his tears.
"Yeah."
His father sat beside him. For a while, neither spoke.
Then his son whispered: "I thought you were disappointed in me all the time."
His father's expression changed.
"I know." "You knew?" "Not then." "Then when?"
His father thought.
"When you were nineteen."
His son looked at him.
"How?" "You stopped asking me to come to things."
The answer was so simple that it hurt. His father continued.
"You started saying you were busy." "I was." "I know." "You don't understand." "I do."
His son shook his head.
"No, Dad."
He looked at him fully now.
"I thought I had to become successful before I could come home."
His father's face went still.
"Why?" "Because I thought that's what you wanted." "I wanted you."
His son stopped breathing for a second. His father looked away. The words had come out more vulnerable than he'd intended.
"I didn't care about the career." "I thought you did." "I wanted you to work hard." "You did." "I wanted you to be responsible." "You definitely did."
His father almost smiled.
"But those things were supposed to help you live."
He looked at his son.
"Not make you afraid to come home."
His son's eyes filled.
"I've wasted so much time." "No." "I have." "No." "I could've called." "You did." "Not enough."
His father sighed.
"You're my son. There is no amount of calling that becomes enough."
His son lowered his head.
"I don't know how you did it." "Did what?" "Everything."
His father was quiet.
"I didn't."
The answer surprised him. His father looked down at his hands.
"I made mistakes." "You never told me." "You didn't need to carry them." His son whispered: "I wish you'd let me."
His father's eyes softened.
"You're carrying them now."
He laughed quietly.
"Yeah." "Then stop."
His son shook his head.
"I can't." "Why?" "Because I finally understand."
His voice broke.
"I understand why you were tired all the time."
His father looked away.
"I understand why you fell asleep on the couch."
A tear slipped down his son's cheek.
"I understand why you stopped buying things for yourself."
His father's jaw tightened.
"I understand why you never complained when I asked you to drive me somewhere."
Silence.
"And I understand why you always said you were fine."
His father looked at him. His son wiped his face.
"You taught me that."
For the first time, his father looked genuinely hurt.
"I shouldn't have."
His son leaned forward.
"I thought you were invincible."
His father gave a quiet laugh.
"I'm not." "I know."
His son looked at him.
"I know now."
They sat there for a long time. Then his father reached over and pulled him into a hug. It was still awkward. Still restrained. His father's hand settled between his shoulder blades. The same place it had rested when he was seventeen and convinced his entire life had fallen apart because of one hockey game. His son closed his eyes. He suddenly felt seventeen again. Small. Exhausted. Terrified that he wasn't enough. Except now he understood. His father hadn't been sitting across from him that night because he was disappointed. He'd been sitting there because he knew what it was like to believe one mistake could define an entire life. And maybe that was why he'd never demanded perfection. Maybe that was why he'd always said Do your best. Maybe that was why, after every failure, every breakup, every bad grade, every career mistake, every terrible decision, there had always been the same quiet certainty waiting for him. Come home. His son pulled back.
"Dad?" "Yeah?" "Did you ever regret it?"
His father frowned.
"Regret what?" "Me."
The silence that followed was immediate. Heavy. His father stared at him. Then he reached out and held the side of his son's face.
"Never."
His voice was quiet. Certain.
"Not once."
His son's eyes closed.
"I love you."
His father didn't answer immediately. He never did. Then his thumb brushed beneath his son's eye.
"I know."
His son laughed wetly.
"That's not fair."
His father smiled faintly.
"I'm still your dad." "You could say it back."
A pause. His father looked almost embarrassed.
Then, softly: "I love you too."
His son broke. Not dramatically. Not loudly. He leaned forward and held his father again, harder this time. His father hugged him back. And for the first time, his son realized how much smaller his father's shoulders felt beneath his hands. How much older he looked. There had always been something terrifyingly permanent about his father in his memory. The man who could lift him when he was little. The man who could stand at the rink with his arms crossed and make him sit up straighter from twenty meters away. The man who seemed impossible to hurt. But he wasn't impossible to hurt. He was just a person. A tired man who had spent years quietly choosing his son. And his son suddenly understood the cruellest part of growing up. You eventually become old enough to recognize the sacrifices your parents made—-at precisely the age when you can no longer give them those years back. His father pulled away first.
"Come on." "Where?" "We need to finish packing."
His son laughed.
"You always ruin the emotional moment." "You're twenty-six." "So?" "You have work tomorrow."
His son stared at him. Then smiled.
"Actually, I took tomorrow off."
His father's eyebrow lifted.
"Why?"
He looked around the room. At the empty walls. At the old hockey schedule. At the life his father had built and quietly dismantled piece by piece. Then he smiled.
"Because you need help."
His father looked at him for a long moment. Something warm passed through his expression.
"Okay."
Just that. Okay. His son picked up another box. And this time, when his father reached for the heavier one, he stopped him.
"I've got it."
His father frowned.
"I can carry it." "I know."
His son smiled.
"But you don't have to."
For once, his father didn't argue. He let go. And his son carried it for him.
Copyright 2026 - present © hazelira all rights reserved. All writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.
𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔢𝔳(𝔢𝔫) 𝔪.𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 - @youngheejay @axfyl @jalicecookie @reep04 @thestarinstarbucks @nmurark05 @yuuuraaa @ethanatvre @la-choiblog @kireistrawberryjayla @m1kkso @heyitsmei06 @saphiranishimurashan @berryberrystrawbery @seonhoon @lhspeachie @randomanothercreature @ro-diaries @ihearteatingxo @luvleyylina @celestialen @f4irynono @teddybeartaetae @hoseokteardrop @baeyrah @starry-eyed-bimbo @pinkdazed @grandlightcandy @curiousdemonfox @uncndtnllvr @minjsui @kpopotaku-26 @just-me-bro @iluvagoodashy @foreveronez @kristynaaah @yeahhemmings- @addictedtohobi @ayliyahlyla @claireshelby @staarflowerr @gentlestpour @regaltwat @jungwonisme @meowznyoizz @en-hyped @justpassingdontworry @sarahtarannum @beebrightness
